The Night He Died Page 5

  Bonin bounced next to him, waving the glow light she’d caught from a half-naked storm trooper. “No clue.”

  A curvy woman wearing hot pink spandex and a helmet designed to look like a glowing brain danced over to Cage. “Here you go, Cher. Beads for the tall, sexy guy.”

  He flushed and let her slip the string around his neck. She whipped out her phone, pressing against him. “Smile.”

  Bonin laughed as Cage brushed pink glitter off his cheek. “How far are we from The Black Sheep?”

  “Another block,” she said. “It’s on the other side of Chartres.”

  A crowd blocked The Black Sheep’s narrow double doors, drinks in hand, watching the parade.

  Cage nodded to a bearded bouncer who’d fit right in with the Hell’s Angels.

  “What’s the cover charge?”

  “None,” the bouncer said. “Tip the band and buy a drink.”

  Cage had barely made it inside when a body collided with his chest, wrapping her arms around him. “Easy. I got shot the other day.”

  “Did you come to see the band?” Annabeth’s dark eyes shined with so much excitement that Cage nodded. “Hopefully. We have to talk to the owner about Masen first.”

  “Oh yeah.” Annabeth released him, giving Bonin a grudging smile. “You look wound—”

  “Tighter than a Baptist minister’s girdle?”

  Annabeth laughed. “God, you’re still so bitchy. You definitely need a drink.”

  “We’re on duty. Where’s the owner?”

  A girl with bright purple hair had joined Annabeth, her guitar pick wedged between her teeth. “Bonjour y’all. Is this Agent Sexy in the flesh?”

  “Yep.” Annabeth beamed.

  “You weren’t lying.” The girl stuck the pick inside her bra. “She talks about you all the time. I think her boyfriend’s kind of jealous.”

  “This is Cammie. She plays bass in the band,” Annabeth said. “She’s only mediocre, but they can’t find anyone else. Cage is here to see if any of you guys had a motive to kill Masen.”

  Cammie closed her eyes. “Is that the brain damage again?”

  “Nice to meet you, Cammie.” Cage took Annabeth’s arm and led her away from the glowering bassist. “You just said she sucked. No one likes to hear that. And don’t tell people I’m investigating them, for God’s sake.”

  “But aren’t you?”

  “I just need to know more about Masen. Where’s the owner, for the third time?”

  Annabeth stuck her tongue out at him, pointing to the long, gleaming bar. “Deandra. She’s the one with the wicked eye makeup.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I gotta pee.” Annabeth flounced away, blowing a kiss at the long-haired, skinny guy with a neck full of tattoos. Cage would interrogate the boyfriend about his intentions later.

  Deandra’s heavily lined eyes watched their approach, a stiff smile on her face. Streaks of gray laced through her dark ponytail, her skin stamped with the lines of too much sun. A plaque over her head marked The Black Sheep’s fifty-year anniversary.

  “Officers, what can I do for you?”

  “Let me guess.” Cage leaned against the bar. “Psychic?”

  Deandra laughed. “Experienced. You two stand out. And you have to be Agent Sexy.”

  Did Annabeth ever use his real name? “Cage Foster. We’re here about Masen.”

  Deandra’s smile faded. “It’s awful. The news is saying he ingested something.”

  “The medical examiner hasn’t finalized his report. How well did you know him?”

  “Not well. He did a decent job as janitor. If it weren’t for his heavy drinking, I might have made him a bartender. But that’s like tossing a match in gasoline.”

  “How long did he work for you?” Bonin asked.

  “Few months.”

  “Did he seem depressed? Anxious?”

  “Pretty sure that’s why he self-medicated. Kid had major issues.” Deandra grimaced. “Don’t we all, right?”

  “What made you hire him in the first place?” Bonin asked. “Did he tell you he was a murder suspect?”

  Deandra leaned over the bar. “He told me the love of his life was gone and the police never looked for the right person. I have no idea if that’s true, but I guess I’m a sucker for a sad story.”

  “Any friends ever come to see him?”

  “I never saw anyone.”

  “He moved out of his girlfriend’s place after the disappearance and basically hopped around,” Bonin said. “Any idea where he last lived?”

