Let the Dead Sleep

He was beautiful, yes...

And so malicious. Evil to the core. His smile was one of pure cruelty.

“You have to do it, Gladys. Think of the world, always the same. Kill or be killed. You can end their misery and your own. Or if you survive, you’ll walk away because of your fragile mental state, the depths of your grief. It’s kill or be killed, Gladys. That’s the way of the world.”

She saw the man in her mind, of course, but he seemed so...real. She’d seen him the night her husband had died, seen him standing over the body. And she’d known that Hank Simon was killed by the marble bust he’d been so ecstatic to acquire, the piece that had lain half-buried by the grave of a pirate-turned-entrepreneur in St. Louis Cemetery #1. A former pirate, yes, but a man who’d dedicated himself to good works in the latter part of his life. God knew where the bust had been before that.

He’d stood over Hank where he lay on the floor of their grand Garden District home; he’d stood over him, smiling, while Hank lay broken and bleeding. It looked as if he’d fallen or jumped over the balcony railing, but he hadn’t. She’d known it when she saw the man. He had disappeared into thin air and she hadn’t seen him again—until he’d appeared at the foot of her bed that morning, telling her she had to do as he instructed, or she’d wind up like Hank.

It was astonishing that her heart hadn’t given out then.

No, it was tragic that her heart hadn’t given out. Because now he was with her, urging her to kill....

She wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t going to mow down schoolchildren with her Lincoln.

And yet...

She felt her foot almost itching to touch the pedal. She felt something inside her suddenly longing to do as he said—hit the gas. Hit it hard. Hit all the children she could. And, definitely, hit the plump crossing guard with her sign and her whistle....

Her foot inched down on the gas with a malevolence that seemed to fill her heart with bloodred fury.

Chapter Two

QUINN HAD THOUGHT he’d be able to keep up with Gladys.

Chasing her on foot hadn’t been difficult, but following her once he’d gotten back to his car had proven to be a challenge. Parking in the Quarter was a nightmare, so naturally he’d been two blocks down. Still, Gladys Simon wasn’t exactly a speed demon, so he should’ve managed to catch up with her.

But it was the French Quarter. He should have known but never suspected that a parade would close off Bourbon precisely when he needed to cross it.

Gladys had beaten the parade.

He chafed, waiting. There was no turning; there was no backing up.

Assuming that she’d be headed home, he figured he’d start uptown as soon as he could. He tried to assure himself that Danni Cafferty had called the police and that they’d come by—or social services would—to see to her welfare.

But he couldn’t be sure.

He knew he had to reach Gladys himself. If Danni wasn’t going to take the statue, he had to do it. But he didn’t know whether he dared wait long enough to catch up with Gladys, since she seemed to be at the end of her rope. If Danni had just agreed immediately to come and get the damn thing, he wouldn’t have been so worried.

When he’d tried to call Gladys, she’d refused to talk to him. When he’d tried to see her at home, he’d been put off by a protective housekeeper. He hadn’t known that Hank Simon had the statue in time to try and see the man. In fact, he wouldn’t even have learned about its existence—other than through vague references in art-history books—if it wasn’t for the sniveling Vic Brown, incarcerated now with no bail while he awaited trial.

Vic had sold the bust to Hank Simon. Then, of course, Quinn had found out that Hank had died, which meant his wife now had it.

Vic had shot down three of his associates in the Chartres Street gang before being winged by the police himself. According to Vic, the bust had made him do it.

The newspaper had alerted him to the criminal’s planned defense. Visiting him in his cell had told Quinn that Vic seriously thought the bust had ordered him to shoot his friends—it was them or his own life. A self-defense plea might actually work for the poor bastard; Vic’s attorney, Anthony Everst, was trying to get Vic into a hospital unit. Not a bad call, since the dope dealer and petty crook was ranting in his cell about being damned now that he was no longer possessed.

Despite maneuvering more quickly than the law allowed when he finally cleared the Quarter, Quinn didn’t catch up with Gladys on the road. But when he arrived, he saw that her car was in the driveway.

Apparently Gladys had gotten home without incident.

He left his car and hurried up the walkway to the porch of the beautiful old Victorian house where the Simons—pillars of society, philanthropists in the extreme—had lived. The house, he knew, had been in the Simon family since it was built just prior to the War Between the States. It spoke of old money and genteel living, slow breezes and gracious hospitality.

He banged on the door and pressed the buzzer urgently.

It was opened by the battle-ax of a housekeeper.

“You again,” she said. Her name was Bertie. He knew that from trying to go through her to speak with Gladys before. He’d begun this quest as soon as he’d learned the bust had wound up at the Simon home.

“Bertie, it’s imperative that I talk to Mrs. Simon. I think I can help her. You must know that her mind is unbalanced by grief. I can help her. I swear to you, I can.”

“She’s in mourning,” Bertie said. “And she doesn’t need any ambulance chasers trying to get her to sue on her husband’s behalf or any such thing.” Bertie wagged a finger at him. “I know who you are, Michael Quinn. And I don’t care if you were a cop or if you’ve become a big hero—I heard enough ’bout you and your exploits when you were a boy. No pretty-boy white trash really changes his colors, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Bertie, this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with your employer,” Quinn said, tempted to grab the housekeeper by the shoulders and push her out of his way. “She’s nearly unhinged. She needs help.”

“Not from the likes of you. You get out of here, Mr. Quinn,” Bertie said.

It really was a matter of life and death; still, he didn’t want to force the woman to move if he didn’t have to. One thing he’d say for Bertie—she knew his old reputation and could clearly see his size, but her loyalty to Gladys kept her from giving an inch.

“How about you just ask her if she’ll see me? Tell her it’s about the bust.”

Bertie stiffened. She looked at him and either decided that Gladys was in such bad shape that even he might help or that he might be ready to physically set her aside.

“Fine, you can come in,” she snapped.

She opened the door, and he entered the foyer with its elegant stained glass. He saw the central stairway leading up to the rooms above and balcony from which Hank Simon had thrown himself to his death. Bertie wouldn’t glance in that direction. She stared straight at him and indicated the room to his right. “Go on into the parlor and stay there!” she said firmly.

He nodded and walked in. She followed him, closing the heavy double doors as if that would assure he didn’t wander around the house.

Quinn waited. Handsome portraits of the Civil War–era owners flanked the mantel. The furniture in the room was an eye-pleasing collection of different decades and styles. The chairs were richly upholstered and the room’s central piece—a grand piano—was polished to a magnificent shine.

He sat restlessly in one of the wingback chairs. Bertie was taking way too long.

He stood and walked around the room, feeling a sense of dread, of impending doom. He was ready to break through the doors and burst up the stairs when Bertie reappeared, a look of total consternation on her face.

“You’ll have to come back.”

“That’s what Gladys said?” Quinn demanded.

Bertie hesitated. “I can’t find Mrs. Simon,” she said.

“What do you mean, you can’t find her?”

Bertie crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I mean, she isn’t here. I can’t find her. So you’ll have to come back.”

He shook his head. “Her car is in the drive. She was in the Quarter less than an hour ago and now she’s here—at least her car is. I was right on her heels. She hasn’t gone back out, so she’s here somewhere.”

“Well, she’s not!”