Except it hadn’t been.
But that sax was in the city. Somewhere. Arnie had given it to someone, left it to someone, entrusted it to someone.
Arnie had given away the magic sax. Who the hell had he given it to?
Who?
He pulled out the picture again. Things could still be salvaged. They couldn’t prove that Arnie’s death had been murder. Neither Rowdy nor Lily nor that ridiculous Jeff had known who he was, had recognized him. He’d never known just how important the mask was going to be until he’d visited Holton Morelli and then Larry Barrett.
And he’d never known himself, really known himself. He’d been sure he could get the sax if one of them had it.
He’d never known how far he would really go, but now he did. And he would get that sax. Eventually one of the local musicians would make sure of it. Because everyone wanted to live. Of course, if the cops got involved they would make sure the current owner didn’t just offer up the sax. No, the cops would try to arrange things so he would have to come for it, and then they would arrest him. He wasn’t going to let that happen, though.
He would find the damned thing himself, even if he had to murder every musician in the city to get it.
He stared at the picture some more. It made him angry. There they were, all those musicians—a few years ago, of course. The beautiful, the brilliant and the talented. Lost and alone after the summer of storms, clinging to one another. Still, they had the look. Every one of them had the look. They were superior. And none so superior as Arnie Watson.
Because of his magical saxophone.
Well, oh-so-special Arnie was dead now. And he was going to have the sax. He would have expected the sax to go to Arnie’s parents. And if that were true and they had passed it on to another musician, he would find out.
But he remembered Arnie the night he had died. Arnie had laughed before he’d known what was happening.
“The sax?” he’d said. “Well, of course it’s special. To me—and the person I most adore, who will hold it dear for all the right reasons.”
Who the hell was that person? He’d accidentally put Arnie out too fast to find out. But he’d been new to killing people then. He’d had no idea how easy it was.
Now he was no longer himself. He was the Man With No Face. And he would be whoever he needed to be whenever the need arose. Murder, he’d discovered, was not just easy.
It was an art.
And he was just as magical as the sax. He could disappear. He could be—and not be. He could be himself or anyone else he wanted to be.
But he had to find that sax.
He studied the picture. It wasn’t just deciding who he was going to kill next.
It was deciding just how and when his victim would die.
Chapter 5
FOR THE LAST few years that Quinn had been with the NOPD, Larue had been his partner. He’d always been a good cop, and Quinn was glad they were still on the same side. There were way too many times when it proved beneficial to be in good graces with one of the city’s lead detectives.
Of course, there were things he and Danni sometimes did that made him extremely grateful that they weren’t cops themselves. Their unofficial status frequently saved them from struggling with a moral dilemma, not to mention from being fired for going where a policeman couldn’t legally go.
At the moment, however, Quinn didn’t have anything in mind that even remotely smacked of illegal behavior. He headed down to Frenchman Street and the block where Lily, Jeff and Rowdy had been playing.
The street was crowded with clubs and restaurants; in Quinn’s mind, it was the best place to find local talent and up-and-coming musicians. Blues and jazz spilled through open club doors, occasionally punctuated by folk music and experimental mixes. He’d seen the best drummer he’d ever encountered on Frenchman Street; the man’s arms had moved as if they were propelled by the Energizer Bunny.
It was Friday morning and still early; workers were still out cleaning up from the night before. He stopped in front of the Blues Bear, where the trio had been playing, and then he retraced their steps as they’d described their route to him. Lily had pointed out a spot on the map where they’d passed a tree just before being attacked. It was right by a large alleyway where vendors often set up.
The tree grew in a square opening cut from the pavement, surrounded by concrete and old paving bricks. Their attacker might have made his exit through the alleyway, but he hadn’t come from that direction, Quinn thought. He had met the three head-on just after they passed the alley. Reliving Lily’s reenactment in his mind, Quinn pinpointed the direction the shots would have taken. He would have fired toward Esplanade.
Two shots. The casings should have fallen to the ground where the attacker had stood. And the bullets had to have made impact somewhere.
Quinn crossed the street and headed down the block, inspecting the walls of the buildings as he did so.