killers were wrapped in a sheet or something protective, it’s hard to believe they could escape without leaving a trace.”
“What if they had a van or a vehicle waiting outside?” Larue asked.
“That’s possible. But still...I’d expect some drops or smudges as the killer headed out. I’m going to look around, okay?”
“Go for it—just keep your booties on and don’t interrupt any of my techs. Oh, and, Quinn?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank God you’re back.”
Quinn offered him a somber smile. “Glad you feel that way.”
He left Larue in the hallway, giving instructions to others, and supervising the scene and the removal of the bodies.
At first, Quinn found nothing other than what they’d already discovered. Of course, he was trying to stay out of the way of the crime scene unit. They were busiest in the house; he knew they’d inspected the garage but concentrated on the house, so he decided to concentrate on the garage.
He was glad he did. Because he came upon something he considered unusual.
It was in between two cans of house paint.
He picked up the unlabeled glass container and studied it for a long time, frowning.
There’d been something in it. The vial looked as if it had been washed, but...
There was a trace of red. Some kind of residue.
Blood? So little remained he certainly couldn’t tell; it would have to go to the evidence lockup and then get tested.
He hurried back in to hand it over to Grace Leon, Larue’s choice for head CSU tech when he could get her. She, too, studied the vial. “Thanks. We would’ve gotten to this, I’m sure. Eventually we would’ve gone through the garage. But...is it what I think it is?”
He smiled grimly. “We’ll have to get it tested. But my assumption is yes.”
* * *
The giclée—or computer-generated ink-jet copy—first drew one’s gaze from across the room because of its coloring and exquisite beauty.
Foremost in the image was a dark-haired gentleman leaning over a love seat where a beautiful woman in white lay half-inclined, reading. He could be seen mostly from the back, with only a hint of his profile visible, and he presented her with a flower. The scene evoked the type of mysticism and nostalgia that could be found in the work of the pre-Raphaelite painter John Waterhouse.
Movement, life, seemed to emerge from the image. It was complex; the viewer felt a sense of belonging in the scene, being part of a living environment.
Behind the love seat was a great hearth, like that in the hall of a medieval castle. Above the hearth was a painting of a medieval knight, sans helmet; to each side of the image were massive plaques that bore the coat of arms of the House of Guillaume, with crossed swords below each. To the left, a massive stone staircase went up to the second floor and to the right, a hallway leading to another region of the castle, presumably the kitchens. It was guarded by a pair of 1500s suits of armor, standing like sentinels. And yet it felt like a scene of modern—nineteenth-century modern, at least compared to the medieval background of the castle—bliss.
Near the couple, on a massive wooden table, a boy of about twelve and a girl of maybe eight engaged in a game of chess. On the floor, a smaller child played with a toy. The pigments used were striking—even in the print, which was a copy of the original. Crimsons were deep and used throughout; the castle was dark and shadowed but the shadows were tinged with the same crimson and offset by mauves and grays. The little girl’s clothing added a splash of blue. Just inside the giant doors to the far left in the painting, a silver-colored wolfhound barked as a proper butler opened the door to official-looking men about to make a call.
The allure of the courtly man and the beautiful woman first entranced the viewer. The scene was so lovely, so romantic.
The painting didn’t, at first glance, seem to fit the title chosen by the artist—Ghosts in the Mind.
But then, even as the viewer studied the beauty and serenity of the scene, his or her perception of it would begin to change. If he or she shifted to a slightly different angle, looked at the painting from a different perspective, the hidden details became evident.
Beneath her book, the woman held a dagger. While he offered a rose to the woman, the man concealed a pistol behind his back.
A closer look revealed that malevolent, cunning eyes gazed out from the helmets on the suits of armor, both of which stood on pedestals but with swords in their hands.
The chess pieces had faces, alive and screaming.
The child on the floor played with a guillotine. What had appeared to be roses strewn over rushes on the floor were dolls—and their decapitated heads.
“Danni! Danni Cafferty, how are you? And Wolf!”
Danielle Cafferty turned as Niles Villiers, owner of the Image Me This gallery, came toward her. Wolf, to her the world’s most impressive pet, was seated by her feet. He was about the size of a small freight train but Wolf and Niles knew each other and Niles didn’t so much as blink; well-behaved pets were welcome in his gallery.
And Wolf allowed himself to be petted and crooned to. He even thumped his tail for Niles.
“I love this dog, Danni,” Niles said. “But I thought he actually belonged to your friend, Quinn? Haven’t seen him around in a while.”
“He has business in Texas,” Danni explained. Niles looked at her a little sadly. “Too bad. I like that Quinn. Great guy. So the guy leaves you, but you get the dog?”
Danni started to protest; Quinn hadn’t left her. After the case involving the Renaissance bust and the cult that had nearly formed in the city—the case that had brought them together—they’d both been afraid they’d gotten too close too fast. As a result, they’d decided to move slowly.
Quinn had gone to Texas a month ago to help the force there. He’d done it before when asked by law enforcement friends—or friends of friends—in other places. Usually he was only gone a few days. This time it seemed he’d been gone forever. But he’d made a decision never to leave her without Wolf. There was no question; the dog would lay down his life for her.
“At least he’s an amazing dog!” Niles said.
“He sure is.”
Niles greeted her next with an encompassing hug. She accepted it warmly. Niles was not only a friend, he’d been kind and generous enough to let her show her own art at his gallery on Royal Street. Image Me This was just a block and a half down from her own antiques and curio store, The Cheshire Cat. “Thanks for coming today,” he said.
“You know me, Niles. List a gallery showing and I’ll be here.”
A waiter went by and Niles snagged two champagne flutes, giving one to her. “I did especially want you to come. You add an aura of the sleek and beautiful—of modern sophistication.”
Danni
