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“It’s Quinn. Just Quinn.” He paused. “I guess Angus didn’t talk to you. Either that, or you’re an ice-cold functioning psychopath who couldn’t care less about the lives of others.”
“My father had tremendous patience for people with mental problems. However, I don’t. So leave me alone, or I’ll shout for that friend of yours who’s still in the house.”
He shook his head, disgusted. With her. That seemed doubly galling.
And yet she still felt guilty. Gladys Simon was dead.
But what could she have done? She’d never seen the woman before that day!
To her horror, she blurted out, “It wasn’t my fault!”
She thought he’d lash out at her and insist that it certainly had been her fault.
“No, it was mine,” he said, and she realized he was inwardly kicking himself. For some reason, he seemed to believe that if she’d understood the situation, she might have magically saved the day. “It was my fault. I realize now that Angus never really said anything to you and neither did Billie. There are things you need to understand...but right now, we have to get that bust back.”
“We?” she said horrified. “Look, you don’t even know that Gladys didn’t stash it in the house somewhere. Maybe it wasn’t stolen. Like Larue said, you make everything more complicated.”
As if Quinn had somehow hired him to play a part, Detective Larue appeared on the front porch.
“Quinn!” he called.
“Yeah?”
“We need some help. You were right. The housekeeper didn’t hear a thing—but a window was taken out on the ground level, garage side. The glass was cut out, eased to the ground by some kind of suction device.”
Quinn nodded slowly.
“Still doesn’t mean the bust is gone. Where did she keep it?” Larue asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been here until today. But I’m pretty sure it was kept in the house. When Hank Simon bought it, he was convinced he’d made the buy of the century.”
“The den—or the salon,” Danni heard herself volunteer. Quinn turned to face her. “She said something in the store about trying to throw it away, trying to bury it, but it kept showing up back in... I’m not sure of the exact word she used, but someplace like an office, den, salon.”
“We’ve checked out Hank Simon’s office,” Larue said.
“There’s a library, but it’s not in there,” Quinn said. “I looked when we got here and were trying to find Gladys.”
Larue motioned to one of the uniformed officers standing by. “As soon as the M.E. retrieves the body and the forensic unit’s finished, I want a more extensive search of the house. Go through closets, bathrooms—everywhere.”
The officer cleared his throat. “What does the bust look like?” he asked. “The house is filled with antiques and bric-a-brac.”
“It’s carved marble. Head, neck and shoulders. Curly hair, classic features. It’s been described as portraying the face of an angel—or a demon. Some say the eyes are demonic, that they seem to be watching you. It was sculpted with a mantle over the shoulders and at a certain angle the mantle can appear to be angel wings,” Quinn told him. “It looks like it belongs in a dé Medici tomb.”
“A dé Medici tomb? Would that be a tomb in one of the St. Louis cemeteries, Lafayette up in the Garden District or out in Metairie?” the officer asked.
“There are no dé Medici tombs around here. No, what I’m saying is that it looks Roman—like something you’d see in a Renaissance church or tomb,” Quinn said.
The officer made a slightly derisive sound. He quieted as Quinn scowled at him. “Sorry, Detective Quinn.”
“I’m not on the force anymore. I’m just Quinn. I’m simply telling you how it’s been described,” Quinn added.
“Head, neck and shoulders—it didn’t get up and walk out, then,” Larue said sardonically.
“No, I don’t think it’s supposed to be able to walk,” Quinn said with equal sarcasm.
Danni wanted to go home. She wanted the day to rewind; she wished she’d never met—and failed—Gladys Simon, and that Michael Quinn had never darkened her door.
“You going to help in the search?” Quinn asked her.
No!
But the way he looked at her...
What was she going to do? Go home and wallow in guilt?
Not fair! She really had no idea what was going on.
She didn’t want to agree. She opened her mouth to say no.
What came out was, “Sure. You don’t think you’re going to find it, though, do you?”
