“Didn’t mean to,” she said, reaching for another plate. “Tyler, please, have a seat.”
Quinn dug into the refrigerator. “Tyler, what will you have to drink?”
“Water would be fine.”
Quinn got another glass and poured them all ice water. Billie had already cut the lasagna into neat serving-size squares, which she dished out before sitting.
“So,” Quinn said, meeting Tyler’s eyes. “Tell us what’s up.” Then he took a bite and started chewing enthusiastically.
Danni lowered her head for a moment. Quinn had probably skipped lunch; he seemed to be starving. Tyler hadn’t even glanced at his plate, and she wasn’t sure whether to be worried about him and his fears or not.
Tyler pushed the food around on his plate. “I think my friend was murdered.”
“Ah,” Quinn said, without seeming surprised. “And your friend’s name was...?”
“Arnie—Arnold Watson,” Danni put in.
Quinn sat back and took a drink of water. Danni saw his brow furrow as he considered her words.
“I read the obituary,” he said quietly. “I thought it was a damned shame. He sounded like a wonderful person. A soldier who gave what he could to his country. It’s hard, though, coming back, sometimes. I’ve known guys who believed they were fine then woke up in the middle of the night shaking and screaming, sweat pouring off them. Even with everything we know about post-traumatic disorders, sometimes...the depth of a guy’s depression is invisible because he thinks he’s all right.”
Tyler Anderson put down his fork. “He didn’t kill himself. And he wasn’t an addict.”
“Of course he wasn’t,” Danni said gently, resting a hand on Tyler’s where it lay on the table.
“No, you don’t understand. I’m an addict—in recovery, but an addict all my life. I would have known if Arnie was into drugs, too, and he wasn’t, not in any way.”
Danni nodded. “But...I’ve seen things happen to men who come home from war. And maybe that was the problem. He wasn’t an addict, but maybe he was in pain. His death was accidental because he only tried it once or twice, and—”
“He tried it once,” Tyler said. “Only once. If you don’t believe me, ask the police. There were no other track marks on him, just the needle mark from the one injection. But it sure in hell wasn’t something he did, and it wasn’t an accidental overdose. Someone did it to him. Someone killed him!”
“I don’t disbelieve you,” Quinn said. “But...how do you know? How can you be so sure? Things can happen overnight, things we don’t expect. I’ve seen cops who can’t take a case for whatever reason, and suddenly, they’re ingesting every substance out there.”
He’d asked the questions, Danni thought, but he already believed Tyler.
“The sax told me,” Tyler said.
For a moment, just for a moment, Danni thought she had misheard him. That he had said, “The sex told me,” as if he had been referring to a girl he’d slept with or who had slept with Arnie.
But then she remembered what he’d said when he came into the shop and realized he was talking about the saxophone.
The musical instrument that now lay in its case by his side on the floor.
“The sax told you?” Quinn repeated.
Tyler nodded gravely. “I was playing...just the other night. It was his sax, you see. It’s really old, some kind of an antique his grandmother bought for him. A silver-plated Pennsylvania Special. I don’t know what it’s worth or the rest of its history. I just know it’s a damned good instrument and Arnie loved it. Said it was special. But the point is, I was playing his sax. And suddenly I was playing his song, and I could see his life—his life before he came home. I saw the war. I could feel the damned sand, it was so real. And then I heard his killer.”
“His dealer?” Quinn asked.
He was really pushing Tyler, Danni thought. Testing him.
Tyler thumped a hand on the table. “His killer,” he repeated. “I heard him talking to Arnie just before he shot him up so full of poison that he died within minutes. I heard him, I’m telling you. I heard him say, ‘You’re dead, buddy. You’re dead.’”
Danni and Quinn turned to look at each other, silent for a moment.
“Are you saying the sax...talked?” Quinn asked.
Tyler closed his eyes, looking as if he was in pain. “No. I was playing the sax,” he said quietly. “But while I was playing I saw what Arnie saw, felt what he felt, heard what he heard.”
“You didn’t happen to see the killer, did you?” Danni asked.
He stared at her. “Are you mocking me?”
“I swear, I’m not,” she said softly. “But if you really believe that he was murdered, why didn’t you go to the police?”
“The police?” Tyler asked drily. “Yeah, right. I wish you could see the way you’re looking at me, and you’re open-minded enough to believe me. The police... I can just imagine the snickers. I’m not sure they’d even try to keep straight faces. You both said you read the newspaper articles about his death, so you know what they’re saying. The same crap you hear everywhere. ‘He just hadn’t adjusted. He was like so many soldiers. Strong, stoic, not about to admit to having nightmares he couldn’t handle, nightmares so bad that he’d turn to drugs to wipe them out.’ Especially not a marine like Arnie. Admit it. That’s all stuff you believed about Arnie when you read he was dead. And like everyone else, I bet you thought, ‘What a waste, what a tragedy. A man comes back from the war and takes his own life. Makes you stop and think.’ But no one stops to think, ‘Hey, whoa, maybe he didn’t kill himself.’”
Tyler was certainly passionate in defense of his position, Danni thought. Of course, he’d been Arnie’s friend. His best friend, she imagined.
“Tyler, how long have you had the sax?” Quinn asked him. “You said it’s special, but would anyone else know that?”
“Probably,” Tyler said and then shrugged. “I don’t know. He told everyone in the band back in high school it was special, that his grandma told him so. I’ve had it since about a week after he died. His mom said she had to give it to someone who would love it the way Arnie had loved it, would take care of it the way he did. She used to love to listen to him, and then she’d laugh. She told us both that Arnie got to be as good as he was because of the sax. His grandmother told him it was special, kind of...magical. But according to his mom, the magic was because he believed it. Plus he loved playing, and he practiced all the damned time. And practicing made him the musician that he was.”
Quinn nodded. “I read in the paper that the family intended to sell his sax, along with his other instruments, and donate the money to a foundation helping veterans.”
“Arnie
