Let the Dead Sleep

by Heather Graham

  “So...you live normally?”

  “Danni, I still have friends. And I’m lucky—a great family, too. They’re not in NOLA anymore, but they come back and visit, and they stay at the house. We always have a great time together. You have to live life. Not to do so is a sin, just as much as enjoying it at the expense of others.”

  She nodded. She was so beautiful. And they were so close. He could sense her, smell her, feel her; he knew her breath and her heartbeat.

  And he was naked beneath the covers.

  He let his hands fall and he sat back. “You have my story now—all of it, I swear. I’d better get down to the station and see Larue.”

  “I’m going to take the painting to Cecelia Simon. She should be at the house by now.”

  “I’ll call you when I leave the station. If the bust is still out there, and as far as we know, it is, that means Shumaker is still searching for it. We have to figure out what Leroy Jenkins did with it—before he was killed. That might mean tearing apart his house and yard, except I can’t imagine Shumaker hasn’t done that. And the cops and crime scene people were all over it that night. Still, being on the police force taught me to be methodical, so it’s something we need to do—no matter who’s already done it.”

  “Is Wolf with me or you?” she asked.

  “You—and if they don’t want him in that house, you don’t go in, either.”

  “Yes, sir.” She spun around with a mock salute and exited. Wolf looked at her and then at Quinn. “Go, boy. Go with her,” Quinn told the dog.

  * * *

  Danni arrived at the Simon house just after one in the afternoon.

  Bertie smiled as she opened the door. And then she saw Wolf.

  “Hi, Bertie. I hope you’re doing all right,” Danni said.

  “Yes...” Bertie seemed like a sentinel, standing dead center in the doorway. “What are you doing here with that...dog?” she asked.

  “Wolf is an angel, honestly,” Danni said.

  Bertie gazed at her stonily.

  Danni cleared her throat. “Um, I’m an artist by trade, Bertie. I’d done a likeness of Mrs. Simon and it came out quite well. I thought Cecelia might like it.”

  Before Bertie could say any more, Cecelia Simon came sweeping down the stairs. “Who is it, Bertie? What’s going on?”

  Danni realized she’d probably seen Cecelia in the society pages, the same as she’d seen Gladys.

  To say the young woman was elegant would be an understatement. Cecelia had light blond hair cut in fashionable layers, a slash of long bangs falling over one eye, highlights enhancing the style. She was dressed in a form-hugging military-style bodysuit and platform heels. Her makeup was perfect.

  Danni would’ve expected someone whose eyes were swollen with tears. A bereaved daughter heedless of her appearance at the moment.

  “She’s with the cops,” Bertie explained, gesturing at Danni. “Or was with the cops. Or that Quinn fellow.”

  “I’m Danielle Cafferty, Ms. Simon,” Danni said. She’d thought that after her earlier visit, the then-sobbing housekeeper had decided she liked her. Now, she wasn’t sure. “Your mother came to my store right before she died. I thought you might want this painting I’ve done of her.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Ms. Cafferty,” Cecelia said. “Please, bring it in.”

  “There’s the dog, Miss Simon,” Bertie said.

  Cecelia waved a hand in the air. “He’s a beautiful monster.Part wolf, is he?”

  “He belongs to a friend but, yes, if I remember correctly, he’s a mix of a few breeds, including maybe a quarter wolf. He’s kind of a rescue—extremely well trained and a very good dog,” Danni said.

  “Bertie, he won’t do anything dirty in the house.” Cecelia looked at Danni. “Will he?”

  “No, he will not.”

  “Then please do come in,” Cecelia said.

  Danni entered, carrying her brown-paper-wrapped, framed rendering of Gladys Simon, Wolf at her heels. They came in as far as the entry. Danni remembered the last time she’d been at the house—when they’d found Gladys swinging.

  Wolf sat obediently at her heels as she unwrapped the picture. Cecelia’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve depicted her wonderfully. It’s lovely. What can I give you for it?”

  “No, I don’t want anything. It’s a gift,” Danni said. “Your mother seemed to be an incredibly nice woman.”

  Cecelia nodded but showed no emotion. “Seriously. You’re a real artist.” She smiled. “Artists are always struggling, aren’t they?”

  “It’s a gift, Ms. Simon, if you’d like it. My father has passed away, too. He left me with a shop that does very well.”

  Bertie sniffed. “Not well enough to buy the stupid bust!”

  “I was coming to the house to see about the bust when...when we found Mrs. Simon,” Danni said.

  “Well, apparently the bust is gone,” Cecelia said briskly. “And so is my mother. I feared for her after my father died. I like to imagine the two of them are happy together now. They lived for each other, you see, Ms. Cafferty. Well, then, thank you—I accept this gratefully. Is there anything else?”

  Danni realized she was being dismissed. “Nothing at all. My sympathies to you,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Cecelia glanced at her watch. “I believe I’m due at the mortuary. Mother’s body hasn’t been released yet, but I do want to plan for a beautiful funeral.”

  “Of course.”

  Danni turned with Wolf and left, feeling very odd about the encounter. She supposed she’d expected...tears, grief, a display of emotion?

