The Night He Died Page 3

  Zoey had lost her bravado and huddled next to her friend. “This is Trish Millwood. Pretty sure this is all my fault.”

  “Why?” Bonin asked.

  Zoey blushed. “I talked these guys into coming out here with me. I told them I needed the moss for a ritual.”

  “A ritual?” Bonin’s eyebrow raised. “Voodoo? Or some other practice?”

  “See, that’s the thing.” Zoey glanced at the others. “I made that up. I was going to play a stupid prank, give them a good scare.”

  Trish smacked her arm. “Are you serious? We’re scarred for life because you wanted to prank us?”

  “Ouch, bitch,” Zoey said. “I thought you’d laugh about it. You’ve been so down lately. I didn’t know we’d find a dead guy.”

  Trish crossed her arms. “Scaring the shit out of me isn’t going to help.”

  “The dead guy was all tangled in the tree roots.” Kyle spoke at a sloth’s pace. “Like the tree was trying to eat him.”

  “Did you touch him? Or the ground around him?”

  “Hell, no,” Zoey said.

  “I poked him with a stick.” Kyle rubbed his red-streaked eyes.

  “When?” both girls chorused.

  “When you two went screaming away to call the police. I wanted to make sure the guy was dead, and we couldn’t help him. I saw his mouth and throat.” Kyle’s eyes were suddenly bright. “I hope he died quick. Acid, right?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Cage said. “What makes you think acid?”

  “I’m a chem major.” Kyle shrugged. “I know acid burns when I see them. I bet that dude drank concentrated stuff.”

  Cage tried to wrap his mind around the pot-scented, shaggy-haired kid being a chemistry major. “You’re kidding.”

  Zoey snickered, but Kyle shrugged. “I want to be a toxicologist.”

  “Right,” Cage said. “You thought he was dead and called the police. What happened before that?”

  “We walked through the cemetery to the oak tree,” Kyle said. “Trish tripped over one of the graves. We climbed the gate and I fell. We walked from the car before that—Trish parked forever away—”

  Bonin must have heard Cage’s teeth grinding. “Did you see anyone else in the cemetery? Maybe someone walking around when you first got here?”

  “I was rolling a joint,” Kyle said.

  Bonin stared at him. Cage dragged his hands over his face.

  “We didn’t see anyone,” Zoey said.

  “I did,” Trish said. “Don’t you remember, I said something to you?”

  Zoey thought about it for a second. “Pretty sure I’ve got a secondhand high from being stuck with him. Did she have silver hair?”

  “Yes,” Trish said. “We passed her a block or so down the road.”

  “Silver as in the trendy color?” Bonin asked.

  “It was badass,” Zoey said.

  “Did you notice anything else about her?” Cage asked.

  “Just her hair,” Trish said. “I was freaked out already.”

  “Just the hair. Mine would never hold that color,” Zoey said. “We parked in the college lot. She probably goes to Delgado.”

  Cage had raced through the same parking lot less than an hour ago, but he hadn’t noticed any silver-haired woman.

  “What were you guys doing before you came here tonight?” Cage looked at Kyle. “As in, before you got in Trish’s car and drove over here.”

  “At school,” Kyle said.

  “Which school?”

  “Tulane.”

  “Night class?”

  Kyle shrugged. “Lab work.”

  “We were at home, studying,” Trish said.

  “We’ll need you to come downtown and make formal statements tomorrow. Do you have a way to get there?”

  “I’ll make sure we all come in,” Trish said.

  Cage focused on Kyle the chemistry major. “The victim’s about your age. Did you happen to recognize him?”

  “No, thank God. Seeing him was bad enough.” Kyle shivered and wrapped his arms around his thin waist. “I’m going to have nightmares forever.”

  “He wasn’t dead.” The element of surprise usually worked like a truth serum.

  Both girls gasped. Trish’s hand covered her mouth.

  Kyle stared, unblinking. “Huh?”

  “He asked me for help. It was too late.”

  “Oh my God.” Zoey put her head on Trish’s shoulder. “We could have done something.”

