Heather Graham - Let the Dead Sleep

“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.”