“Nope,” he said. “But what the hell—we can’t be certain it’s missing until we do a thorough search.”
“What about...Gladys? I don’t know how to investigate. I’ll leave fingerprints all over. The crime scene people won’t want us messing things up.”
He grinned and reached into his pocket, producing a wad of balled-up plastic. It proved to be several pairs of gloves. “Not to mention the fact that our fingerprints are already all over the place because we were trying to find her.”
She snatched gloves from him and put them on. As they returned to the house, Larue said to Quinn, “I’m assuming you have some idea of where to look for this bust or statue or whatever if it’s not here?”
“No, not really,” Quinn replied. “But I’ll try to get a lead on it.”
“And if not?”
“If not...” He paused for a minute. His eyes slipped over Danni but she wasn’t sure he was really seeing her.
“If not?” Larue asked.
“If not, I’m afraid we’ll be following a trail of bodies....”
Chapter Three
THERE WAS REALLY no hurry to search for the statue; Quinn knew it was gone.
Just as he knew Gladys Simon had hanged herself.
So there was no reason to interrupt the work of the crime scene unit and the M.E., Ron Hubert, who came to examine the body of the deceased.
Dr. Hubert arrived as they walked back toward the house, the crime scene unit directly behind him.
Quinn was afraid he’d lose Danni while they waited for the forensic team to finish. When Larue called him up to the attic to speak with the M.E., he pulled her along with him. She was reluctant, but she felt the same sense of guilt over Gladys’s death as he did, so she followed him.
Hubert was on his knees by the body. Hubert, who was a good man and a good forensic pathologist, had been there through the worst of the city’s tragedies, dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and the summer of storms and violence that flared in the wake of it. People were bitter, drug lords ignored the police, and the force was at its most vulnerable. Somehow, through the tragedy and carnage he’d seen, Hubert had never lost his empathy for the living or the dead. He’d lived in New Orleans since childhood but his family came from Minnesota, and he had the pale blond hair and pale blue eyes that indicated a Nordic background. He was sixty-plus years of age now, deceptively thin—and still strong. Quinn had seen him easily maneuver bodies that were five times his own size.
“See how the rope is tied?” Hubert asked as Quinn entered the room and knelt beside him. He pointed to the rope. “It’s quite awkwardly tied—an inexperienced hand. The way it’s situated tells me that she tied the rope herself, hoisted it over the support beam there and used that crate to stand on. There’s not a mark on her to say she struggled with anyone. I’ll see if there are any hairs, fibers, what have you, on the body, of course, but my preliminary exam suggests she did this to herself.” He looked at Quinn. “Don’t that beat all? A thief breaks in—but she kills herself. However, unless I can prove that beyond a doubt, he’ll probably go up for murder as well as breaking and entering and theft.”
“Can you prove it beyond a doubt?” Quinn asked him.
“I can certainly testify to the likelihood. Poor woman. The loss of her husband was obviously too much for her. I’m sorry to see her like this. The Simon family contributed to many charities. They doled out help right and left after the storms.”
Quinn nodded.
He wished Gladys had talked to him—and he wished he’d reached her in time. He damned well wished Hank Simon had never thought owning the bust would be such a remarkable coup.
But where was the damned thing now?
And how uncanny that a thief had come to steal it—just as Gladys had given in to the darkness....
The Simons had been generous, compassionate people.
He turned to Danni. She was standing exactly where he’d left her, almost as if she’d been frozen there.
“By the way, Dr. Hubert, this is Danni Cafferty. She’s Angus’s daughter.”
Hubert glanced at Danni. “How do you do, young lady? I suppose that question seems inappropriate at the moment. You can’t be doing very well.” He paused. “I knew your father. He was a fine man.”
She smiled fleetingly. “Thank you. Yes, he was.”
“Call me if there’s anything, please,” Quinn said.
“You know I will,” Hubert assured him.
