The Night He Died Page 6

  Two buddies hanging on each other for support staggered past the alley. Deep, cold breaths made Cage’s throat raw. What the hell was happening to him?

  “Agent Foster?” Hart had emerged from the bar, a beanie hiding his curls. He’d exchanged the tight, black pants and flashy shirt for jogging pants and a zipped-up sweatshirt, a leather bag over his shoulder. “You all right?”

  “Just cold. Your stage persona gone?”

  Hart didn’t seem surprised to see him. “Not a persona. Just more comfortable clothes. Fancy meeting you out here.”

  “Not surprised?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “Tell me what else happened that night in Masen’s room?”

  Hart sighed. “I don’t want to get involved, mate.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Look, the rest of it is my own gut feelings. I don’t think you’d be interested in them.”

  “Try me.”

  Hart stared up at the night sky. “I came to New Orleans to sort out what exactly was happening to me. Seeing ghosts is just part of it.”

  “The ghost thing again?”

  “I understand you don’t believe—”

  Cage held up a hand. “Never said I didn’t believe in ghosts. It’s the seeing and communicating I’m skeptical about.”

  Hart shrugged. “I turned twenty-three and bam. First the apparitions, then the voices. Thought I was going mad.”

  “You are the right age for the onset of schizophrenia,” Cage said. “You have a family history?”

  “No, but that’s exactly what my dad said. I saw the psychiatrist. He said I wasn’t sick, just stressed. Prescribed medication I never took. I knew everything happening was real.”

  “And you fled to the place where not believing makes you the freak,” Cage said. “What else happened with Masen?”

  “I didn’t see her spirit, and I didn’t feel her. Don’t get me wrong, The Black Sheep is haunted. But I’ve never seen Shana.”

  “I can’t really use that as evidence,” Cage said.

  “Which is exactly why I didn’t tell you. But she’s not here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s magic in this city, whether you feel it or not,” Hart said. “A lot of energy that’s driven something no one can really explain. Once I came to New Orleans, my abilities magnified. It’s as though I’d plugged into the correct outlet.”

  “If you didn’t see her, then she’s not here. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He nodded. “I’ve looked for her more than once because he was so dead set on her haunting him. Nothing.”

  Cage was going to be late because of a ghost whisperer. Perfect.

  “You think you’ve wasted your time. I told you it wasn’t relevant.”

  “You still haven’t told me everything.”

  “You wanted to know if I’d asked how he knew she was dead without her body.”

  “You lied to me.” Irritation leaked into his voice. Why didn’t anyone tell the police the truth the first time around?

  “He insisted on my seeing her ghost. Like my sighting was a life or death deal. I told him that no body means she could still be out there—alive. He’d been going on for a bit, rocking back and forth on his bed. But when I asked if he was sure she was dead, he stopped and look me straight in the eyes and said, “‘the Phoenix took her away, and now she’s gone. Fucking Layla.’”

  The blue pamphlet in Cage’s coat pocket. “You’re sure he said Phoenix?”

  “Definitely. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Maybe. Have you heard anyone talk about it since then?”

  Hart shook his head. “And I have no idea who Layla is, but Masen kept singing something about Layla stealing his life away and making the bitch pay.”

  Had Layla recruited Shana? Or befriended her and put her in a vulnerable position?

  “I hope this information helps you. Please don’t tell anyone about my abilities.”

  “I thought they knew.”

  “I told them about the ghosts I saw at The Black Sheep. Nothing else.”

  “Makes sense. I’m surprised Annabeth hasn’t sent you to her psychic.”

  “She tried. I declined. Most of the people here—”

  “Are full of shit,” Cage finished.

  Hart laughed. “I see why Annabeth thinks the sun rises and sets with you.”

  “She’s prone to exaggerating. Call me if you remember anything else.”

  “Good night, Agent Foster. Good to meet you. Please come see us perform again.” Hart turned to leave and then froze, his head cocked to the right as though someone whispered in his ear.

  He looked over his shoulder at Cage, the color drained from his face. “Don’t trust the root.”

  10

  Monday morning haze clung to Cage. A thunderstorm sent Emma to their bed, and after an hour of being kicked and slapped, he moved to the couch. An IV drip of coffee might get him through the door.

  Bonin always beat him to the office, but her desk was empty. He hadn’t heard a word from her since Friday, but he had a feeling that would change once she heard he’d pulled Shana’s file.

  It was anemic at best. Initial statements from Masen and anyone who saw Shana the night she disappeared, along with her friends and family. No reason to run away, loved the city, working and in school.

  To her credit, Masen wasn’t the only suspect Bonin questioned. Two different men paroled for sexual assault were working the bars that night, and Bonin did her due diligence.

  Don’t trust the root.

  He’d refused to think about Hart’s warning all weekend, focusing on The PhoeniX’s book and failing to decipher the handwritten notes. He didn’t even know if Masen had written them and so far hadn’t found a handwriting sample to compare.