  “Now that I can help with.” Deandra tossed the bar towel onto her shoulder. “I rented one of the upstairs rooms to him.”

  The Black Sheep’s narrow stairway barely fit a single person per scuffed step. Flecks of red paint from the peeling wall stuck to the old wood. Mildew tainted the air, which seemed to feel thicker with every step. An ancient light bulb bathed the upstairs hallway in a dingy yellow.

  “It’s not big enough, but I couldn’t turn him out.” Deandra stopped in front of a door so warped Cage wondered how it closed. “He had use of the toilet downstairs but took showers somewhere else.”

  “Any idea where?” Bonin asked.

  “No clue.” Deandra jammed a skeleton key into the old lock. She jimmied the rusty knob, using her shoulder to shove the door open.

  “Wait.” Cage stuck his arm in front of the doorway before she barreled in and left extra fingerprints. “You need to stay out here.”

  Deandra had focused on the floor. “Red brick dust, really? Superstitious kid.”

  “We’ll lock up.”

  Deandra reluctantly dropped the key into Cage’s open palm. “Make sure you do.”

  Cage and Bonin slipped on latex gloves. “What’s the red brick dust for?”

  “Protection.” Bonin stepped over the line of dust and pulled on the yellowed string hanging from the single bulb. “She calls this a room? That camping cot barely fits in here.”

  Tucked into the corner, the bed missed the wall by an inch. Masen probably had to curl up to keep from smacking his feet on the wall. He only had a few changes of clothes. A toiletry bag sat on a nightstand, along with a pile of books about hauntings and New Orleans history.

  “You smell that?” Bonin asked.

  “Dirty sheets and old house? Yeah.”

  “And pot. It’s in here somewhere.”

  “How’d you sniff that out?”

  “Migraines bless their victims with a strong sense of smell.” She opened the top drawer of the nightstand. “Bingo.”

  Masen had a decent-sized stash of pot and a pipe that had seen better days. A full bottle of medication rolled around in the drawer.

  “Valium. Strong dose too. Prescribed by Dr. Ginger Hughes. His mom mentioned a therapist.”

  “We need to talk to her,” Cage said. “Hopefully she doesn’t make us get a warrant.”

  Grainy copies of old newspaper photos had been taped to the wall next to the cot. Cage had left his reading glasses in the car.

  “Can you see a date on those papers?”

  “They aren’t papers,” Bonin said. “Those are copied pages from an old Storyville Blue Book. They profiled the brothels, the madams. Listed the girls by appearance and personality. They didn’t need to hide anything since prostitution was legal in Storyville, but you won’t find a single word about sex. The blue books somehow made men feel like they were doing something more gentlemanly than banging a hooker.”

  Bonin used her cell to take pictures. “Shana’s ancestor worked in Storyville, and they both died untimely deaths. Why did Masen care about the Storyville deaths?”

  “Grief makes people do weird shit sometimes.” Masen’s last moments had been tattooed on his brain. What if Bonin and her partner looked for someone else? Would Masen still be alive? “He also believed she’d been sex trafficked.”

  “We had no reason to think she’d been taken into a ring.” Bonin shoved her phone back into her pocket.

&n
bsp; “Except the fact that the city is loaded with them, and she disappeared from ground zero.”

  “My partner and I looked for the most logical explanation. Masen killing her and losing his shit after is still the most likely possibility.”

  Most of the time, but not always. “Who’s your old partner? Is the case still active? I’d like to take a look at the file.”

  “You’re seriously going to check up on me?” Bonin’s voice rose. “After I’ve stuck by you when virtually every other detective and patrol cop thinks you’re nothing more than a narc for the LBI and NOPD brass?”

  “A narc, huh? My job is to help the NOPD solve major crime cases—something you guys have sucked at for quite a while. Why wouldn’t I want to take a look at her file? You clearly weren’t able to give Shana’s disappearance your full attention.” He couldn’t keep the words from spilling out. “And I definitely know what that feels like.”

  Bonin stalked to the door. “Since you’re so superior, you can write up the reports for today. And have sweet Annabeth take you home, because I sure as hell won’t be.”

