“She’s expecting you tonight,” he told Larue.
“Yeah, well, I was just coming over with the files on the first case—wanted to see what you thought or what you might know, since you sit in at the clubs sometimes. But then...then we found Lawrence Barrett.” He fell silent.
Quinn turned. The body of Lawrence Barrett was just being carried out.
Ron Hubert nodded to them. “I’ll get you a report as soon as possible,” he promised.
“Two in a week?” Quinn asked. “We’d better get over to the hospital and hope that Lacey Cavanaugh knows something we can use.”
* * *
“Arnie wasn’t messed up,” Tyler told Danni. “Not like that.”
The saxophone was in its case now, and leaning against the counter. She was glad that the shop was empty, because Tyler seemed too upset to care where they were or what was going on.
“Let’s say you’re right. That someone murdered Arnie. Can you think of any reason why?” she asked him.
“That’s the problem,” Tyler said. He leaned an elbow on the counter and looked reflectively into the distance as he spoke. “We’re talking about a good man here. A black man from a poor neighborhood who went to church every week, loved his family, never stole so much as a dime from anyone and did nothing but love his music. He did the right thing—he up and joined the military because he believed we had to support our way of life. When he came home on leave, he did nothing but hug people and play his music. He didn’t talk much about what he’d done, just said that war was ugly, there were good people who were the enemy and some jerks who were on the same side. He believed he made a difference—he got to see schools being built, and people from both sides coming together to dig wells and feed starving kids. And enemy or not, he said it was hard as hell to kill a man. He survived bombs and gunfire and...came home to this. And I knew his death wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t right from the get-go. He was happy ever since he got home—he came home to his music! His family loved him. They’re good people. They never had much, but what they didn’t have in money, they made up in support. And he never did drugs, not before he went overseas or after he came home. There was no reason for him to walk offstage one night and decide to suddenly stick a needle in his arm. Why can’t anyone else see that?”
“They may question what happened, Tyler,” Danni said. “But we all see the obvious and find it easy to accept, too. You said he was found on the street, a needle in his arm?”
“Yes.”
“No one else around?”
He turned his gaze back to her. “Would you expect a murderer to hang around?”
“What I’m trying to figure out is how someone got him under control so they were able to stick the needle in his arm. There must have been an autopsy.”
“There was.”
“And there was nothing else in his system?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I’m trained to read a death certificate. There were some chemical names in there I didn’t recognize, but even if they were tranquilizers or something, the cops probably just thought he took them himself. And yes, he’d been drinking.”
The little bell over the shop door rang. A couple of young tourists came in, and Danni excused herself, walking over to ask them if they needed any help. They were looking for a specific line of jewelry, and she carried it. She was glad it was in a display case to one side of the store, not under the counter where Tyler was standing as if unaware of her customers, though he managed a smile when they came over to pay.
But as soon as they were gone, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”
What did she think?
She didn’t know what to think. She remembered Arnie. Like Tyler, he’d been a couple of years ahead of her in high school, but he’d played beautifully even then, and she could remember watching him play in the school band. He’d been a big guy, a solid, muscular six-two, at least.
And he’d had training when he joined the military. He couldn’t have been an easy mark.
But she did find it strange that, if Tyler was right, he would begin with drugs by heading straight for a needle.
“I don’t know what to think,” she said.
* * *
Lacey Cavanaugh was out of surgery. In her horror and anguish, she’d pitched down the steep front steps and smashed a kneecap. The doctor warned Quinn and Larue that she was still under heavy sedation—probably a double-edged good thing. She would otherwise be in tremendous pain over both the loss of her boyfriend and the wreck of her leg.
Quinn was standing closest to her head. She opened her eyes when he took her hand.
“Miss Cavanaugh,” Jake said, “we’re so sorry to bother you when I know you’re hurting in every possible way, but I’m afraid we need to talk to you. I’m Detective Larue, and this is my associate Michael Quinn. We have some questions we need to ask you, because as I’m sure you know, time is of the essence as we try to apprehend whoever’s guilty of your boyfriend’s...death. So if you could just think back, when was the last time you saw Mr. Barrett?”
Lacey stared at him from her haze, tears in her eyes. “Oh, God. Larry...”
Quinn squeezed her hand. “We’re so sorry,” he said softly. “We know you loved him, and that he was a good man.”
Larue stared at him; they didn’t really know that he’d been a good man.
But the words had the desired effect on Lacey. She looked at Quinn with such grief and gratitude in her eyes that he almost regretted being quite so gentle.
“He was the best,” she said softly.
“And we have to find out who killed him,” Quinn said. “You want him punished for what he did, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I last saw Larry...last night. I didn’t stay, because my little sister had a piano recital.”
“So last night at what time?” Quinn asked.
“Seven,” she said.
“And you didn’t go back to his house until this afternoon?” Larue asked.
She didn’t answer. She was staring at Quinn, still holding his hand as if it were a lifeline.
“Lacey, did you talk to him again after that?” Quinn asked.
She nodded.
“When was that?” Quinn asked.
“Last night—well, early this morning. Somewhere around three. He was playing last night at the Old Jackson Ale House. I called him at three because that’s about when he gets home.”
“And everything was fine?”
“Yes. We were both going to sleep. And I was supposed to go over to his house in the afternoon. Which I did. He didn’t answer the door. And then I looked in the window and I couldn’t really see...but it looked like...but I thought he’d be okay, you know?”
She began to sob softly.
She really had loved the man, Quinn thought.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Lacey, can you think of anyone—from his past or maybe your own—who would have wanted to hurt him?”
Tears squeezed between her lashes. She shook her head.
“An ex-boyfriend?” Larue asked.
She opened her eyes and glared at him.
“Lacey,”