Heather Graham - Let the Dead Sleep

“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...”

Bertie broke into tears again.

Danni went to sit next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Bertie. Detective Larue will call Cecelia. You just have to be ready to comfort her.”

Bertie wiped her eyes and looked at Larue hopefully. “Detective, you must call that poor young woman and tell her. She’ll come right back, and I’ll be waiting for her. I will not leave when the daughter of the house is coming home.”

Larue turned to Quinn, and Quinn shrugged. He was pretty sure Bertie was right; there was no intruder here anymore—and no evil, either.

He didn’t say he believed the thief was the one in danger now.

“I’ll have someone on duty at the door, Ms. Hyson. We’ll watch the house for twenty-four hours, until Miss Simon returns, and through the next night, at least,” Larue said.

“That’s kind of you, Detective,” Bertie told him gratefully.

“You through here?” Larue asked Quinn.

“Yes.” Quinn knelt down in front of Bertie and pulled a card from his wallet. “The number is my cell. If you’re afraid—if anyone bothers you—call me. And if Cecelia wants to talk to me, please have her call.”

He was astonished when a big tear slid down the woman’s face and she reached out to touch his cheek. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t see that fine spark in you, Mr. Quinn. I just saw the past. Thank you.”

“Hey, that’s okay...you were a good friend to Gladys, a really good friend.” He stood, but Danni still sat next to the woman, comforting her. A moment later she rose, too.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Bertie nodded tearfully.

Danni walked toward the foyer and the door to exit, with Quinn behind her.

He thought she’d leave straightaway, that she would’ve had her fill of him and the Simon house.

But she waited on the sidewalk. “Who the hell are you?” she asked.

There were officers nearby. He hated explaining himself—or trying to explain himself—especially in front of others.

“Michael Quinn,” he began, but she cut him off.

“Michael Quinn, yes. Big high school football hero, and then you went on to quarterback for the state and suddenly you disappeared— Oh, yes, after being in the papers time and again for your escapades.”

“I was a college kid,” he said. “But what you read was true.”

“Was?”

“I learned my lesson the hard way.”

“Oh?”

“I died.”

She leaned back, folding her arms over her chest, staring at him. “You’re a dead man?” she asked dryly.

“I was resuscitated,” he said, shrugging. She didn’t need his whole story just now; she sure as hell wouldn’t believe his whole story even if he told her.

“It changes your perspective on life,” he said.

“How did you know my father?”

“He helped on some of my cases.”

“Yes, right—you’re a P.I.,” she said. Her tone was still cool and skeptical.

He wondered whether to feel sorry for her and try to tell her more about what she apparently didn’t know...or obey his instinct to walk away.

“Gladys Simon is dead,” he said. “Maybe the fates couldn’t be stopped—and maybe you’re to blame, and maybe I’m to blame. It doesn’t matter. She’s past being helped. But that bust is out there. I have to find it.”