LITMIR.BIZ

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Danni heard someone at the courtyard’s side entrance. Excusing herself, she went to open the back door. Father Ryan had arrived. She tried to push away her visions of Quinn, naked, as she greeted the priest, but she could feel a flush rise to her cheeks. She had to curb her thoughts about Quinn for the moment.

      “Hey, glad you’re here,” she said. “Come on in, Father.”

      “Wait up, wait up!” Natasha called, hurrying through the courtyard. Father Ryan turned; the two embraced warmly. An odd couple to many, no doubt—the priest and the voodoo priestess.

      Father Ryan had once told her that he was true to his faith, but that, at heart, he and Natasha were kindred souls, seeking the same truth. Which had little to do with the way you sought that truth or the path you took.

      She liked his view of the world.

      “We’re sitting around the little table in the kitchen,” Danni said. The Cheshire Cat was similar to many places on Royal Street; it had been built as a house but now the shop took up the downstairs, with the small kitchen and one-time pantry on the first floor and her bedroom on the second. Billie’s apartment—and now Bo Ray’s, too—was located in what had been the attic. Luckily, it was big, and both men had their own rooms and ample space.

      And downstairs, in the basement, really the ground level, was her father’s office or den and special collection of “curios.” Her studio, in the former pantry, was where she worked when she had time for her own art.

      “Billie’s made jambalaya and cheese grits,” Danni announced as she led them in. “And we’ve got salad.”

      “Scottish jambalaya!” Father Ryan said. “I can’t wait.”

      Billie was behind them. He threw Father Ryan an evil glare and muttered, “Lucky I didn’t get the urge for haggis, friend, that’s all I have to say.”

      When Bo Ray entered a few minutes later, Billie asked them all to grab plates and line up at the stove to help themselves. Natasha designated herself the beverage server and poured tea, lemonade and water, as each person chose. They were still in the act of greeting one another with casual jokes and hugs and getting organized at the table when Danni heard the buzzer at the shop’s main door. She excused herself and hurried down the hall, then out to the showroom. Looking through the glass, she saw Jake Larue standing there. He appeared to be tense, worried about something.

      When she opened the door, he said, “You’re all here?”

      Danni nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Jake. How are you?”

      “May I?” he asked.

      “Of course.”

      She let him in, wondering why he was here. We’re just having dinner,” she said. “Hungry?”

      “I don’t mean to impose,” he said.

      “We have tons of food,” she assured him, leading the way through the darkened showroom to the kitchen.

      As he walked in, everyone froze in position.

      “Hey, guys. Jake’s here,” Danni said. “Billie made jambalaya.”

      “Scottish jambalaya?” Jake’s confused words broke the freeze. The others laughed; Billie groaned, “Not again,” and shook his head.

      “Get a plate and join us,” Quinn said. If he was surprised to see Jake, he didn’t let on.

      Jake started to dish up food, but halfway through he turned to Quinn. “The log-in list disappeared from the evidence room computer. The sign-out sheets are missing, as well.”

      They all looked at Jake and then back at Quinn. “Nothing there?” he asked.

      “It was wiped clean. God knows, we’ve got our best techs and computer whiz kids on it. They’ve come up with nothing,” Jake said, taking a seat.

      Quinn seemed to understand him. The others didn’t. But Quinn said, “Jake, sit and we’ll figure out what we can.”

      Squeezing him in meant they were tightly wedged around the table, but they made room. Once Jake was seated, Quinn said, “It’s on the news, so we’re all aware of what happened to the Garcia family. I went to see Hubert at autopsy, and he said the murders were all different—like a game of Clue, in his words. Nothing at autopsy dispelled his original findings, but we still can’t explain why we haven’t found a single weapon or worked out exactly what went on. Did James Garcia kill everyone and then slit his own throat? If so, where? Or was there someone else in the house, a person or maybe more than one person, who managed to perform acts of unspeakable horror—and walk away without being seen or leaving a blood trail? Then, before I could return from autopsy, Jake called me and I went down to the police station. There was fog in the evidence room.”

      “Fog?” Natasha asked hoarsely.

      Larue gestured vaguely. “Fog, smoke...something. Anyway, an officer on duty went insane, needing help. Help came—and so did I. And the fog or whatever it might’ve been was still there. The officer said that a shadow went after him. It was all extremely strange. We have nothing on the computer anymore—and nothing on the cameras except for the fog or gray smoke that hides the entire area for maybe twenty minutes.”

      “So they don’t know what was taken,” Quinn finished. But he was looking curiously at Larue.

      “Here’s what we do know. A number of things that had been removed from the Garcia house were taken from the evidence room. The vial you mentioned earlier, and three wrapped packages. In other words, things that were spattered with blood or might have given us a clue as to what a murderer was looking for,” Jake said.

      That caused Father Ryan to thump a fist on the table, which in turn caused all the dishes and glasses and flatware to clatter.

      “Sorry,” Father Ryan muttered. “But I’ve told Danni—those people were part of my flock and I knew them. I knew them well. There were no drugs, no arms, no implements of any illegality in that house. I’d stake my life on it!”

      “I’m not suggesting James Garcia was doing anything illegal,” Larue said. “Not really illegal.”

      “What do you mean?” Father Ryan demanded.

      “Garcia was one of the most trusted men in his business,” Larue began. “He would pick up items for delivery when he finished for the night so he’d be ready to head out first thing in the morning. This wasn’t official policy, but his supervisors have admitted they had an understanding with certain employees and Garcia was one. He’d had packages waiting to go out at his home. Some had blood spatter. We don’t know precisely what they were, but one of the crime scene techs who’d been collecting objects from the house for analysis told us the packages weren’t in the evidence room. She and a few others were brought down to try to remember. You can knock out a computer, but as long there are still people around, memory serves.” He paused. “The only detail she could recall was that one of the packages was large and flat—presumably a piece of art—and another seemed to contain jewelry....”

      They all stared at him. “I just wanted to let you know.” He shrugged. “Garcia might have been killed over something in his house—something he knew nothing about.”

      “Are you finding out exactly what packages were being held at Garcia’s house?” Quinn asked.

      “We’ll have a full report from Garcia’s company by morning.”

      “So where are we? What’ve we got?” Billie asked.

      “Five corpses—and a seasoned cop scared out of his wits,” Larue said. “That’s what we’ve got.”

      “Plus missing evidence. And fog, mist, smoke,” Quinn added thoughtfully. “Natasha?”

      “I haven’t heard a thing from the street,” she replied. “But...”

      “But what?” Quinn asked sharply.

      Danni

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