  She stepped over the red brick dust and slammed the door behind. Cage didn’t have the energy to go after her.

  He scanned the tiny room for some hint of Masen’s mental state. Pitifully bare, much like Masen’s life. Cage double-checked the top drawer and then moved to the bottom. Socks and underwear, pictures of an older couple Cage assumed were Masen’s parents. He rifled through the clothes, finding nothing. With such a tiny space, Masen didn’t have a lot of places to hide things. Maybe he didn’t need to hide anything, and his paranoia came from his alleged haunting. Did red brick dust stop ghosts? Or was that salt?

  He leaned over the cot to get a better look at the copied pages. Why had Masen taped so many layers to the wall? Cage traced his fingers along the paper, unsure of what he was looking for. Halfway down the middle section, the paper became pliable.

  Cage made sure to take his own pictures of the original scene and then carefully peeled away the pages about Lulu White’s legendary brothel.

  His fingers barely fit through the thin, rectangular-shaped chunk cut out of the drywall and quickly hit pay dirt. He carefully retrieved the small book, making sure not to tear it on the jagged drywall.

  The pamphlet reminded him of a church’s booklet, but with a plain blue cover. The first several pages matched the ones on the wall: copies of blue book advertisements for brothels like Lulu White’s and Josie Arlington’s, along with a list of the women working at each brothel.

  Cage skimmed through more copied Storyville ads. Halfway through the pamphlet, his fingers stilled.

  The PhoeniX.

  “Address by referral only. Open six p.m. daily.”

  Girl No. one blonde hair, blue eyes. Thirty-six C, dress size six. Shoe size seven.

  Girl No. two dirty-blonde hair, brown eyes, thirty-four A, dress size four. Shoe size six.

  Girl No. three Black hair, brown eyes, thirty-eight D, dress size six, shoe size eight. Café au lait.

  Fifteen unnamed girls, all with their height, weight and sizes listed. Several had footnotes about pop culture likes: a boyband, a teen show, favorite ice cream. Were these coded minors?

  Neat handwriting appeared on several pages in shorthand only the originator would understand.

  The final page contained hourly rates ranging from five hundred to three thousand, “depending on services required.”

  Cage’s pulse raced as he pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, staring at the red brick dust. Who had Masen been hiding this book from?

  9

  Live music rattled the floorboards. Cage hid the book in his coat and put the papers back, hoping the tape still worked. He could really use his partner’s opinion right now. Maybe he’d been out of line, but Bonin usually wasn’t the type to get territorial over old investigations. Solving the case took precedence. She hadn’t been herself since the night of the botched drug bust.

  Downstairs had become standing room only. A tall, lanky guy in dark jeans and an oversized white dress shirt leaned over the drum set, talking to Annabeth’s boyfriend. Cage squeezed through a small gap, trying to get a better look, but the lead singer’s broad shoulders still blocked his view.

  A group of girls catcalled when the singer turned around, and Cage couldn’t blame them. Dark, wavy curls pushed off his forehead, dimples on display as he grinned down at the girls, fully aware of his impact on their libidos. Cage couldn’t make out the song title, but he understood the big crowd when the singer’s baritone filled the room. The guy was good.

  Annabeth waved to him from the bar, and he fought his way through the packed room.

  “Isn’t he great?” she yelled into Cage’s ear.

  “Wonderful.”

  “What happened with Detective Sunshine?”

  “Work disagreement,” Cage said. The bass ratcheted up, making his head pound. “Listen, I’m going to head out. It’s been a long day.”

  Annabeth’s newly constructed face fell. “I thought you were going to stay.”

  “I said I’d try to.” He waited for the crossed arms and the pout, along with her refusal to look him in the eye. But she grabbed his arm and leaned into him. “Please. I hate always watching by myself.”

  “Why don’t you get Lyric down here? This looks like her sort of place.”

  “She’s hardly home. And definitely not on the weekends.” She clung to his arm, looking up at him with sad eyes.

  Cage sighed. His wife was going to kill him.

  The band’s set finished an hour later, and Cage clapped with the rest of the audience until Annabeth grabbed his hand and dragged him through the hallway behind the bar.