  She’d done what she could, giving the woman a portrait of her mother.

  She had nothing else to do. Until she heard from Quinn.

  She patted Wolf as they left the house and the door closed behind her.

  “Home, boy,” she said. “We didn’t get a terrific welcome, did we? Not that I thought she’d offer tea and crumpets, but...whatever!”

  She strolled to her car. Wolf jumped in beside her and they began the drive back to her shop in the French Quarter.

  * * *

  Jake Larue pushed a file across his desk toward Quinn. “Autopsy report on Gladys Simon. Looks like she did kill herself. I’m not a scientist. I don’t know how the M.E. and the crime scene people figure it all out, but apparently the way the rope was tied... They’re sure she killed herself. They’re going to release her body this afternoon.”

  That wasn’t much of a surprise to Quinn.

  “Carl White doing okay?” he asked.

  Larue nodded. “This is going to get expensive for the city, Quinn. We’ve got Carl in one safe house, and your second friend, Sam, in another.”

  And Bo Ray Jenkins was being watched over by Father Ryan.

  “We need some answers. I have men working all over the city, trying to trace that damn bust, trying to find out what’s going on. The price tag on this is escalating. I have officers working off-duty hours, which is adding up on the time clock, to keep these men safe. Men some people think should be allowed to wallow in the violence they create.”

  “Carl and Sam are not violent men,” Quinn said.

  “But they run in violent and illegal circles,” Larue reminded him.

  “What about the men who were killed last night? Do we have IDs on them? Any way to tie them to Brandt Shumaker?” Quinn asked.

  Larue picked up another file. “Derby Halloran, Beau Headley and Grant Finaker. All three were from Detroit and had rap sheets for armed robbery. Derby had only been out a few weeks. All three checked into different hotels—as if they were ordinary tourists.”

  “Okay, so where were they staying in New Orleans? What about the car they came in?”

  “Rental car. Finaker rented it when he lan
ded at the airport two days ago. There’s no tie we can find to Shumaker.”

  “Great. So these three men just came to town on a whim and then drove out to Natasha’s place on the bayou to kidnap Carl White and kill anyone with him,” Quinn said.

  Larue looked pained. “Come on, Quinn, you know I have to work within the confines of the law. Hell, I went in first thing myself to speak with Brandt Shumaker this morning. He was polite, all business. He was appalled to hear about the violence and, of course, he wanted to know why I’d think that he—an upstanding citizen—would have anything to do with this. He was, to all appearances, totally cooperative, and he didn’t even try to bribe me with a massive contribution to a police benevolence society.”

  “Did you really think he was just going to confess to murder because you walked in?”

  “I felt he should know we were suspicious of him.”

  “He’s probably smiling with amusement and lighting up a Cuban cigar to enjoy with a glass of Patron right now,” Quinn said, shaking his head.

  “May I point out again—I have to work within the law,” Larue said.

  “And you’re suggesting I don’t?”

  “I’d never suggest such a thing.”

  “Okay, then. I don’t think Shumaker has the bust yet. I believe that’s why he’s trying to kill people, why he’s threatening them and trying to prove he means business. I think it’s why he wanted me, Natasha and Danni dead—but Carl alive.”

  “What the hell can this bust do?” Larue asked, sounding exasperated.

  “Power can be in a man’s mind. It can mess with the chemicals in the brain. I’ve seen people hyped up on drugs perform insane feats. Hell, I performed a few myself. But look at it this way. If this trail of dead is what we’re getting when he doesn’t have the bust, can you imagine the terror he’ll unleash when he does? When he believes he’s all-powerful?”

  Larue looked at him with dull eyes. “You know we’re not just sitting on our hands. I have officers in the street and—although some would grumble if they knew—following up every lead I get from you.”

  “Yeah, I’m grateful for that,” Quinn said. “What about the death of Carl White’s stripper, Shirley? Did you get anything from his phone?”

  “You soaked the damn phone,” Larue complained. He raised a hand. “Yes, yes, you were trying to save lives and you did that quite nicely. I told you we weren’t just sitting on our hands. Our techs were able to get some information off it. They clearly read the threats to Carl and they traced the number those threats came from. But the phone was purchased at a massive electronics store in Baton Rouge. Pay as you go—as we all expected. Dead end. Bought with cash, and no one remembers who bought that particular phone, since they sell hundreds. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I doubt Shumaker bought the phone himself. Shirley is Shirley DuPree and she’s due for autopsy this afternoon.”

  “I’ll go over for that,” Quinn said, and rose. “But, Larue, what I’d like to do—with your permission—is get into Leroy Jenkins’s house. He has to have stashed the bust somewhere after he stole it—if no one else has it and Shumaker is looking for it.”

  “You have my permission and my blessing. The place is still surrounded by crime scene tape and I have officers on duty in the area, patrolling the neighborhood. I’ll give them a call and tell them you’re coming.”

  * * *

  “You know what?” Danni told Wolf as they returned to her house and she drove her car into the garage. “My feelings are hurt! That was a damned good likeness of Gladys. You’d have thought her daughter would’ve been more appreciative!”

  Wolf gave a sharp bark, as if he were in total agreement.

