Let the Dead Sleep. Heather Graham
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nodded, preparing the drink. “Who you looking for, Quinn?”
“A thief.”
Digger thought about that for a minute. “Haven’t heard ’bout anything major on the market lately,” he said.
“This isn’t your usual wallet or handbag,” Quinn explained. “This is a lethal object—although not many people would think of it as such.”
Digger was skilled at remaining expressionless but his slight frown made Quinn think he might know something—even if he hadn’t realized it before Quinn’s description.
He leaned close as he set Quinn’s soda on the bar. “Some guys figure they can slip through the police cracks and find collectors...and some of ’em do. Some ‘wind up’ with objects they believe they can cash in on. I did hear some talk earlier about a piece of art.” He lowered his voice. “There’s a collector in the city who likes cemetery art—and is willing to pay a lot for it.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the thief or the buyer, would you?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t really know the guy who was in here. I’d seen him around before. He’s usually into petty stuff—helping himself to a tourist’s purse, hanging around the casino to see who leaves a bag hanging on the back of a chair... He’s never been into violence, hasn’t got that reputation, anyway. Heard him on a cell phone, talking about some house in the Ninth Ward and how if the buyer wanted the piece, he could get down there.”
The Ninth Ward was the easternmost downriver portion of the city—the largest ward in New Orleans. It was where the summer of storms had done their worst damage. Celebrities, Habitat for Humanity and other groups had tried hard to pick up the pieces. The destruction and the destitution, even as the years passed, remained prevalent. Crime was high.
“Can you give me a little more on that?” Quinn asked.
He whirled around, aware of movement behind him as he voiced the question. He was licensed to carry his gun, a no-nonsense Magnum, but he’d learned through his military experience and the academy not to draw until he meant to shoot.
The man standing behind him was as old as Digger and his color was gray. He had rheumy green eyes. Quinn sensed integrity as well as sadness in his manner.
“I heard him talking, too,” he told Quinn. “And I done hear tales about that ‘art piece’ that was nabbed. You go get it back, Mr. Quinn. We have enough crime and death going on here. You go get that bust or statue thing or funerary ornament or whatever it is. Bury it deep so it don’t come up again. Upper Ninth Ward—I heard someone talking about North Robertson Street.”
Quinn thanked him, placed a few bills on the bar and left. Heading for his car, he put through a call to Larue, asking the detective to meet him on North Robertson.
It was late as he drove through the areas of the city he loved; revelers were still out on the streets but in smaller numbers.
The reconstruction since Hurricane Katrina had been spotty and the demographics had changed drastically. Some decent citizens had returned, but some never would. The face of the Ninth Ward was ever-changing. A hard-working waiter might live next to a hastily reconstructed crack house.
Quinn turned down North Robertson Street. In the darkness and shadows alleviated only by a few blinking streetlights, he slowed to a crawl and looked intently at each building he passed.
He came to a pale blue clapboard house. To one side, a new wooden structure was rising. On the other was a derelict building with a sign that was fading and still proclaimed We Will Be Back.
There was something on the ground in front of the blue house.
Quinn pulled to a stop, braked his car and stepped out. He ran over to the object on the ground, hunkering down quickly when he realized it was a man, a youth of mixed race.
The earth beneath him was soggy with blood; there was no help for him.
He’d been riddled with bullets from some kind of semiautomatic weapon.
Cursing softly, Quinn stood.
He saw a scared child peeping out from behind a curtain at the new house next door. A door started to open.
“Stay in! Stay inside!” Quinn shouted.
More gunfire flared from within the blue house. Quinn drew his weapon and moved toward the entry.
He burst in, but too late.
A woman lay on the floor—young, dressed in shorts that left the curves of her buttocks visible, a halter top and five-inch gold-spangled spike heels. She was dressed like a hooker and—living in an obvious crack house—probably was.
For a split second, he felt torn. The killer might still be in the house.
The bust might still be in the house.
But she lay gasping and trying to breathe.
He hurried to her side and crouched down.
“Help me!” she gurgled, large brown eyes staring into his.
“Lie quiet, don’t try to talk,” he told her, ripping his shirt for a bandage to staunch the flow of blood pouring from the bullet hole in her chest.
No good. She gripped his arm with bloody fingers as he pressed on the wound.
He watched the light fade from her eyes.
A door to the rear slammed.
Quinn stood; the hooker was dead.
He followed the sound of the slamming door.
* * *
The book had chapters on all manner of creatures and things.
One of the first sections Danni read was on witches. It wasn’t a bunch of mumbo jumbo about boiling cauldrons and spells; it began with the definition of the word, how witch became an evil creature in medieval Europe, and how there was a fierce difference between the pagan religions that had brought forth the medieval fear of witches and the religious practices then common throughout the colonial America.
She felt as if she’d picked up a history book.
But then, as she came to the end of the section, there were instructions on disabling a “practitioner of black magic and those worshipping the evil creations within satanic churches.”
Danni sat back, staring at the old tome. It went from being an educated treatise to a magician’s manual.
She flipped one beautifully printed and illustrated page after another. There were pages that dealt with ghosts, or “spirits remaining despite the pall of death.”
“Where would I find evil statues—or busts?” she murmured aloud. There were all kinds of ghosts, apparently, and a great deal of information on “intelligent or active” hauntings and “residual” hauntings.
There was a section on banshees.
Nothing in these pages on funerary busts.
But then, of course, the book was huge. There were at least a thousand pages in it.
She yawned, blinking, and realized she was exhausted. The words began to swim before her eyes and she decided to give up for the night.
There was nothing she could do for Gladys Simon now. The book wasn’t going anywhere; she could continue reading in the morning.
But once again, she lay in bed awake. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t even know what the bust looked like. She tried to remember how Quinn had described the piece—and as she tried to visualize it, she rose, turned on the lights again and went to her computer.
She keyed in a number of variables, including funerary busts, New Orleans cemetery bust thefts...ancient busts...stolen artifacts...and assorted combinations. Finally, under a website titled Really Weird Stuff That Really Happened, she found what she