  Why shouldn’t he trust the root? Not that he believed it would work, but Bonin would have known if Marabel had dipped it in something other than the stinking herbs. What would acid do to a root?

  It’s with the lab. I’d have heard something by now.

  What did Hart mean? And why did Cage care? He didn’t believe in psychic abilities or magic. Hart was probably just trying to look cool.

  Cage turned on his computer and cued up the video footage he’d requested from records.

  Sequestered in the small, hot room used for interviews, Masen told Bonin the same story over and over again.

  Crappy quality prevented Cage from reading facial expressions, but the story never wavered.

  They’d fought, he left, she was gone. He went home.

  “What did you fight about?” Bonin’s voice had an even harder edge than the one Cage had grown used to.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Everything matters.”

  Cage watched for the signs—shoulders slumping, hands over the chest, anything that suggested Masen might be ready to tell them something incriminating. But he leaned back in his chair, hands still on the table and repeated finding out about her working at the strip club.

  “You didn’t like your girlfriend getting naked for other guys. I can understand that. Did you take things too far?”

  “No.” Masen slammed his hand down on the table. “The dancing didn’t bother me. The danger did. Shit happens at those bars all the time.”

  “But she wasn’t going to give up the extra money?”

  “I begged her, but she was so stubborn.” Masen’s head dropped to his hands. “And I just left her there, by herself.”

  “Did she tell you where she worked?”

  Masen shook his head. “She said she didn’t want me showing up and making a scene. I just know it wasn’t in the Quarter.”

  Someone knocked on Cage’s door and then opened it without permission. “Foster? Can I get a word?”

  Butch Dubreax was a veteran homicide detective who had trained Bonin and had been her partner on Shana’s case. Word traveled fast.

  “You’re looking into the Shana Sanders disappearan
ce?”

  “It may be related to one of my cases.”

  “I heard the boyfriend killed himself. Makes sense.”

  “The coroner hasn’t made the ruling.”

  Butch leaned against the door, trying to look intimidating. Pocket sized and skinny, he looked more like a middle schooler ready to take on the bullies.

  “How’d you get the nickname Butch?” Cage asked.

  “None of your business. Why do you care about Shana?”

  “Masen had a theory about what happened to her. And now he’s dead.”

  Butch laughed. “Li menti.” He lies. “That kid medicated the hell out of himself to get away from the guilt. He came in a few months ago spaced out and talking like his mouth was full of mud. Said he had evidence she’d been abducted into a sex-trafficking ring. Problem was, the evidence ended up being from a ghost.

  “Shana’s. He believed she was haunting him.

  “I told him the Lord don’t like ugly, but I guess chasing her ghost made it easier for him to pretend he didn’t kill her.”

  “You may be right,” Cage said.

  “I’m not saying there isn’t sex trafficking going on all over the place down there because we’ve busted two rings in the past year. I’m saying Shana didn’t get grabbed for one.”

  “What happened to the girls in those busts?”

  “Some booked on prostitution, others for drugs. Didn’t spend much time in jail. And none of them claimed they’d been forced.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Look, Foster. I hate your unit and the LBI’s interference, but I’ve seen your record. You’re a good cop. Don’t get sucked into the wrong rabbit hole on this.”

  “Thanks for the advice and the vote of confidence.” Cage hoped he sounded sincere. Butch might not like his being around, but he respected him. That’s all a person could ask. “Why were you so sure Masen killed her?”

  “Because the easiest explanation is usually the right one. He claimed their argument started at Pat’s Bar, and the bouncer told them to move on. Bouncer didn’t remember seeing either Masen or Shana.”

  “But how many people does he see in a night?”

  “I asked the same question. No Masen, no Shana on security footage. And before you ask, yes, it was dark and shitty quality. But there’s a gaudy neon sign above the door that spews green clear onto the street. Makes people look like they’re glowing. And Shana had on a yellow shirt with checkered canvas shoes. She would have stood out.”

  “Any chance he got the bar wrong?”

  “Since he described the neon light and front entrance, I doubt it. But he’d been drinking, so I checked with the next few bars. Same answer—nothing.”

  Butch had done a thorough job. “But you never had enough to bring charges?”

  “DA wouldn’t do it without a confession or her body. It’s all about wins and losses, you know.”

  “I hear that. Did Masen ever mention a Layla?”

  “Oh yeah,” Butch said. “Said Shana met her a few months before she disappeared, and Layla was a bad influence. We never found her, and Shana’s uncle didn’t know who we were talking about.”

  He also hadn’t known Shana was stripping. “This is going to sound weird, but you know anything about the old Storyville Blue Books?”

  Butch grinned. “Family history is my great-grandfather frequented Lulu White’s establishment. We used to have one of the books, but my granmé donated it to the museum.”

  “Have you seen anything similar in these recent raids? Like a modernized version?”

  “Everything’s all underground—even though it’s right out in the open.”

  “I appreciate your help.”

  “And I appreciate you not telling me my investigation was shit.” Butch’s mouth stretched into something resembling a smile.

