files,” Larue said. “I didn’t handle Arnie’s death, and obviously not the attack on the musicians, but now...with what you’re telling me, maybe everything does all connect. At any rate, I’ll call the night shift and have them set up interviews with those musicians starting first thing in the morning. Quinn, I’ll give you a heads-up as soon as I have a schedule—figure you’ll want to talk to them, too.” He rose.
Quinn knew that Larue had knocked back the scotch in a single swallow and then nursed his coffee the rest of the time they’d been speaking. The man did look tired as hell, but then, he knew that Larue didn’t believe in set hours, and that his life was pretty much his work. He loved New Orleans and considered himself a warrior in the city’s defense.
Quinn followed him to the courtyard door and locked it thoughtfully after him. It was nearly ten. They should all get some sleep and start in the morning, he thought.
But when he returned to the kitchen he found Danni gathering up her shoulder bag, her keys in her hand.
“I called Tyler. The band’s giving him the night off. I’m going to drive by and pick him up, and then he’ll take us to meet Arnie’s family. He says they’re always up late anyway, and I figured we might as well make a start on things.”
He smiled. Danni was her father’s daughter. She wouldn’t stop now.
After all, stopping could mean another life lost.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
“I’ll be holding down the old fort,” Billie said drily. “If Bo Ray comes to after all that pain medication, I’ll bring him up to speed. And if he doesn’t, I just might practice on that sax.”
* * *
Bourbon Street was heading into full swing when Danni drove toward it along St. Ann’s to pick up Tyler Anderson. He was without an instrument and told them that, without him there, the band was only going to play songs that didn’t require a sax.
The Watson family lived in the Treme area, just the other side of Rampart at the edge of the French Quarter. She was easily able to find street parking.
The house was in a line of dwellings that had mostly been built between the 1920s and 1970s. While the Treme area had faced some tough times with gangs and drugs since the summer of storms—Katrina, Rita and Wilma—Danni had a number of friends who lived in the area. True, some had left after the storms, never to return. But many had dug in, driven by a love for New Orleans so deep inside them that it would never die. There was crime here, as there was everywhere. But there were honest citizens here, too, just trying to get through life with work, family and friends.
The Watson house appeared to have been built in the early twenties, with porch and window arches reminiscent of the Deco Age. The yard was neatly mowed, and there were flower beds with lovely blooms lining the concrete path to the house.
“They’re good people,” Tyler said. “They didn’t deserve this.”
“No one deserves this kind of thing, Tyler,” Quinn said.
“No, but them more than most.”
He’d let the Watson family know that they were coming. Before they reached the front door, it was opened by a tall, straight-backed elderly man with light mahogany skin. He smiled as they came up the path. “Welcome, and thank you, folks,” he said. He had his hand out, ready to greet them. “I’m Woodrow Watson. Pleased to have you. Danni Cafferty, I knew your father. Fine man. Can’t say as you’d know me. I was just in your shop a few times. Now, Michael Quinn, I
have
met you, sir, but I’ll bet you don’t remember me.”
Quinn smiled. “You’re wrong. Now that we’re face-to-face, I
do
remember you. Your whole family showed up at football games. Arnie was a year or two younger than me, but he was in the band, and you all came out to see him every game.”
“That’s right, son, that’s right. You sure could throw a football,” Woodrow said.
“Well, that was then,” Quinn
Quinn knew that Larue had knocked back the scotch in a single swallow and then nursed his coffee the rest of the time they’d been speaking. The man did look tired as hell, but then, he knew that Larue didn’t believe in set hours, and that his life was pretty much his work. He loved New Orleans and considered himself a warrior in the city’s defense.
Quinn followed him to the courtyard door and locked it thoughtfully after him. It was nearly ten. They should all get some sleep and start in the morning, he thought.
But when he returned to the kitchen he found Danni gathering up her shoulder bag, her keys in her hand.
“I called Tyler. The band’s giving him the night off. I’m going to drive by and pick him up, and then he’ll take us to meet Arnie’s family. He says they’re always up late anyway, and I figured we might as well make a start on things.”
He smiled. Danni was her father’s daughter. She wouldn’t stop now.
After all, stopping could mean another life lost.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
“I’ll be holding down the old fort,” Billie said drily. “If Bo Ray comes to after all that pain medication, I’ll bring him up to speed. And if he doesn’t, I just might practice on that sax.”
* * *
Bourbon Street was heading into full swing when Danni drove toward it along St. Ann’s to pick up Tyler Anderson. He was without an instrument and told them that, without him there, the band was only going to play songs that didn’t require a sax.
The Watson family lived in the Treme area, just the other side of Rampart at the edge of the French Quarter. She was easily able to find street parking.
The house was in a line of dwellings that had mostly been built between the 1920s and 1970s. While the Treme area had faced some tough times with gangs and drugs since the summer of storms—Katrina, Rita and Wilma—Danni had a number of friends who lived in the area. True, some had left after the storms, never to return. But many had dug in, driven by a love for New Orleans so deep inside them that it would never die. There was crime here, as there was everywhere. But there were honest citizens here, too, just trying to get through life with work, family and friends.
The Watson house appeared to have been built in the early twenties, with porch and window arches reminiscent of the Deco Age. The yard was neatly mowed, and there were flower beds with lovely blooms lining the concrete path to the house.
“They’re good people,” Tyler said. “They didn’t deserve this.”
“No one deserves this kind of thing, Tyler,” Quinn said.
“No, but them more than most.”
He’d let the Watson family know that they were coming. Before they reached the front door, it was opened by a tall, straight-backed elderly man with light mahogany skin. He smiled as they came up the path. “Welcome, and thank you, folks,” he said. He had his hand out, ready to greet them. “I’m Woodrow Watson. Pleased to have you. Danni Cafferty, I knew your father. Fine man. Can’t say as you’d know me. I was just in your shop a few times. Now, Michael Quinn, I
have
met you, sir, but I’ll bet you don’t remember me.”
Quinn smiled. “You’re wrong. Now that we’re face-to-face, I
do
remember you. Your whole family showed up at football games. Arnie was a year or two younger than me, but he was in the band, and you all came out to see him every game.”
“That’s right, son, that’s right. You sure could throw a football,” Woodrow said.
“Well, that was then,” Quinn
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