  Her first step, she decided, was to go back into the shop, see how things were going. There were a number of tourists and shoppers there, oohing and aahing about the oddities and knickknacks to be found.

  People gushed over Wolf as they were prone to do, and she assured everyone that he was a friendly dog and that they were welcome to pet him.

  Wolf received the attention with his usual dignity.

  Jane was at the cash register. “How are we doing?” Danni asked her.

  “Very well,” Jane said. “Spring always brings out the tourist trade in NOLA. Did you take the picture to Cecelia Simon?”

  “I did.”

  “She must have been incredibly grateful.”

  Danni shrugged. “She wanted to pay me. She’s kind of a cold fish.”

  “She should’ve been thanking you with tears in her eyes!” Jane said. “Maybe she doesn’t know that you’re an up-and-coming, well-respected artist!” she added indignantly.

  A woman was politely trying to look around Danni into the display case at the cash register. Danni smiled and moved aside.

  Billie was showing another customer some of the reproduction medieval mail they carried. He looked over at her and she shrugged again.

  They had the shop well in order, so Danni decided to go back to the “basement” to study her father’s book while she waited to hear from Quinn. She pulled her phone from her pocket to make sure she hadn’t missed a call. She hadn’t.

  She turned on the lights and went over to the book, which she’d put back in its glass encasement on the desk. She didn’t sit in the desk chair but reverently picked up the tome and curled into one of the old plush chairs near the life-size model of The Gorilla That Ate Manhattan.

  Wolf was unimpressed with the items in the basement. He curled up at her feet.

  What else is there to find? she wondered.

  She’d read about Pietro Miro, and it made sense that anything related to him might be unpleasant or upset people. But how could it make people do evil things?

  And if it was possible, how did they stop it?

  She flipped the pages carefully.

  “Okay, Dad, where do I go from here? I know the history. But how do I stop what’s going on and get the bust—and then what should I do with it?”

  She looked through the table of contents, impressed at the number of subjects covered. The sections on ghosts and poltergeists were long. She thought that if the bust was haunted, maybe she should read about ghosts.

  She did.

  But despite the beauty of the language, she wasn’t sure she’d discovered anything that wasn’t already urban legend, or well-known paranormal lore. As she’d already learned, there were two kinds of hauntings—active and residual. “Residual” hauntings were the saddest. They included cases of soldiers fighting the same battle over and over again, the moments that led up to a murder, the despair of a person about to commit suicide. “Active” or “intelligent” hauntings occurred when the soul knew that it was caught in the veil or the mist between this world and a different dimension, torn between solving something in life and walking into the light.

  The best help for a ghost, of course, was to discover why he or she remained behind and solve all past issues....

  The way to stop a ghost from tormenting the living—when it would not accept its own demise, when it chose to create havoc, pain and even death—was to see that the body was rendered to ash, including the bones.

  But Pietro Miro had been cremated hundreds of years ago. How could he, in any mist or veil on the way to the afterlife, be causing trouble?

  She groaned inwardly. A week ago, she’d have laughed at such a question. She did laugh aloud as she read another of the suggestions. Know thy ghost.

  “I read all about our ghost!” she said, skimming down the page.

  She was so involved in her reading that she nearly jumped sky-high when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She answered it quickly.

  As she expected, it was Quinn. She was surprised by the pleasure she felt when she heard his voice. But then, she was constantly surprised by Quinn.

  That morning, he’d
been honest and sincere. And she hadn’t wanted to leave the room, to remember that they were together because...

  People were dying.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Reading.”

  “Want to go on a treasure hunt?”

  “Sure. Are we bringing Wolf?”

  “You bet. He loves a treasure hunt. I’ll swing by for you in ten.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  Danni returned the book to its glass enclosure, then glanced over at it. “I’ve read the book, Dad. With lots of light. What am I not seeing?”

  The gorilla seemed to stare at her, as did the eyes of the mannequin in the Victorian coffin. Nothing in the room seemed to have an answer for her.

  * * *

  Danni was waiting with Wolf at her side when Quinn drove down Royal to collect them. The street was thronged with tourists. As he pulled to the curb, she hurried toward him and he found himself astonished again at the way she’d come around to the idea of taking her father’s place. He smiled, remembering how he’d thought on that first day that he’d have no more help from the shop in his future quests. She saw his smile as she slid into the car, allowing Wolf to jump in the back.

  “Was it a good morning? Why are you grinning?”

  “It wasn’t a bad morning. It wasn’t a good morning. But I did get permission from Larue to go and search Leroy Jenkins’s house.”

  “And that’s making you smile.”

  “No, you made me smile.”

  “Oh?” She seemed skeptical.

  “Yeah. I thought you were an absolute disaster that first day. Now you’ve been shot at, you’ve gone swimming in the bayou...you’ve danced at a voodoo funeral rite—”

  “Hey, I know and respect voodoo. I grew up here, remember?”

  “But not being attacked, nearly drowned and all that.”

  “No, not all that,” she agreed.

  They were silent as he looped around to head west toward Esplanade by way of Bourbon. Then she said, “You’re smirking at me.”

  “I wasn’t smirking.”