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“You mean someone was trying to break in?”
“Break in—or break out. I’m not sure which,” Quinn replied. But he immediately thought of the Garcia murders and the evidence that might have been taken from the house....
“Look for a little glass jar,” he said. “Like a vial.”
“What’s in it?” Larue asked.
“I don’t know, since it was empty—except for a trace of...something. Anyway, Grace and I felt it needed to be tested. But, whatever it was, I think the killer brought it to the house with him. And I’ll bet it’s gone.”
* * *
Danni returned to the shop, but she didn’t stay. She smiled cheerfully at Billie and Bo Ray and promised she’d be back—and they should plan for a nice dinner party. Billie just nodded. Bo Ray, relatively new to their team, still looked anxious.
She told them she was going to drop in on Father Ryan and invite him over for dinner. She could call him, of course, but this way, even if he couldn’t come that evening, she’d get a chance to see him.
Bo Ray, who’d gained a life thanks to the priest, seemed to like the fact that Father Ryan might be coming to visit.
They’d actually met Bo Ray because he’d been a suspect when people started dying during the Pietro Miro case. Sadly, he’d become caught up in it all, an alcoholic in the early stages of liver failure. Quinn had a good eye for people, just as Father Ryan did. They’d both seen that Bo Ray could be saved. He’d become a great asset to the store—and to their lives, Danni thought.
With Wolf in the car this time, Danni started out.
Father Ryan ministered well to his flock, gave great sermons, tended to the poor and downtrodden and did everything that a priest should do. He even looked like the perfect priest. Middle-aged with snow-white hair, big and brawny but possessing a gentle manner, he seemed to inspire trust. He was also a no-nonsense man, unafraid to take a stand. Willing to confront the unknown...
Father John Ryan was standing at the front door of the rectory, almost as if he was waiting for someone, when Danni drove up and parked on the street. He didn’t seem surprised when she and Wolf got out of her car and approached him.
“You knew I was coming,” she said.
“I did.”
Danni offered him a curious half grin. “You speak with the Almighty?”
“I do.”
“Oh?”
He smiled ruefully. “I speak with Him the same as you and every other man and woman out there, Danni. Actually, I knew you were coming for a far more mundane reason—Natasha called me.”
“Ah! But I didn’t tell her I was going to see you.”
“That’s where instinct kicks in,” Father Ryan told her. “But I had a feeling you or Quinn would be by soon enough. I heard about the massacre this morning.”
“I believe the police are looking into Garcia’s financials and other records,” Danni said. “It’s the type of thing that could happen if a big drug deal went wrong.”
Father Ryan shook his head fiercely. “There was no drug deal gone wrong, Danni. I’m sure of that.”
“How?”
“You and Wolf come on in. I’ll tell you what I can.”
“You know something?”
“Let’s have tea, shall we?”
Father Ryan didn’t want to be rushed. She and Wolf followed him into the rectory kitchen. First, Wolf got treats; Father Ryan kept them on hand just for him. Then, he put the kettle on and took his time setting out cups. Only when the tea was brewed and they sat down to drink it did he start talking. “James and Andrea Garcia were my parishioners. I’ve already been called in by social services—I’m helping place the children with relatives. This is a terrible blow. There are three children left behind—a ten-year-old, an eight-year-old and a five-year-old. The two older kids were James and Andrea’s and the youngest was the aunt’s little girl. Luckily, Andrea has another sister and brother in the city and they’re doing their best to comfort and care for the children, but...well, the only good thing about the situation is that the children weren’t there.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea you knew these people,” Danni murmured.
Father Ryan nodded. “There was no drug deal,” he said again. “And don’t tell me we don’t know what people are really like. James Garcia was a hardworking man. He was with the same company for years. He made deliveries for one of the most trusted services in our city and there was never a single complaint against him. His wife took care of her family—her parents lived with them—and neither Andrea nor James ever minded any burden put upon them. That family did nothing wrong.”
“The police are investigating. It won’t ease things for the children, but hopefully justice will be done.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Ryan demanded, looking her hard in the eyes.
“What can I do? There’s no indication that an object might be involved, not like the Pietro Miro case, Father.” Before Father Ryan could protest, she continued. “Quinn just got back last night. He was called to the scene this morning. But that’s why I’m here. Can you come to dinner at my place around seven tonight? Quinn wants all of us there to discuss what happened.”
”Yes, of course,” he said. “I promise you this isn’t a random murder. Nor is James Garcia part of it. Something isn’t right here—aside from the obvious, I mean. James Garcia was a good man who spent his life hauling packages and received commendations from his employer. His wife was a model of virtue. And the parents...hard workers, retired, enjoying their last years with the grandkids. The old man didn’t have much time left as it was—cancer. They’d given him six months.”
