“If not an instrument, maybe a piece of music,” Quinn said. “Two musicians are dead, and there has to be a reason. I can’t believe anyone was so jealous of someone else’s talent that they resorted to murder. There has to be more going on here. If I’m right about something being missing, it’s crucial for us to figure out what.”
Larue nodded. “In Holton Morelli’s case, it’s not going to be easy. He lived alone. He was fifty-six and just lost his wife to cancer. His one son is in the service. He was given leave to come home, but to the best of his knowledge, nothing was missing from the house, but of course he hasn’t been there for a while, so...”
“Same area of the city?” Quinn asked.
Larue shook his head. “Faubourg Marigny.”
“Since I didn’t see the other crime scene,” Quinn said, “what else was similar?”
“Enough to point to there being one killer,” Larue said. “Holton Morelli was bashed in the head after letting his murderer into his house. Then he was tied to a chair with electrical tape, tortured and beaten to a pulp with an amp.”
“Tortured how?” Quinn asked.
“Burns from a cigarette,” Dr. Hubert put in, nodding.
“I’ll need to see his file,” Quinn said. “The killer tortured those men because he wanted something. I can’t imagine these guys weren’t willing to give it up. They would have been ready to do anything to save their lives.”
“Once they were attacked, the murderer had to kill them if he wanted to escape being accused of the crime,” Larue pointed out. “Why not just give up the information before it got to that point?”
“Maybe they didn’t know the information the killer wanted,” Quinn suggested.
“Can we be sure the killer wanted something? Maybe he just enjoyed torture. There are sadists out there who do,” Larue reminded him.
Quinn nodded. “That’s true. But I’d bet this killer wanted something.”
“You’re probably right, and we’ll have to discover what it is.” Larue stared at Quinn assessingly. “I’m sure you’ll find out what it is. Why the hell do you think I called you in?” He smiled. “Not to mention you play the guitar and have at least a passing familiarity with the local music scene.”
Quinn lowered his head, grinning. “Thanks.”
“You coming on up?” Grace called down to Quinn.
“Yep, right now.”
He headed up the stairs. Larue didn’t follow him; he was still concentrating on the body and the surrounding area.
“We’re examining everything in the place,” Grace said, “but there were no glasses out, no cigarette butts—I don’t believe there was any socializing before the killer made his move.”
“I agree. The way I see it, Barrett let the killer in, a few words were exchanged and then the killer decked him,” Quinn said.
“Based on the evidence, I agree. That splotch by the door could have come from a facial wound. My guess is, analysis will show it’s mixed with saliva,” Grace said. “I suspect he was stunned by the blow, which the killer delivered right inside the door, or even that he was knocked out stone-cold. We’re searching the place thoroughly. At some point the killer was probably in every room, looking for...whatever. Anyway, come in and check out the music room.”
Quinn followed her through the first door on the upper level. A drum set took up most of one corner; two guitars and a bass sat in their stands nearby. A few tambourines lay in a basket, and a keyboard on a stand was pushed up against one wall. A tipped-over saxophone stand sat underneath the keyboard, but there was no sign of the sax itself or its case. There didn’t appear to be room for another instrument, but there was no way to know for sure without asking someone who’d been there before.
“Sheet music? That type of thing?”
“Next room—it’s an office. But it’s neat and organized. There are papers on the desk, including sheet music, but the piles are all neat and squared up. It doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed,” Grace said.
“Curious.”
“Maybe. Or maybe the killer squared up all the piles when he was done to hide what he’d been looking for.”
Quinn looked through the other rooms. A closet had been left open, but if the drawers had been opened and their contents searched, the killer had put everything back the way he’d found it.
Judging by marks in the dust, the killer had definitely looked under the bed, though.
So had the killer been looking for an object of a certain size?
“Are we having the same idea?” Grace asked, interrupting his thoughts. “The guy was looking for something at least as big as a bread box.”
“Looks like it. Well, I want to talk to the landlord. Thanks, Grace. And the usual, of course. Keep me posted, please.”
She nodded. “You know I will.”
“Your thoughts, as well as anything scientific,” he said.
“You bet, Quinn.”
He hurried back downstairs.
Larue was waiting for him. He stepped outside, and Quinn followed.
Larue turned to him. “We have a sadistic killer on our hands,” he said.