  “Paramedics were dispatched after your call,” Bonin said. “There’s nothing else you could have done.”

  “He suffered. While we were hiding, he was alone, and suffering.” Moisture welled in Kyle’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Unfortunately,” Cage said. “You’re the science guy. What do you think he drank?”

  “Shit, man. Enough of any acid will kill you. Cleaning products are loaded.”

  “You said he’d need a concentrated amount to do that sort of damage,” Bonin said. “Where would someone get that?”

  “Online,” Kyle said. “You can literally buy a liter of sulfuric acid with no questions asked. Or make it in a lab, whatever. Look at what happened in London last year.”

  Masen had willingly drunk the vodka. Wouldn’t he have stopped if it smelled funny? “Which one doesn’t have an odor?”

  “Hydrochloric. It’s colorless too,” Kyle said. “Phosphoric. Sulfuric, especially in water. Drain cleaner could have done it. It’s all about the concentration. If it’s high enough, dude didn’t have to drink much. It’s what I would pick.”

  “Oh my God, dumbass.” Zoey punched him in the arm. “You’re supposed to be a brilliant pothead. Don’t you realize you’ve totally made yourself a suspect?”

  Kyle scratched his scruffy chin. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “We know that,” Trish said. “They don’t.”

  “Right.” Kyle shrugged. “Whatever, I’m an honest guy.”

  “Thanks for the help,” Cage said. “Sergeant Brady will make sure you guys get to your car safely.”

  Once the three were out of earshot, he turned to Bonin. “Do me a favor and find out everything you can about Kyle. Look for any connection to Masen.”

  His neck and shoulder muscles had turned into one long knotted string. His head pounded, and the pain from the shot had spread all the way down his back. “I’m going home.”

  5

  Cage closed the front door gently and tiptoed across the old hardwood, trying to remember where the squeaky spots were. After nearly six months, he was still getting used to the new place. He moved like an old man, trying to alleviate some of the pain in his back. His knee throbbed from running, and he was pretty sure he’d tweaked his hamstring.

  So much for being in the prime of his life in his early thirties. He might as well be fifty.

  “What happened?”

  “Shit.” Cage staggered and nearly fell. He’d texted Dani less than an hour ago to let her know he was all right, but he’d left out the crucial details.

  The antique lamp Dani had rescued from a yard sale flashed on, and she unfolded her small body from the couch. “You look awful.”

  “Dee, I’m sorry. Everything went to shit real quick. The bust went bad, and Spider chased me all the way to Holt Cemetery. I’d probably be dead right now if some kids hadn’t found a body and called it in.” The irony of Masen’s death likely saving his life made him sick to his stomach.

  Dani’s fair skin turned white. She ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. He flinched at the contact but held her close, inhaling the familiar smell of her shampoo.

  “Are you hurt?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.

  “Just bruised and sore,” he said. “Kevlar worked, though.”

  She stiffened and then pulled away to look up at him, fear in her blue eyes. “You were shot?”

  “Between my shoulders,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Not far from your head.” Her entire
body trembled.

  He kissed her softly, sweeping her hair back. “But it wasn’t.”

  She tucked her head under his chin. “You have to be more careful. If I lost you—”

  “You won’t, I promise.” He’d made the same promise a dozen times over the years, and tonight had been the first time he thought he might have to break it. Dani had uprooted everything so he could take the job in New Orleans. She’d insisted living in permanent reno zone at Ironwood Plantation with the baby had been too much, but he knew leaving the house in the historical society’s hands stung. She’d survive if something happened to him for their daughter’s stake, but the thought of her going on without him—of missing Emma growing up—nearly brought him to his knees. No more risks like tonight.

  “Did you say some kids found a body in the cemetery? As in one that wasn’t supposed to be there?”

