The Night He Died Page 4

  “My boyfriend has a weekly gig at The Black Sheep. It’s one of the oldest bars on Frenchman. Fats Domino played there.” She flipped her hair back as if her getting into the dating scene was no big deal. “Masen is—was—the janitor.”

  Cage stared over the rim of his coffee cup. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. When did this happen?”

  “A couple of months ago.”

  “Why am I just hearing about it?”

  “Because I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “I want to meet him.”

  Annabeth could take care of herself. Months of therapy had improved her outbursts and control over her anxiety. Which was exactly why Cage needed to make sure this dude wasn’t a prick. He wasn’t going to let him screw up her progress.

  “What does Lyric think of him?”

  “Who knows what she really thinks?” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve only met Masen a couple of times. He’s a head case.”

  “What did he want Ghede for?”

  Annabeth’s post-brain-damage life brought her to New Orleans and the Voodoo religion. Her deceased pseudo grandmother had been a priestess and groomed Annabeth to take over the family heritage.

  She chewed her fingernail. “I honestly thought he was just strung out.”

  “Drugs?”

  “He smelled like three-day-old BO and booze and walked around like a zombie part of the time, so yeah. He’d show up rambling like a prison bitch, talking fast for a while before he turned back into the zombie. No one took him seriously when he said his girlfriend’s ghost was haunting him because she blamed him for her death.”

  “Excuse me?” Every time Cage thought he’d heard the craziest thing New Orleans had to offer, Annabeth proved him wrong.

  “Dude, catch up or shut up.”

  “The phrase is ‘put up or shut up.’”

  “Whatever. I like mine better.” Annabeth smiled.

  “Why did the girlfriend blame him?”

  “Do I look like a mind reader? And not the girlfriend. Her ghost.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Who knows?” Annabeth said. “Do we take every part of us into the afterlife? Or do we just hang on to whatever bad thing that’s keeping us here?”

  He definitely didn’t have the energy for a philosophical discussion on ghosts and their intentions. “Just answer my first question.”

  “I already would have if I had an answer. He never said why. He just kept going on and on about her haunting him and how he had to make things right, or Shana wouldn’t get justice, just like her famous ancestor.”

  “Really?” Cage said. “I suppose the ancestor’s Louis Armstrong? Or Jelly Roll Morton?”

  “Dotty Jean, from Storyville.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Oh my God, really?” Annabeth loved New Orleans’s history and useless trivia. She sat up straight, perched on the end of the chair. “Dotty Jean worked at one of the brothels. Light skinned like me, so that meant she was in high demand. She stole a jeweled Mardi Gras mask from a client, and he threw her down the stairs. The madam covered for him and said she fell. Plenty of people saw her ghost in the brothel after that.”

  “People saw the man push her, and no one said anything?”

  Annabeth laughed. “Plenty of people said it. No one cared. Philip Redmund got away with murder.”

  “Why do I know that name?”

  “Because Redmund’s on Royal has the best freaking gumbo in the whole city.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “One of the oldest restaurants in the Quarter.”

  “Their Uptown location was opened by that time too. Old-line money and influence get a pass for killing a whore who stole something from them. And the city kisses their ass to this day, especially the London Club. Philip was one of its founders.”

  She talked so fast he took a second to catch up. “Did you say the London Club? That’s the Krewe of Atlas, right?”

  “I’d kill to attend their ball. Like, seriously. Murder.”

  Addicts did anything for their next high. Since Masen came from up north, he might have thought blackmailing the Redmund-Hughes family would get him a big payday. New Orleans was a small town at its core. If someone like Philip Redmund got away with murder, the entire city already knew the story, especially one tied to Storyville. Masen wouldn’t have been a threat to them. Did the Philip Redmund cover-up and rare Atlas doubloons scattered around Masen’s body have any connection?

  “Anyway, Masen was a head case. I don’t know if he was really haunted or hallucinating because his brain was fried, but I gave him my psychic’s name, mostly to get him out of my face.”