“I’m so sorry, Father Ryan,” Danni said again.
He drummed his fingers absently on the table. “What I’m afraid of is that we all may wind up much sorrier. Danni, we have to find out what the hell is going on here.”
* * *
“Dr. Hubert is a descendant of the Hubert who painted the original of the giclée at your friend’s gallery,” Quinn told Danni, setting plates on the table. The meal Billie had prepared, his version of the classic jambalaya, simmered on the stove.
She stopped patting dry the lettuce she’d just washed and looked over at him. They’d decided to get dinner ready and wait until Natasha and Father Ryan arrived to discuss the situation, so she was surprised that he’d brought up the painting. She’d reported that Father Ryan had known the Garcia family well and that he strenuously denied they could’ve been doing anything illegal. And Quinn had said only that the autopsy reports had yielded nothing they didn’t already know.
“A direct descendant,” he added.
“Really? How interesting.”
He nodded pensively and didn’t say any more.
“You okay?” she asked him.
He gazed at her for a long moment, then smiled, and walked over to her, slipping his arms around her. “I’m going to be more okay later on,” he whispered huskily.
They were pressed tightly together. It suddenly felt like months rather than weeks since they’d stood this way. She was acutely aware of his body heat and the strength of his muscles. Memory reflexes were going to kick in hard any minute. The urge to do far more than stand together was almost overwhelming.
They looked into each other’s eyes and backed away at the same time. He smiled ruefully. “Sorry.” He might have intended to keep his thoughts to himself a while longer, but touching her had obviously changed that.
“We should have scheduled this for...any time other than now!” Danni said.
He grinned but then grew serious again. “I don’t think we could have.”
Even as he spoke, Danni heard someone at the courtyard’s side entrance. Excusing herself, she went to open the back door. Father Ryan had arrived. She tried to push away her visions of Quinn, naked, as she greeted the priest, but she could feel a flush rise to her cheeks. She had to curb her thoughts about Quinn for the moment.
“Hey, glad you’re here,” she said. “Come on in, Father.”
“Wait up, wait up!” Natasha called, hurrying through the courtyard. Father Ryan turned; the two embraced warmly. An odd couple to many, no doubt—the priest and the voodoo priestess.
Father Ryan had once told her that he was true to his faith, but that, at heart, he and Natasha were kindred souls, seeking the same truth. Which had little to do with the way you sought that truth or the path you took.
She liked his view of the world.
“We’re sitting around the little table in the kitchen,” Danni said. The Cheshire Cat was similar to many places on Royal Street; it had been built as a house but now the shop took up the downstairs, with the small kitchen and one-time pantry on the first floor and her bedroom on the second. Billie’s apartment—and now Bo Ray’s, too—was located in what had been the attic. Luckily, it was big, and both men had their own rooms and ample space.
And downstairs, in the basement, really the ground level, was her father’s office or den and special collection of “curios.” Her studio, in the former pantry, was where she worked when she had time for her own art.
“Billie’s made jambalaya and cheese grits,” Danni announced as she led them in. “And we’ve got salad.”
“Scottish jambalaya!” Father Ryan said. “I can’t wait.”
Billie was behind them. He threw Father Ryan an evil glare and muttered, “Lucky I didn’t get the urge for haggis, friend, that’s all I have to say.”
When Bo Ray entered a few minutes later, Billie asked them all to grab plates and line up at the stove to help themselves. Natasha designated herself the beverage server and poured tea, lemonade and water, as each person chose. They were still in the act of greeting one another with casual jokes and hugs and getting organized at the table when Danni heard the buzzer at the shop’s main door. She excused herself and hurried down the hall, then out to the showroom. Looking through the glass, she saw Jake Larue standing there. He appeared to be tense, worried about something.
When she opened the door, he said, “You’re all here?”
Danni nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Jake. How are you?”
“May I?” he asked.
“Of course.”
She let him in, wondering why he was here. We’re just having dinner,” she said. “Hungry?”
“I don’t mean to impose,” he said.
“We have tons of food,” she assured him, leading the way through the darkened showroom to the kitchen.
As he walked in, everyone froze in position.
“Hey, guys. Jake’s here,” Danni said. “Billie made jambalaya.”
“Scottish jambalaya?” Jake’s confused words broke the freeze. The others laughed; Billie groaned, “Not again,” and shook his head.
“Get a plate and join us,” Quinn said. If he was surprised to see Jake, he didn’t let on.
Jake started to dish up food, but halfway through he turned to Quinn. “The log-in list disappeared from the evidence room computer. The sign-out sheets are missing, as well.”
They all looked at Jake and then back at Quinn. “Nothing there?” he asked.