  “They’ll come back to the dressing room in a minute. I want you to meet Remy.” The boyfriend. The dressing room turned out to be a crowded back office.

  “Hey.” Remy arrived and kissed Annabeth’s cheek. “Is this Agent Foster?”

  “Yep.” Annabeth beamed.

  He gave Remy a point for not calling him Agent Sexy. The cop in him logged Remy’s numerous tattoos into his memory.

  “It’s nice to meet you, sir. I feel like I know you already.” Remy shook Cage’s hand.

  “You as well,” Cage said. “You guys are really good. I’m glad I stayed.”

  Remy smiled. “Me too. Annabeth says you came about Masen. I still can’t believe it, although I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He always seemed like he was on the verge of exploding.” Remy’s hands moved in time to his words. “And he drank so much, then got paranoid.”

  “He ever say why?”

  “I wish to God I’d asked. Maybe I could’ve helped him. We all knew his girlfriend had disappeared, but he didn’t tell us he was the main suspect.”

  “You think he committed suicide?”

  “Didn’t he?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Cage said. “But it’s definitely a possibility.”

  Remy waved both arms. “Hey, Hart. Didn’t something freaky happen with Masen last week?”

  Cage turned to find himself eye to eye with the impressive lead singer. He was twenty-five at best, with porcelain-perfect skin, his curls a sweaty mess that somehow accentuated his features.

  “This is Annabeth’s Agent Foster. He’s investigating Masen’s death.”

  Hart worried the corner of his mouth. “I’m not sure if what happened is relevant.”

  British. No wonder girls fawned over him.

  “Cage can figure that out,” Annabeth said. “And don’t worry about the ghost stuff. He’s used to dealing with people who believe in ghosts and magic and all things New Orleans. He even carries around a gris-gris. Your seeing ghosts won’t phase him.”

  “I thought everyone in New Orleans saw ghosts,” Cage said.

  “Hart sees them way more than anyone I know.”

  Hart glanced at Annabeth. “That’s not really relevant.”

  �
�Kind of is, since Masen asked you to look for Shana.”

  “When?” Had Masen told him about the blue book? Hart didn’t look like he needed to pay for women.

  “After we first met, yeah.” Hart flushed. “Our gig was over, and I sat down with these two, having a couple of drinks. He overheard me sharing more than I should have, which is one of the reasons I usually don’t drink much. Anyway, he waits until Annabeth and Remy leave—”

  “Our first date.” Annabeth squeezed Remy’s arm, and he grinned down at her.

  “Masen comes up and tells me about Shana haunting him. Asks me to come to his room and just wait a little while. He was wasted, so I assumed he’d pass out. But he just sat there, asking me if I saw her and what she wanted. The whole thing was a bit weird and wonky, so I said she was happy and wanted him to move on. He threw an empty beer bottle at me and told me to get the fuck out. No problem, mate. Never spoke to me after that.”

  “She wasn’t there, was she?” Annabeth asked.

  “I didn’t see her, but I’m not some ghost whisperer. I’ve just had weird things happen.” Hart’s forced laugh didn’t fool Cage. He’d edited his story.

  “Did you ask him why he was so sure her spirit was haunting him since her body’s never been found?” Annabeth asked.

  “Didn’t think of it.” Hart popped Remy’s shoulder. “Buy a round.”

  Cage stayed for the first round, keeping an eye on Hart. The ghost thing didn’t bug him—kid probably wanted to make some extra bucks as a psychic. But he hadn’t told Cage everything about that night, and Hart’s shifting eye contact made it clear he knew Cage didn’t believe him.

  Cage begged off a second drink to hail a cab but instead slipped into the alley to wait near the performer’s entrance. Hopefully Hart still planned to leave after he finished his second drink.

  He’d promised Dani he’d be home by one or so. One twenty-one a.m. If Hart hurried his ass, Cage might be able to walk in the door before two a.m., which would technically be keeping his promise. Loud, drunken laughter erupted behind him, and Cage whipped around, heart pounding. Spider’s smug grin flashed through his mind, his gun baring down on Cage’s face.