Heather Graham - Waking the Dead

“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.”