“It was wiped clean. God knows, we’ve got our best techs and computer whiz kids on it. They’ve come up with nothing,” Jake said, taking a seat.
Quinn seemed to understand him. The others didn’t. But Quinn said, “Jake, sit and we’ll figure out what we can.”
Squeezing him in meant they were tightly wedged around the table, but they made room. Once Jake was seated, Quinn said, “It’s on the news, so we’re all aware of what happened to the Garcia family. I went to see Hubert at autopsy, and he said the murders were all different—like a game of Clue, in his words. Nothing at autopsy dispelled his original findings, but we still can’t explain why we haven’t found a single weapon or worked out exactly what went on. Did James Garcia kill everyone and then slit his own throat? If so, where? Or was there someone else in the house, a person or maybe more than one person, who managed to perform acts of unspeakable horror—and walk away without being seen or leaving a blood trail? Then, before I could return from autopsy, Jake called me and I went down to the police station. There was fog in the evidence room.”
“Fog?” Natasha asked hoarsely.
Larue gestured vaguely. “Fog, smoke...something. Anyway, an officer on duty went insane, needing help. Help came—and so did I. And the fog or whatever it might’ve been was still there. The officer said that a shadow went after him. It was all extremely strange. We have nothing on the computer anymore—and nothing on the cameras except for the fog or gray smoke that hides the entire area for maybe twenty minutes.”
“So they don’t know what was taken,” Quinn finished. But he was looking curiously at Larue.
“Here’s what we do know. A number of things that had been removed from the Garcia house were taken from the evidence room. The vial you mentioned earlier, and three wrapped packages. In other words, things that were spattered with blood or might have given us a clue as to what a murderer was looking for,” Jake said.
That caused Father Ryan to thump a fist on the table, which in turn caused all the dishes and glasses and flatware to clatter.
“Sorry,” Father Ryan muttered. “But I’ve told Danni—those people were part of my flock and I knew them. I knew them well. There were no drugs, no arms, no implements of any illegality in that house. I’d stake my life on it!”
“I’m not suggesting James Garcia was doing anything illegal,” Larue said. “Not really illegal.”
“What do you mean?” Father Ryan demanded.
“Garcia was one of the most trusted men in his business,” Larue began. “He would pick up items for delivery when he finished for the night so he’d be ready to head out first thing in the morning. This wasn’t official policy, but his supervisors have admitted they had an understanding with certain employees and Garcia was one. He’d had packages waiting to go out at his home. Some had blood spatter. We don’t know precisely what they were, but one of the crime scene techs who’d been collecting objects from the house for analysis told us the packages weren’t in the evidence room. She and a few others were brought down to try to remember. You can knock out a computer, but as long there are still people around, memory serves.” He paused. “The only detail she could recall was that one of the packages was large and flat—presumably a piece of art—and another seemed to contain jewelry....”
They all stared at him. “I just wanted to let you know.” He shrugged. “Garcia might have been killed over something in his house—something he knew nothing about.”
“Are you finding out exactly what packages were being held at Garcia’s house?” Quinn asked.
“We’ll have a full report from Garcia’s company by morning.”
“So where are we? What’ve we got?” Billie asked.
“Five corpses—and a seasoned cop scared out of his wits,” Larue said. “That’s what we’ve got.”
“Plus missing evidence. And fog, mist, smoke,” Quinn added thoughtfully. “Natasha?”
“I haven’t heard a thing from the street,” she replied. “But...”
“But what?” Quinn asked sharply.
Danni stood quickly; she didn’t want Quinn trying to read her mind when her thoughts were still so jumbled. If she acted casual and began to clear the table, he might not notice.
Okay, so Natasha had some kind of sight. She’d told Danni a dozen times that with most people who came to the shop, she read the person more than she ever read a tarot card or tea leaf. And she was very good at it; as a priestess, she knew her followers. She knew when they needed guidance, when they should take a chance and when they should keep their heads down.
But that day, when she’d read Danni’s tea leaves, something had been different. Danni had never seen Natasha quite like she’d been that day.
“I’m sensing that this is a situation we all need to be involved in,” Natasha said, glancing at Danni.
Danni felt Quinn’s eyes on her. Then, when she reached for a plate, she felt his hand. He looked at her as he asked Natasha, “What did you see?”
Natasha seemed to carefully gauge her words. “A very strange sight, and that’s why I’m so curious about your ‘fog’ at the station. I saw Danni standing on a hill, and there was a castle in the background...a medieval castle, I believe. She was shouting, warning someone. The fog—the mist or whatever it was—seemed dark and shadowy. Gloomy. But there was something else.”
“Like what?” Quinn pressed.
“There was a crimson cast to it. Crimson...red...” She paused. “I wish I’d seen more. I wish I knew more.”
