Joseph had been steeling himself for what he’d face when he entered his parents’ home. Nelson had described the condition of the house, the disorder, the broken windows. Joseph couldn’t help imagining the bodies of his family in the living room. Standing on the street, he knew he wasn’t ready. Seeing the scene of the murders was going to change his life forever, but this was his destiny, whether he was ready or not.
The neighbor, the same one who’d complained about his kid brother, had called in specialists to clean everything up and nail plywood panels across the broken windows. The neighbor was trying to explain all this as he accompanied Joseph up the front walk.
Joseph had prepared himself for overwhelming terror, but there was none. Even as he listened to his neighbor, he became increasingly bewildered. He looked for reminders of what had occurred, but he found nothing. Horror had left no trace. He saw his little brother’s backpack leaning against the coat rack in the entry hall. Marveling, he breathed in the delicate perfume of the white orchids his mom had placed all about the living room. The abstract painting in shades of blue that his sister had done in her Sacramento art class the year before stood out against the brilliant white living-room wall. There was the enormous flat-screen television Dad had bought so they could watch Tulane football games together. Those memories crowded in upon him. It was as if everyone had gone out to the movies or the mall, and they’d walk in the front door any moment.
Joseph was terribly tired. He walked the good neighbor to the front door and ushered him out. Shutting the door against him, he suddenly felt stronger, as if latent energy from his family members was bolstering him. This was his house; he would stay here with the souls of his family. It all made sense. He’d transfer to Texas A&M’s Galveston campus, he’d bring his grandmother from California, and they’d live here together.
When someone dies, those left behind frequently ask themselves what that person would have wanted them to do. But death changes everything. Would they have wanted their son, their brother, to stay here after what had happened? The unknown answer suddenly became moot. Because that was when he saw the violin, a dark, shining instrument, both innocent and incongruous. Someone had leaned it against the steel chiminea, the decorative metal fireplace his mom had filled with stout white candles. The presence of that violin was as revealing as if the murderer had scrawled the names of his victims across the wall in their own blood.
Joseph couldn’t take his eyes off the violin. He backed away, still focused on the instrument. He reached the front door and opened it. The breeze from the Gulf did nothing to lessen the sensation that he was trapped inside a mausoleum. Joseph was trembling from head to foot.
He’d been mistaken. This wasn’t his home anymore. His parents were never coming back, because someone had murdered them.
16
CARESSING THE BEAST
New Orleans, Louisiana
Officer Jason Bull drove through the increasingly deserted streets, engaged in lively conversation with his partner, while in the back seat, Johnson and Amaia stared silently through the side windows. Jason could tell they’d had an argument; that was obvious. Or maybe just a difference of opinion. Johnson had caught up with Amaia next to the vehicle and had said something sharp and emphatic, and she’d replied with impressive serenity. Those Washington folks were so refined they didn’t shout even when they had reason to. The two had exchanged no more than a few words all the way from Tulane to the Dauphine Orleans Hotel.
Johnson saw Bull studying him via the rearview mirror. He looked away, annoyed. Johnson considered himself a good man. He tolerated differences, could talk easily with almost anyone, and fully appreciated outside talent. He understood why Dupree had brought Salazar on to the team. He could even understand Emerson’s poorly concealed jealousy. The difference between Johnson and Emerson was simple: Emerson was a loser. Johnson had been in this job long enough to know that the good of a unit is far more important than the personal qualities of any of its members. That’s why Emerson was in Florida with Tucker, and Johnson was with Dupree in New Orleans.
He’d tried to call Dupree while walking across the university campus at Salazar’s side. No one picked up. He ended the call and glanced unhappily at his colleague. God knows he was doing his best, but he just didn’t understand her.
Before they’d arrived at the dean’s office, Johnson had thought that Joseph Jr. would be more likely to open up to Salazar than to him. And he’d been right. He’d stepped back and given her plenty of room to carry out the interview. And Salazar was skillful. She’d displayed an extraordinarily sensual mixture of strength and fragility that clearly attracted young Joe.
When the crucial moment came, Johnson thought the boy was going to clam up for good. Joseph had doubled over, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, looking like he was going to vomit. Salazar had inched her chair forward until their knees almost touched. She’d mirrored his position, leaning forward until they were almost cheek to cheek. That’s when the kid opened up. About how he’d gone back to the family home, how he’d found the violin, how he’d known at that moment the killer had left it there deliberately. And how Detective Nelson hadn’t believed him but instead had dismissed it completely.
The boy was exhausted by the time he finished his account.
Johnson came forward, close behind Amaia, leaned over, and whispered in her ear. “Listen, I think Nelson was right. A violin?”
She swiveled and glowered at him. She was ferocious. “I saw a violin at the Allens’ farmhouse.”
Johnson searched for a response. “Okay, but that’s not so unusual—”
Amaia was on her feet in an instant, moving on Johnson and pushing him back where the boy couldn’t hear them. “And I’m certain there was one in the photos I saw of the Mason murders in Texas, in the same room as the bodies.”
“Seriously? First we have a composer and now we have a violin?” He realized he’d raised his voice.
Their exchange caught Joseph’s attention. He looked up at Johnson, faint hope dawning in his eyes.
She warned him with a gesture toward the boy. “I wasn’t the one who chose that stupid name!” she hissed.
Johnson looked away from Salazar and tried to summon up the images of the room where the Masons had been murdered. He didn’t recall a violin in that chaos, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility either. He just wasn’t sure. He gave Salazar a look of consternation. “If that’s so . . .”
“I’m sure of it. Phone Dupree. We have to go back to the hotel right away. Someone has to talk to Detective Nelson and review the photos.” She checked her watch. “A Texas state trooper told me the contents of the Allen farmhouse would be held in a state-controlled warehouse. If we’re quick about it, maybe we can catch the warehouse staff before they close for the day.”
Before they left the dean’s office, Johnson had leaned on the table where Joseph sat motionless. “Evacuation buses are still leaving the city. You can get on one if you hurry. It’s going to be pretty dangerous around here.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Joseph replied with complete indifference. “I could die?”
Johnson had no reply to that.