  “You have a psychic?” He bit back a grin. Annabeth loved anything mystical, and he’d have to sit through a lecture if he made fun of her.

  “Madam Marabel. Best psychic in the Quarter.”

  7

  Tourists meandered down Royal Street, most decked out in Carnival hats and masks and carrying alcoholic beverages. A small group gathered in front of a popular voodoo store, talking excitedly about their magical purposes. Cage had been around real voodoo practitioners long enough to know most viewed the French Quarter shops as hacks and entertainers.

  A teenaged girl with colorful braids played a bluesy riff to the delight of dancing tourists. Cage tossed a buck into her open guitar case.

  “This is a waste of time,” Bonin said. “Annabeth says this woman is psychic, and we run to talk to her.”

  “Masen might have told her something valuable,” Cage said. “You practice voodoo and believe in ghosts. What’s your issue with psychics?”

  “I don’t have an issue with psychics,” Bonin said. “I just know ninety-nine percent of them are fake. Especially the ones in the Quarter. Post-Katrina, half the people pandering their crap aren’t even from New Orleans. They’re opportunists. Here it is—Mystic and Wonder, what an original name. How much you want to bet they’re from Jersey?”

  A bell jingled as they entered. Cage inhaled the cloying smell of incense; the wall to the right of the door had at least two dozen different scents. His eyes started to water.

  They passed rows of crystals in all sizes and colors, along with a table devoted to the wonders of tarot. A small coffee bar in the corner battled the heady incense.

  “Can I help you?” A bald man decked out in a purple tunic and white pants smiled at them. Cage bit his lip, recognizing the distinctive Yankee accent.

  “We’re looking for Madam Marabel.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but we need to speak with her.” Cage held up his badge.

  The man’s eyes widened. “New Orleans’s finest. Or not, depending on who you ask.” His lips smacked closed when he realized he was the only one laughing.

  “Madam Marabel is just finishing up with a client. Would you like some coffee while you wait?”

  “We’re good,” Bonin said. “What’s Madam Marabel’s story?”

  “She’s the best psychic I’ve met, and I’ve been working this business for a long time.”

  “I’m sure you have. Is she from up north too?”

  “Oh no, she was born and raised here in the city. That’s probably why her abilities are so strong. This place does something to you. I came down to visit and basically never left.”

  “We get that a lot,” Bonin said.

  A stooped, gray-haired woman emerged from the back room, moving the purple drapes out of the way with her cane. The woman dabbed a tissue against her eyes.

  “We’ll see you next month, Verna.” The man’s flowing tunic disappeared behind the curtain and quickly returned. “Madam Marabel will see you now, but she has another appointment in ten minutes. She doesn’t like to make her clients wait.”

  “She keeps busy, then?” Cage asked.

  “She only works weekends, so she has a waiting list. Her room is on the left.”

  The hallway had a funhouse feel, uneven and narrow. A purple curta
in blocked the only doorway on the left. Cage knocked on the wall.

  “The curtain is open,” a soft voice said. “Please come in.”

  Cage half-expected a crystal ball and maybe a Ouija board, but Marabel’s room—roughly the size of a janitor’s closet—had only a small marble-topped table and two chairs positioned across from each other. The bright yellow walls made Cage feel slightly less claustrophobic.

  “Cage Foster.” Keen blue eyes peered at him behind black-framed reading glasses.

  Cage hadn’t given his name. He checked his coat to make sure his badge wasn’t visible.

  Marabel laughed, making the freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out. “Annabeth showed me a picture. She’s quite fond of you. I can’t blame her after all you’ve done for her.”

  “Thank you.” Cage held out his hand, but she only nodded. “Sorry, I don’t shake hands. Throws off my spiritual balance.” She glanced at Bonin. “I can only assume you’re Detective Bonin, who is wound tighter than a girdle on a Baptist minister’s wife.”

  Cage stifled a laughed. Bonin shot him a dirty look. “We need to ask you some questions about a possible client.”