  “It was awful, Dee.” The words kept sticking in his throat as he told her what happened. In his twelve years as a cop, he’d dealt with plenty of horrors. Second night on the job, he was the first responder to a six-year-old girl who’d fallen asleep and drowned in the bath while her mother got high. It took several hours for the mom to get coherent enough to realize something was wrong. He’d always believed that little girl lying stiff and cold in the bathtub would be the worst moment of his career. Masen’s suffering and begging eyes proved him wrong.

  “Acid?” Dani looked ill. “Why would anyone commit suicide that way?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think he did. The torture in his eyes—who knows how long he’d been there before those kids found him.”

  Dani’s soft hands stroked his cheeks. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, but I’m glad he didn’t die alone.”

  “I’m going to find out who did this.” He grabbed her arm as a fresh back spasm hit.

  “You can’t do anything for him right now.” She led him down the hall to their bedroom. “I’ll make an ice pack and get some painkillers. Did the paramedics clear you?”

  “Sure.” He eased onto the bed, dirty clothes and all.

  “Liar. You will see a doctor tomorrow.”

  “Busy.” He tried to smile. “Have a murder to solve.”

  “And I will murder you unless you get checked out first thing tomorrow.” She left for the kitchen, and he rolled over onto his stomach. His body craved sleep, but his brain remained on rewind. Adrenaline long gone, all the fear he’d shoved aside became a tsunami. His mother had always believed people went to their maker at the right time. That everyone had a plan and a purpose.

  Cage disagreed. Tonight hadn’t been his time, and it shouldn’t have been Masen’s.

  6

  Cage eased into his desk chair at downtown major crimes. Two days of rest, massage, and ultrasound therapy made it possible for him to walk upright without his back twisting up. Thankfully his thick head didn’t get a concussion when it smacked the gate.

  He glared at the paperwork on his desk. The worst thing about being a cop wasn’t the constant threat of death but paperwork and reports. He’d tried to come in yesterday so the damn stuff didn’t pile up, but his boss at the LBI insisted he take another day.

  “Hey.” Bonin knocked on his open door. Circles rimmed her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore, but okay. You look worse than me.”

  “Stop flirting.” She grinned and sat down across from him. “Coroner finished Masen’s autopsy. He’s so backed up that almost two days is considered a rush job.”

  “Acid?”

  “Definitely. His insides looked like raw meat. And Kyle’s timeline was pretty close—he likely died within thirty minutes or so of ingesting. Tox reports are weeks out.”

  “We need to know what kind of acid,” Cage said. “I’ll have my boss push the state lab. Coroner give manner of death?”

  “Undecided pending more information.” Bonin picked at her lips, her eyes unfocused. “I called his mother in Pennsylvania this morning. Not a fun conversation, considering she hates me.”

  “You’re an easy target for unimaginable grief,” Cage said. “Did you get anything useful from her?”

  “She hadn’t talked to him in months. The last she heard, he’d started working at a bar on Frenchman Street when he wasn’t trying to find Shana Sanders, the missing girlfriend.”

  Frenchman Street had quickly become one of Cage’s favorite spots in the city. Unlike Bourbon Street, where music had evolved into tourist-friendly junk, Frenchman Street had several real blues and jazz places and a street brass band that was flat-out awesome. “I can think of at least six bars in the first two blocks.”

  “Right,” Bonin said. “And who knows if he still worked there.”

  “We can start on Frenchman,” Cage said. “Meanwhile, get his information on the news. Maybe have some of the bars put up posters saying we’re looking for anyone who knows him. He may have been living on the street. What about Kyle Roe?”

  “I couldn’t get much from Tulane without a warrant,” she said. “He’s a junior with an impeccable record. Has made the dean’s list every semester. One of the professors confirmed Kyle was in the lab with him until 8:30 p.m.”

  “That gives him an hour, maybe ninety minutes tops to get the bottle to Masen and get back to the girls.”

  “Kyle’s from Missouri,” Bonin said. “No driver’s license here or in his home state. No registered vehicle.”

  “Doesn’t mean he didn’t borrow one.”

  “What’s the motive? I checked my notes and asked the Tulane staff—no one knows anything about Masen. He wasn’t a student.”

