Heather Graham - The Dead Play On

“No, sir,” Quinn said. “We’re just at the beginning.”

“Thank you,” Woodrow said. “Thank you for what you’re trying to do. But thank you most of all for believing in my son.”

Quinn gave a reluctant grin. “Thank Tyler for that, Woodrow. He made us see the light, so to speak. Not that it was all that difficult—your son was a true hero. But because these days we recognize what soldiers go through, it was easy for people to think maybe he just couldn’t shake the pain of the past. The killer was clever, I’ll give him that. Thing is, by being his champion, Tyler gave us what we needed to get started. No one can promise they’ll solve every crime, but we will promise you this—we won’t stop.”

“Good enough for me. Tyler, you know how we feel about you. And Michael, Danni, you call on us or ask us anything you need or want, any time, day or night,” Woodrow said. “You got our number? Or numbers? Arnie made us buy cell phones. Said he had to get us into the twentieth century, even if he couldn’t quite drag us into the twenty-first.”

“We’ll put them in our phones right now,” Danni said.

They took a minute to exchange numbers. Amy still had trouble saving a number to her own phone once someone had called her, but in the end they prevailed.

Once that was accomplished, Quinn told them, “We could use a list of the people he was hanging with the most since he came home.”

“Us, of course. And the rest of the family. Tyler there. The bands he played with,” Woodrow said. “I can tell you some of the names.”

“I know most of them,” Tyler said. “Like I told you, he was sitting in with my group, the B-Street Bombers, the night he died.”

“At La Porte Rouge?” Danni asked.

“Yes,” Tyler said.

As they spoke, Amy was scribbling on a pad she took from the phone stand by the door. Now she handed the sheet to Danni. “Those are the people he talked about most—the boys in Tyler’s band, a couple of others. I’ll keep thinking and make a list of anyone else,” she promised.

Tyler glanced over at the sheet. “Yep, that’s them. Gus Epstein, lead guitar. Shamus Ahearn, drums and sometimes bass. Blake Templeton, keyboard and sometimes rhythm guitar. We have a steady gig at La Porte Rouge. The bartender runs the place, and he likes us. A couple of guys pinch-hit sometimes, like Arnie was pitch-hitting for me that night. The bartender, Eric—Eric Lyons—sits in sometimes. And one of the waitresses—Jessica Tate—sings with us when we can get her to come up and it isn’t too busy. We work a heavy schedule, but we love what we do, and in this city you can be replaced pretty much at the drop of a dime, so we’re glad for the gig.”

“Want to go barhopping?” Quinn asked Danni. “Or, should I say, want to hop into one bar?”

“Seems like a good idea,” Danni said.

They rose, but Amy stopped them as they turned toward the door. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything first? We’ve got some leftover shrimp and grits, and that’s a dish that gets better warmed up. Or a cola or something?”

“No, no, honestly, sounds wonderful, but we just ate,” Danni assured her.

“Well, then, you just wait a minute. No one leaves my house without a little bit of hospitality,” Amy said.

She disappeared into the kitchen for a brief moment and came back with a small white cardboard box.

“For when you’re hungry or need a little treat,” she told Danni.

Danni thanked her and they left, promising to keep in touch.

She drove back to Royal Street, and as they went, Tyler talked to them about his bandmates.

“Shamus, the lucky bastard, is right out of County Cork. I always thought that was cool, but he thinks growing up here would have been the coolest thing in the world. Goes to show you—the grass always does look greener. Gus was born in Miami Beach but his mom was from Kenner, Louisiana, so he’s been coming up to New Orleans since he was a kid. Blake is from Lafayette, about two and a half hours from here. I met Gus at an open session one night, and the two of us met Shamus at—go figure—Pat O’Brien’s. I knew Blake from a school competition years ago, and I’d heard he was moving here, so I gave him a call. That was years ago now. We’ve had the steady gig at La Porte Rouge for about two years.” He was quiet for a minute. “You know, if one of these guys was a crazed murderer, shouldn’t I have seen the signs somewhere along the line?”

“Maybe not,” Quinn said. “Lots of killers come off like the nicest guys in the world. Anyway, we’ll meet the band. They can tell us about Arnie’s last night with them. You never know, maybe one of them will say something that will trigger someone else’s memory or give us something to go on.”

When they parked near the house and got out, they could hear the mournful sound of a sax coming through an open window.

“That’s Billie,” Danni told Tyler. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Fine with me. It’s not even a special sax,” he said. “I could have sworn... I mean, I played better with that thing than I ever played in my life.”

“Like Amy said, maybe because you believed you could play better,” Quinn suggested.

“But I saw scenes from Arnie’s life.”

“Things you knew because you were his best friend,” Danni said. “Things that fit with the way you think he died.”

Tyler offered them a dry half smile, tilting his head at an angle as if he could hear the music better that way. “He’s not half-bad,” he told them.

“He’s also a bagpipe player—or was,” Danni said.

“You’re sure it’s not the sax?” Tyler asked.

“Not according to the people who should know,” Quinn said. “Do you want me to go in and get it for you?”

“No,” Tyler said. “I have another—let him play. Go ahead and let him play.”

“Come on, then,” Quinn said. “Let’s head over to La Porte Rouge.”

They walked up the one block from Royal to Bourbon and turned to the left. Neon lights blazed from everywhere. Women in scanty outfits stood by doorways with placards that advertised dollar beers and cheap food. People with drinks in open containers—from those who were barely twenty-one, if that, to retirees—cruised along, checking out the various venues in search of one that drew their attention or just taking in the sights and sounds. Music flowed from every establishment. In the street, songs combined and created an intriguing disharmony. Strip joints vied for business alongside all-night pizza joints and white-tablecloth restaurants, souvenir shops, voodoo shops and, always, music clubs.

There really was, Danni thought, nothing quite like Bourbon Street—the good, the bad and even the ugly.

They reached La Porte Rouge and let Tyler lead the way in. The band was in the middle of a Journey number.

The bar was like many on the street. The building itself was about a hundred and fifty years old; the long hardwood bar was about fifty itself, she thought. The stage backed up to the front wall so that the music oozed out the windows and open doors to encourage those who walked by to step in.

Cleanliness was definitely not next to godliness, but the place wasn’t particularly dirty, either. So many people flowed in and out; so many drinks were spilled by the clumsy and the already wasted, that there was only so much the staff could do to keep up. But tonight, while there were twenty or so patrons scattered at the tables or standing in front of the band, it wasn’t particularly busy. It was a Thursday night, and there were no major conventions in town, plus it was still only about eleven or eleven thirty. Bourbon Street would pick up soon—the night was still young in New Orleans.