  “I have many clients, so you’ll have to be more specific.” Marabel smiled, her striking blue eyes accentuated with full, natural lashes. The purple and red headscarf, tied in an elaborate knot on the nape of her neck, emphasized her high cheekbones and full lips.

  Bonin smirked. “You don’t have a name in your head? Maybe the letter it starts with?”

  “You should redirect your anger to whom it belongs,” Marabel said. “A family member, perhaps?”

  Bonin’s jaw set. “No offense, but you can spare us the false magic. You read body language—micro details. Our faces give away a lot more than we realize.”

  “That’s true, but it doesn’t change your problem. Negative energy is choking the air around you.”

  Her confidence and beauty would be enough to suck in anyone looking for a reading, especially a male. Masen probably spilled his guts to her.

  Marabel stilled, staring at Cage. “It’s Masen, isn’t it? He’s dead.”

  “How did you know that?” Bonin asked. “We haven’t released his name yet.”

  Marabel’s eyes locked with Cage’s, and gooseflesh stippled his arms. In his short time in the city, Cage had experienced enough to convince him that New Orleans bore some sort of power over her residents and visitors. Most of it probably came from the centuries of mythology, but bits and pieces remained unexplained. Usually the weird ended up being part of New Orleans’s charm. Marabel’s penetrating gaze left him feeling off-center.

  “Call it intuition.” Marabel’s rosy cheeks had gone pale.

  “Why did Masen come to see you?” Bonin asked.

  “His girlfriend’s spirit had been haunting him for months.”

  “Did her ghost tag along and tell you what happened to her?” Bonin asked.

  Marabel didn’t seem affected by the sarcasm. “Masen’s negative energy overwhelmed me. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

  “You pick up on energy?” Cage leaned forward, her soothing voice pulling him in. No wonder people believed her.

  “Spiritual energy, yes. Sometimes I can distinguish their voices from my own inner voice, others I just know. Like I’m watching a movie I’ve seen before.”

  Bonin looked unimpressed. “What do the voices tell you?”

  “Depends on what someone wants to know.”

  “Masen’s girlfriend didn’t want to talk?”

  “Agent Bonin, you grew up here, correct? Why are you so close-minded?”

  “I’m not close-minded. I just don’t believe you.”

  Cage intervened before Marabel threw them out. “Go back to Masen’s energy. How did it overwhelm you?”

  “I’m an empath—a sponge for other people’s emotions. It took years for me to create the necessary barriers just to be able to function, let alone read for people. Masen shattered those in minutes. His misery made me so sick I had to cancel the rest of the day, something I’ve never done.”

  “Did he mention being the prime suspect in her disappearance?” Bonin asked.

  “He was absolutely obsessed with what happened to her. And he insisted the police wasted valuable time on him.”

  “Most people in these situations do,” Bonin said. “Vast majority of the time, they’re lying.”

  “Did he have any theories?” Cage asked.

  “He believed she was a victim of sex trafficking.”

  Vice had been chasing multiple sex trafficking rings in the area for months. Cage made a mental note to check with them and see if they’d had anyone who matched Shana’s description on their radar.

  “He have any evidence?” Bonin asked.

  “I didn’t ask. Maybe I should have but I don’t think it would have helped him. I felt he needed to let it all go, allow her spirit to rest in peace before he destroyed himself.” Marabel’s soft voice dropped to a whisper. “How did he die?”

  “Cause of death hasn’t been determined. Suicide is a possibility.”

  “I don’t believe he was suicidal. He was too singularly focused on justice for her.”

  “Maybe realizing he wasn’t going to get it put him over the edge.” Drinking poison seemed like the most painful way to commit suicide, but people continuously surprised Cage.

  “I know a suicidal person when I see him. Masen wasn’t.”

  Bonin snorted. “Thankfully we don’t base a death investigation on a psychic’s opinion.”

  “Then why are you here?” Marabel’s eyes flashed, her voice suddenly sharp.

  “We hoped he might have told you things he didn’t tell anyone else,” Bonin said. “Like if he was afraid of anyone.”

