Waking the Dead. Heather Graham
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hardened her voice when she spoke again. “No, not even a painting. A copy of a painting, a giclée.”
“We’ll have to find the real one,” he said.
He had a feeling he knew where the real one was—somewhere in New Orleans.
She shook her head. “Find it? You don’t understand. It’s a museum piece.” She hesitated. “It was just sold. Niles heard a rumor that it’s been bought by someone here in the city. But even if we find it...we’d need millions to get it!”
He stood and pulled her to her feet, holding her close. “It’s coming here?” That rumor confirmed—or at least reinforced—what he already suspected.
“Nothing definite so far,” she said.
“We’ll get it,” he vowed. “Whatever it takes.”
She drew away. “How? First, we’d have to identify the new owner—a multimillionaire or billionaire, for sure—and convince him that he’s spent a fortune on a killer painting? And you suppose he’ll hand it right over?”
He tried to ease her shaking, tried to speak calmly. “We’ll have to break in and steal it, then.”
“Break in and steal it?” she asked. “You think it is here!”
“In the morning,” he said. “Come on. We’re going back to bed.”
“I can’t go to bed.”
“Yes, you can.”
“But...”
“I’m here, Danni. I’m here. And I’ll hold you until you fall asleep, I swear it.”
The slightest smile appeared on her lips; she’d needed his strength. Now, she was drawing on her own reserves. “And then you’ll let go of me?” she asked. “When I’m asleep?”
“No. Well, not until morning when we wake up and want to get out of bed.”
“I guess we should get more sleep,” she murmured. He could tell that she didn’t want to look back at her own work again, but she couldn’t help herself. “I don’t remember everything I probably learned about Hubert in my art history classes. Tomorrow, I’m going to find out whatever I can about the man.” She turned back to Quinn. “Like a lot of artists, he supposedly used people around him to create his characters. I remember that much—and I want to know who they all are. I also want to know why. Why there’d be so much evil on every face.”
“You might learn something from talking to Dr. Hubert. He admits that he’s a descendant, but he doesn’t seem very keen on the fact.”
“I will talk to him,” Danni said.
He cupped her chin in his hands. “Tomorrow,” he told her softly.
He heard Wolf whine. The dog had been standing silently in the doorway, waiting for them.
“Oh, Wolf!” Danni hurried forward, kneeling to take the dog’s massive head between her hands and plant a kiss on his nose. “Good boy. Good Wolf. Thank you for watching over me.”
Wolf wagged his tail and Quinn thought the dog had been one of his best rescues ever. Unconditional love. And protection. Wolf would die for either of them.
“All right, let’s get some sleep,” he said. “I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”
Danni rose, and they started to walk out of the room.
Something brought him back. The canvas, of course, wasn’t dry. Despite that, he covered it with one of her artist’s sheets.
He didn’t want anyone looking at the damned thing. Hell, Billie was old. He could see those faces and have a heart attack!
* * *
Quinn knew the desk sergeant on duty when he walked into the station. The officer nodded in acknowledgment. “Larue said to send you right in when I saw you,” he said.
“Thanks.” Quinn could see Jake Larue through the glass panes of his office. Larue was studying a file; he looked worn and haggard. Quinn assumed he hadn’t slept much, either.
He tapped on the door and walked in.
“Quinn. Great. I was hoping you’d be early,” Larue said. “I have the list from James Garcia’s courier company. He was a trusted employee for sure. He was carrying a package filled with gold and gems that had been valued, signed sports memorabilia for a charity auction and—”
“A painting that recently sold in the millions,” Quinn finished for him.
Larue frowned at Quinn when he sat down in front of him. “Yes. The painting is called—”
“Ghosts in the Mind,” Quinn said. “It’s by an artist named Hubert—who, incidentally, was a distant ancestor of our favorite M.E., Dr. Ron Hubert. Hubert the artist was found dead at an old castle in Geneva, still staring at the painting. It was his last work.”
Larue picked up the file. “Okay, but here’s what you may not know yet. The painting was purchased by a Mrs. Hattie Lamont, who lives in one of the grand old mansions on Esplanade. She’s a widow and her husband was a computer genius who built and sold half a dozen companies. Since she’s been in NOLA, she’s joined every social club and charity foundation in the city, or so it appears. The painting was due to her by ten this morning.”
“And it was missing from the evidence lockup after the ‘fog’?” Quinn asked, already knowing the answer.
Larue nodded vigorously. “And here’s the really curious thing about the three packages that went missing. Our crime scene people swear that we brought all three of them to the evidence room. But they were delivered to their recipients early this morning.”
“And we have no idea how? I’m assuming the recipient has to sign for a package of that value!” Quinn said.
“In theory. I’ve already sent sketch artists to all three houses to get them to describe the delivery person,” Larue told him. “However, that person didn’t exactly make himself known.”
“What about the delivery vehicle? Wouldn’t the company know if one had been taken? And what about Garcia’s truck?”
“Garcia’s truck is still at the police impound. Judging by what I’ve gotten back from my officers in the field, no one saw a delivery truck or remembers seeing one anywhere near them.” Larue glanced at his notes again. “But as Tobias Granville—owner of the assessed jewels—said, he was looking at his package and not down the street. He should have signed for the package. He says he didn’t, that it was just at his door and he didn’t even glance up once he had it in his hands.”
Quinn shook his head. “So, a family was brutally murdered. Evidence came into lockup, evidence disappeared from lockup and then it was all delivered where it belonged.”
Larue leaned back. “We’ve retrieved the packaging from Mr. Granville’s delivery and from the charity people. Again, the box just showed up at their office door. And of course, the packaging is compromised now. People ripped it up. But we’ll try to examine the pieces that have blood spatter.”
“No one noticed blood spatter?” Quinn asked dryly.
“There wasn’t a lot. Hey, if you’re waiting for a fortune in jewelry, are you really going to worry about wrapping paper? Spots of dried blood on brown paper could be anything,” Larue pointed out. “Flaw in the paper itself, a drop of coffee, smeared ink. Who knows?”
“What about Mrs. Lamont’s package?”
“Well, this is interesting. Her butler—yeah, she has a butler—says he did sign for it.”
“And the wrapping paper?”
“She wouldn’t give it to us,” Larue said sheepishly. “We’re still working on that.”
Quinn