Danni had responded to Dr. Hubert in smooth, well-modulated tones, still not moving.
Quinn touched her arm gently, afraid she’d wrench it away from him. Her eyes met his instead, blue and steady and crystalline.
“We’ll talk with a friend of mine on the crime scene unit,” he said.
She didn’t react, but when his touch signaled that she should turn so they could leave the attic, she spun around and preceded him down to the second level.
He found Grace Leon there. She was the head of her unit, a no-nonsense woman with short-cropped graying hair and a slim figure.
“I heard you were on this,” she said.
“Sure am. What can you tell me?”
“There was a break-in. As you may have heard, the glass was cut, and then removed with a suction device. We followed a faint trail of dust particles from the lower level to the study—and I do mean faint. I have something that might be a viable footprint from the first stair. I’ll let you know what we get, but we’ll need some tech to pump it up first.”
“Did he—or she—make it to the attic?”
“No, I don’t think so. The trail ends in the study. Odd, huh? The old lady hanged herself while she was being robbed. That’s how it appears, anyway.” Grace looked past him to Danni and then arched a brow at Quinn.
“Danni Cafferty, Grace Leon. Grace, Danni,” Quinn said.
“Cafferty?” Grace asked. “As in Angus?”
Quinn nodded.
Grace lifted a gloved hand, then dropped it. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
“Thanks. You, too.”
“You’re free to look around. Just keep the gloves on,” Grace advised. “We’re packing up now.”
“Why don’t we do a final check,” Quinn said to Danni. He realized he’d been waiting for her to bolt. She wasn’t going to.
“All right. I’ll take the downstairs,” she told him. “And the lower level. You can have the second floor and the attic.”
He was surprised again; she seemed all business, as though she knew what she was doing and what she was looking for. She abruptly moved into the parlor.
Quinn found exactly what he’d expected—nothing.
The thief hadn’t bothered with the silver or any of Gladys Simon’s jewelry. He’d removed the statue and apparantly nothing else. While Quinn paused in the study, observing the marvels her husband had collected—a Tiffany lamp, two Fabergé eggs, an Egyptian scepter, a medieval sword and shield, plus walls covered with fine art—he heard someone announcing the arrival of the ambulance that would transport Gladys’s body to the morgue.
Dr. Hubert left with the body, saying goodbye to Quinn in the upper hallway with a quick salute.
As Quinn came down the stairs, the crime scene unit moved on out, leaving a few uniforms behind, as well as Larue. Larue was in the foyer with Bertie, who was seated on the love seat that flanked the staircase.
She was sobbing.
“Is there somewhere else you can stay?” Quinn asked her.
“I should be here. I should watch for more wretched thieves,” Bertie said between sniffles.
“Bertie, what are you going to do if a thief shows up?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be here tonight. The police will keep an eye on the place and I’m sure there’s an alarm.”
“The alarm,” she said dismissively.
“Was it set today?”
“Well, no, not once Mrs. Simon went out,” Bertie said.
“See? We’ll set it and the house will be fine. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I agree,” Larue told her. “Ms. Hyson, both your employers are dead. I didn’t know them, but I knew of them. You’ll be taken care of in their will, I’d bet. But in the meantime, I think that being here could be harmful to your health.”
Danni walked into the foyer then, and Bertie studied her for a long moment.
“But the danger is gone, isn’t it? The bust is gone.” She wagged a finger at Danni. “I knew that thing was evil. It was...like the eyes watched you all the time, followed you wherever you went. It was creepy. I hated being in the room with it. I didn’t dust the study when it was in there, not after that first time. Why, it made the whole room feel...dirty. But...it’s gone now. And Miss Cissy—Cecelia Simon—she’ll be coming here now that her mother has...passed. I have to keep the place for her. Poor dear, she’s just gone back to Baton Rouge after her dad died. Oh, Lord, I’m going to have to call Miss Cissy and tell her that...that her poor mama...”