  “He blamed the NOPD for not looking past him as a suspect.” Marabel looked straight at Bonin, a hint of challenge in her tone. “You worked Shana’s case, correct? You had it thrown on your desk when you already had a dozen other major cases. Masen’s story struck you as odd, and he’d been intoxicated that night. He’s the logical suspect. You were too overworked to see past that.”

  Bonin’s jaw tightened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  The psychic’s eyes closed for a moment. “This anger and guilt you’re carrying now isn’t just about Masen. It’s about … a failure? A mistake? Whose name starts with an L?”

  Cage stepped in before Bonin exploded. “Did Masen tell you anything else?”

  She shook her head. “I encouraged him to go to the police with the information. If he came clean, the weight off his shoulders would help with the guilt. He didn’t seem interested.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Bonin asked.

  “He only visited once a few weeks ago.” Marabel’s diamond watch flashed as she checked the time. “I’m sorry, my next client will be here any moment.”

  “Nice watch for a psychic who only works weekends,” Bonin said. “What’s your day job?”

  “It was a gift.” Marabel gestured to the curtain. “Good luck. I’ll pray for Masen’s soul.”

  “Call me if you think of anything else.” Cage tossed his card onto the table, wincing at the quick movement. He should have gone for the cortisone shot.

  Marabel stilled, her hand hovering less than an inch above the card. Her glassy eyes stared at Cage as she slowly stood, her entire body appearing to vibrate.

  “That gris-gris bag isn’t going to be enough for what you’re up against. Wait here.”

  She disappeared into the hallway, her shoes pattering quickly across the hardwood floors.

  Unease trickled through him. “How did she know I had a gris-gris bag?”

  “You had the card in the same pocket, right? Probably picked up the scent of the herbs.” Bonin elbowed him. “You’re still carrying it, huh? Not so skeptical when it comes right down to it?”

  Marabel swept back into the room carrying a plastic baggie containing a dirt clod sprouti
ng a mass of medusa-like fibers.

  “Beth root?” Bonin raised an eyebrow.

  “Soaked in exorcism oil and frankincense.” That explained the odor seeping out of the bag. Annabeth wore the essential oil constantly, insisting it helped with her anxiety.

  “This looks like a dog turd with worms.” It smelled like rotting fruit.

  “Its scientific name is Trillium,” Marabel said. “I promise the odor is worth the safety it brings you.” Marabel wrapped tissue paper around the plastic and handed it to Cage, pulling her hand away before their hands could touch. “Keep this with your gris-gris bag. Don’t leave the house without it.”

  “What’s this supposed to protect me from?” Cage tried to keep his tone light, pretending she hadn’t sucked him into her strange web.

  “Death.”

  Cage cradled the root like a bomb, careful not to disturb the tissue paper. He gulped fresh air, his mind free of Marabel’s strangeness and the store’s potent incense.

  “Don’t get in a tizzy. She’s a kook.”

  Psychics as convincing as Marabel had mastered body language and picking up on the minutia in facial expressions most people missed. She’d make a good interrogator. “You seemed pretty rattled when she talked about Masen’s case. Who’s the L name?”

  “No one. Let me have your stinky gift.”

  “Why?” Cage didn’t believe in any of the stuff, but the gris-gris bag hadn’t failed him. Why test fate?

  “Because we can test her fingerprints against the ones found on the vodka bottle.”

  8

  Star Wars had descended on Frenchman Street. The Intergalactic Krewe of Chewbacchus kicked off parade season in glowing costumes and countless Princess Leias with fake lightsabers. A keg cart made to look like Jabba the Hut’s ship rolled by, with Boba Fett knocking back shots.

  “Throw me somethin’, mista.” Two middle-school girls waved at the glowing alien parading by. He tossed them a couple of handmade Chewbacca dolls. The girls jumped up and down with their prizes before yelling at the next crazy costume.

  “How many people are in this krewe?” Cage yelled over the noise.