  Cage shrugged. “I have no clue, but he damn near told us how the guy died. How are we supposed to ignore his chemistry major? And don’t say coincidence.”

  “I know you hate the word, but it does happen. Most people know drain cleaner is highly toxic, and the internet is full of information. Anyone could learn how to mix the right things. Like he said, look at the London attacks.”

  “I don’t like coincidences.” Cage disliked lack of motive even more, but Kyle had to be thoroughly checked.

  “I knew you’d say that, so I’ve asked the judge for a warrant for his records and to search his room. I doubt we’ll get it.”

  Cage yanked open his top drawer and popped a couple of pills for the pain. “What about the silver-haired woman?”

  “Nothing in Delgado’s security footage, which is shitty at best.”

  “What about the doubloons? We need a list of Atlas legacies.”

  “I’m checking with local collectors to get an idea of their value first,” Bonin said. “The London Club is the second oldest in the city, and most of them are power players. Piss them off, and we’ll never get answers.”

  Cage had a hard time understanding how a social club with a fancy parade krewe could have so much influence.

  His desk phone rang. He hit speaker. “Foster.”

  “I’ve got a young lady out here asking to speak to Agent Sexy.” The front desk administrator didn’t bother to hide her amusement. “I assume that’s you?”

  Cage rested his head on his hand. “Send her back.”

  Bonin snickered. “I’ll be at my desk. Have fun.”

  Two minutes later, Annabeth sauntered in with a smirk, her skin glowing. “I brought coffee.”

  “Good. Stop with the Agent Sexy crap.”

  A purple bandanna held back her dark hair, drawing attention to her recently repaired face. She dropped into the chair across from him. “I can’t help what I say sometimes.”

  Annabeth did suffer from disinhibition thanks to a brain injury, but Agent Sexy wasn’t one of her faux pas. She smiled, knowing full well she’d needled under his skin.

  “Your surgical scar’s almost gone.”

  Years before, Annabeth suffered facial damage and a traumatic brain injury when she fled from the monster who’d kidnapped her. She’d lost her memory and spent seven years living another life in New Orleans.

  She
traced the faint line running on top of her cheekbone. “I don’t know if it will completely disappear, but I don’t care. It’s a lot better than a lopsided face.”

  “The surgeon did a great job.”

  “My bio dad insisted on the best. Probably more worried about his image than my self-esteem. But whatever.” She drew her legs into the chair, resting her head on her knees. “You look like shit, but that’s probably because you feel like an ass for not telling me you were shot two nights ago. And that’s not brain damage. That’s justified anger.”

  He’d debated calling her, but Annabeth’s brain had a tendency to overreact to stress, and she was doing so well in therapy he hadn’t seen any point in upsetting her.

  “I wore a vest. I’m fine.”

  “Obviously.” Her feet smacked the floor. “But I think I’ve earned the right to find out from you instead of that long-necked douchebag on channel six.”

  Hurt shined in her eyes. Annabeth kept her circle of trusted people small, and Cage seemed to be the center point.

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to worry.”

  Annabeth sighed and reached for the glass paperweight on his desk.

  “Why does this say ‘Mommy’s Girl’?”

  “My mom picked it out for me a few months before she died. She had full-blown Alzheimer’s, so I was happy she remembered she had a kid at that point.”

  Annabeth gently set the glass down. “Life sucks ass sometimes.”

  “It does.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek, running her fingernail along a scratch on his desk.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. As unpredictable as Annabeth could be, hiding her emotions was an impossible task.

  “Do you know who the guy in the cemetery was? The news said you found him after the shooting.”

  “We haven’t released the name yet. His mother wasn’t sure where he was living and couldn’t point us to any friends here.”

  “Is it Masen? He talked about going to Holt and summoning Ghede. I told him not to be a dumbass since he knows nothing about Voodoo. He didn’t show up for work last night.”

  Cage shouldn’t be surprised. Annabeth knew almost every resident in the Quarter—and if she didn’t, she’d find out. “You work with him?”