The Dead Play On by Heather Graham Page B

didn’t even think of it. It was in my pocket,” Rowdy said.
    “Sometimes I play keyboards,” Jeff said. “But the bar has a piano, and I never take that home with me, either—obviously.”
    “But you always take your sax home?” Larue asked, looking at Quinn as he spoke.
    “Always,” Jeff said.
    “You’re pretty friendly with a lot of the other musicians in the city, yes?” Quinn asked them.
    “Sure,” Rowdy said. “Have been for thirty years. You never know when you’ll need someone to cover you, and you never know when work might go sour and you’ll be looking to cover for other people.”
    “Did you know the two men who were killed? Holton Morelli and Lawrence Barrett?”
    “I knew them both,” Rowdy said quietly.
    “I knew Holton,” Lily said.
    “And I knew Larry,” Jeff told them.
    “What about a musician named Arnie Watson?” Quinn asked.
    “Arnie? Of course,” Lily said softly.
    “Sure. Great guy. Terrible thing,” Jeff said.
    “He would have known what the gun was,” Rowdy said. He frowned, looking at Quinn. “They found him with a needle in his arm. Are you saying you think...?”
    “We don’t know what we think,” Quinn said. “We just know we have a lot of dead musicians.”
    Lily trembled and swallowed audibly. “You think the guy who did this to us...that he’s the same guy who broke in and murdered Holton and Larry?” she asked.
    “Maybe,” Quinn said.
    “Shit!” Jeff said. “I’m lucky as hell I was just pistol-whipped.”
    “We’re all lucky as hell,” Lily said.
    “Well, there’s one bright spot,” Rowdy said. “At least it wasn’t someone who thought our music stank.”
    He was trying for levity, and the others tried to smile.
    “Whoever he is, he’s still out there,” Jeff said.
    “Let’s not panic,” Quinn said. “We’re investigating every angle, and we
will
put a stop to this. But even though he’s already taken your instruments, you have to be more careful than you’ve ever been. Don’t let anyone into your house—well, unless it’s your mother.”
    “And even then, be careful,” Lily murmured.
    “One more thing,” Larue said. “Will the three of you work with a sketch artist and see if you can agree on what the ‘faceless’ man looked like to the best of your recollection?”
    “Of course. We’ll do anything. We want this guy stopped,” Rowdy said.
    “Hell, yesterday I just wanted my sax—and my hair—back,” Jeff said. “Now I just want to stay alive.”
    Lily, sitting next to him, squeezed his hand.
    “Come with me,” Larue said. “We’ll go see Sergeant Hicks, and you can describe the man to him.”
    Quinn thanked the three of them, and after they left the office with Larue, he read the report again. They had definitely heard shots, but no bullets or even casings had been found.
    Had their attacker cleaned up the scene before he left?
    In about ten minutes, Larue came back by himself.
    He tossed a copy of the sketch down on his desk. Quinn stared at it.
    The man was faceless and wearing a trench coat. His hair was dark and stuck straight up in wild, thick disarray.
    “Wig,” Quinn said.
    “I imagine,” Larue said. “And the face...?”
    Quinn looked at his old partner. “Mask. And yet, if he was walking with his head down, no one would even notice.” He rose. “Thanks. Thanks for letting me in on this.”
    “This case is all over the place,” Larue said. “If this
is
all the same guy, he’s versatile, no single MO. I mean, he somehow overpowers a guy who went through boot camp and military training, and shoots a needle full of heroin into his arm. Then he dresses up like some trick-or-treater and attacks those three on the street. Then he just walks up to two different doors and brutally tortures and kills two men. Given that there were no signs that either victim was suspicious in any way, he must have shown up as himself. I mean, look at that drawing. No one would open the door to that