Let the Dead Sleep. Heather Graham
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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.”
“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