The Dead Play On (Cafferty & Quinn, 3) - Softcover

Buch 3 von 3: Cafferty & Quinn Novels

Graham, Heather

 
9780778317500: The Dead Play On (Cafferty & Quinn, 3)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0778317501 ISBN 13: 9780778317500
Verlag: MIRA, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

Play a song for me… 

Musicians are being murdered in New Orleans, but Arnie Watson apparently died by his own hand. When Tyler Anderson plays the saxophone he inherited from Arnie, he believes he sees visions of his friend's life—and death. He becomes convinced Arnie was murdered and that the instrument had something to do with it, and with whatever's happening all over the city… 

Tyler knows his theory sounds crazy, so he approaches Danni Cafferty, hoping she and Michael Quinn will find out what the cops couldn't. Or wouldn't. After all, Cafferty and Quinn have become famous for solving unusual crimes. 

They're partners in their personal lives, too. Quinn's a private investigator and Danni works with him. When they look into the case, they discover a secret lover of Arnie's and a history of jealousies and old hatreds that leads them back to the band Arnie once played with—and Tyler plays with now. 

And they discover that, sometimes, the line between passion and obsession is hard to draw…

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She's a winner of the RWA's Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers' Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Michael Quinn parked his car on the street in the Irish Channel section of the city of New Orleans.

There were several police cars already parked in front of the 1920sera duplex to which he'd been summoned.

He headed up a flight of steep steps. The door to "A" stood open; an officer in uniform waited just outside on the porch.

"Quinn?" the man asked.

Quinn nodded. He didn't know the young officer, but the officer seemed to know him. He had to admit, being recognized was kind of nice.

"He's been waiting for you, but he wants gloves and booties on everyone who goes in. There's a set over there." He pointed.

"Thanks," Quinn said. He looked in the direction the officer indicated and saw a comfortable-looking but slightly rusted porch chair on the far side of the door. He slid on the protective gloves and paper booties.

"You're good to go," the officer said.

Quinn thanked him again then entered a pleasant living area that stretched back to an open kitchen. The duplex had been built along the lines of a "shotgun"-style house. It was essentially a railroad apartment; the right side of the room was a hallway that stretched all the way to the back door, with rooms opening off it on the left. He'd never been inside this particular building, but he'd seen enough similar houses to assume the second half of the duplex would be a mirror image, hallway on the left, rooms opening off to the right.

Crime scene markers already littered the floor, and several members of the crime scene unit were at work, carefully moving around the body.

Quinn noticed that one marker denoted the position of a beer can. Another, the contents of a spilled ashtray.

A third indicated a curious splotch of blood.

In the midst of everything, in a plump armchair with padded wooden arms and a pool of dried blood underneath it, was the reason for Quinn's presence. Dr. Ron Hubert, the medical examiner, was down on one knee in front of the chair, his black medical bag at his side, performing the preliminary work on the victim.

The remnants of what had once been a man sagged against the cushions. His throat had—at the end of the killer's torture spree—been slit ear to ear. A gag—created from a belt and what had probably been the man's own socks—remained strapped around the mouth. A drapery cord bound his left wrist, while the right had been tied to the chair with a lamp cord.

Both of the victim's arms had been burned—with lit cigarettes, Quinn thought. The man's face had been so bashed in, it wasn't possible to determine much about what he had looked like in life.

He had been struck savagely, making it look like a rage killing. But a rage killing was usually personal. The addition of torture suggested that the killer was mentally deranged, someone who reveled in what he was doing—and had probably done it before.

And torture wasn't carried out in a red haze of fury.

"Come around and stick close to the wall, Quinn," Detective Jake Larue said. He was standing behind the couch, his ever-present notepad in hand, slowly looking around the room as the crime scene techs carefully went through it and the ME examined the corpse. Quinn was surprised at Larue's directive; the detective knew damned well that Quinn was aware he needed to avoid contaminating the scene.

But this kind of scene unnerved everyone—even a jaded pro like Larue. Most cops agreed that when crime scenes stopped bothering you, it was time to seek new work.

Quinn looked at the walls as he walked around to Larue's position. He noted a number of photographs of musicians on display. He thought he recognized some of the people in them, although he would have to take some time to remember just who they were.

"What the hell took you so long?" Larue asked.

Quinn could have told him that he'd made it to the house in less than ten minutes once Larue had called him, but it wouldn't have meant anything at the moment. Frankly, after quickly scanning just the living area, he was wondering why he'd been called. The place was equipped with a large-screen television and a stateof-the-art sound system, so presumably the dead man had had money. There was drug paraphernalia on the coffee table to the side of the couch. A bag of what he presumed to be weed lay out in the open. Glancing toward the kitchen counter, he saw an impressive array of alcohol.

People didn't tend to get stoned on grass and suddenly turn violent, but they were known to become killer agitated after enough bourbon or absinthe. Was this the result of escalating tensions between associates in the drug trade? There was a wad of twenties lying on the table by the bag of weed—which, he saw on closer inspection, looked to have been tossed carelessly on top of a spill of white powder that he didn't think would prove to be baking soda or talc.

Drug deal gone bad? Someone holding out on someone?

"Were you first on scene?" Quinn asked, reaching Larue's side. The detective stood still. Quinn knew he was taking in the room—everything about it.

Larue was a good-looking man with short-cropped hair. His face was a character study—the lines drawn into his features clearly portrayed the complexity of his work and the seriousness with which he faced it. He'd been a damned good partner when they'd worked together, and now that Quinn had been out of the force for several years and worked in the private sector as a PI, they got along just as well together when Larue called him in as a consultant. Even when they'd been partners, Larue had never really wanted to know how Quinn came up with his theories and conclusions. What he didn't know meant he couldn't question Quinn's credibility or his methods.

Larue gave him a questioning glance. "First on the scene were two patrol officers. Since it was pretty evident this man was dead and most likely Lawrence Barrett, who's lived at this address for several years, they steered clear of him and did their best to check the premises for the killer without touching anything. Then I arrived. Damned ugly, right? And no sign of a clear motive. It looks like drugs were involved, but you and I both know looks can be deceiving. It's about as ugly as anything I've ever seen, though."

It was possible to learn a lot about murder—and murderers. But no amount of profiling killers, studying the human mind—or even learning from those who had committed horrendous crimes and been caught—could fully prepare anyone, even those in law enforcement, for the next killer he or she might encounter.

"Ugly and brutal," Quinn agreed.

"What do you see?" Larue asked him.

"A dead man and a hell of a lot of liquor and drugs—not to mention a fat wad of money," Quinn said. "Doesn't look like the motive was robbery—or not a typical robbery, anyway. You have a tortured dead man. Hard to discern, given the extent of the damage, but he appears to be in his late twenties to early thirties. Caucasian, say six-foot even and two hundred pounds. From the bleeding, looks like death came from a slit throat, with the facial beating coming post-mortem. Not a lot of blood spray—blood soaked into his clothing and pooled at his feet, but there is that spot on the floor near the entrance. There's no sign of forced entry, so it's my best guess he answered the door and let his killer in—which suggests that he knew his attacker or at least expected him. I doubt it was a drug buy, since so many drugs are still here. He lets whoever in. Whatever social discourse they engage in takes...

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Verlag
MIRA
Erscheinungsdatum
2015
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0778317501
ISBN 13 
9780778317500
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
368
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ISBN 10:  0778317730 ISBN 13:  9780778317739
Verlag: MIRA, 2015
Hardcover