  “It wasn’t. Or I would have told you.”

  “I bet you would. How you feeling? Heard you took one in the vest the other night.”

  “Still sore, but better. And alive. We did get Spider off the streets.”

  Butch’s lips curled up. “That little shit’s been a pain in the ass for a long time. Doesn’t surprise me he’s messing with fent. He give up his supplier?”

  “Not yet. Vice took over the case.” They should have had it from the beginning. Cage kept that to himself. “You happen to remember what bars you busted for sex trafficking in the past several months?”

  “Raided two. Club Zero and PourBoys. That one fully shut down. New bar opened up in its place within a month. So it goes, on Bourbon.”

  Cage was on his fourth cup of coffee when Bonin knocked on his door.

  “Peace offering?” She held up a bag of beignets.

  “A fried donut? Hell, yes.” A fried donut was always worth the sugar crash.

  “I’m sorry I lost my shit and left you the other night. That was unprofessional and uncalled for.”

  “I don’t think you cut corners on the case or missed something.”

  “I know,” Bonin said. “I’m just stressed. And maybe I’m questioning myself, especially after what happened at the cemetery. Worst part is, I was dealing with the same bullshit when Shana disappeared as I am now.” She sat on the edge of his desk and sighed.

  “What’s going on?” Bonin rarely shared personal information, but when she did, it was serious.

  “You got shot the other night because I was looking for my brother. He’s bipolar and off his meds. His girlfriend said he hadn’t been home in two days, so I was out checking his usual places. I found him, and we got into it. I had to threaten to have him involuntarily committed to get him to back down. Same thing happened around the time Shana went missing.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?” She knew he’d dealt with ill family members, not to mention Annabeth.

  “Pride. And he gets under my skin. He knows exactly how to push my buttons.”

  “Siblings are good at that.” An old pain flared as raw as the first time he got the news. Had it really been more than ten years since his sister had been murdered?

  “And since I’m a cop, it’s always my job to bring him home whenever he takes off. I’m sick of it.”

  Cage tucked the sadness back where it belonged. “What about the rest of your family?”

  “Most of them are selfish assholes. And my mom doesn’t get around very well. Anyway, I took it out on you, and I’m sorry about everything. If the cops hadn’t been called for Masen’s body—”

  “Don’t dwell on it. I’m not. But thanks for telling me what’s going on. You don’t have to go it alone all the time.” He tried to smile, but Bonin’s vulnerability was such a foreign concept he wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “I’m not good at asking for help.”

  “Practice makes perfect,” Cage said. “Next time it happens, call me. And I have a suggestion you won’t like, but I’m going to say it anyway.”

  “Spill it.”

  “Annabeth knows the Quarter.” He held his hands up before Bonin could cut him off. “And some of the regulars on the street. I know you don’t like her, but she might be able to help you next time.”

  Bonin slid off the desk, shaking her head. “I like her fine. It’s Lyric I don’t trust, and Annabeth has blinders when it comes to her. I know there’s more to what happened in the swamp.”

  “Does it really matter?” Cage asked. “He’d be on death row waiting for execution. At least this way he’s not costing the state with years of appeals.”

  “Lyric is trouble,” Bonin said. “With all she’s gone through, her coldness, the way she doesn’t give a shit about whether she lives or dies—she’s trouble for Annabeth. And you.”

  Unspoken words clouded the air. Bonin believed Cage had covered for Lyric. He hadn’t, exactly. He just didn’t pursue the case after the alligators did the work.

  They’d had some version of this conversation dozens of times since last summer. It always ended in the same stalemate. “I left Dr. Hughes a me
ssage. Her voice mail says she’s out of the office for a few days.”

  “What happened after I left?” Bonin sat down, back to business as usual.

  “Plenty.” Cage unlocked his bottom desk drawer and grabbed the evidence bag. “Those photocopies on the wall covered the hole he’d cut to hide this.”

  Bonin grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and carefully extracted the pamphlet.

  “This looks like a really shitty attempt at a Storyville Blue Book. Was he trying to pass this off as the real thing?”

  “Keep reading.”

  She turned a few more pages and then stilled. “The PhoeniX. This is … holy shit.”

  “Butch said there isn’t anything like this around.”

  “You talked to Butch?” Her gaze flashed to his.

  “I requested the file and footage. He came to chat about it. I didn’t show him this pamphlet. I’m not sure what to make of it yet. I stuck around to listen to the band. Their lead singer had some interesting information.”

  He gave her the shorthand version. “If he mentioned The PhoeniX to Hart, he probably mentioned it other places. And Layla—who he clearly blamed for Shana’s disappearance.”

  “I tried to get more out of him about her, but he’d only say she was athletic and blonde. Shana was close to her uncle, and he’d never heard of her. I stopped looking for her because I was so focused on Masen.”

  “I probably would have done the same thing,” Cage said.

  Bonin rolled her eyes. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d have dug in. Did Hart say anything else?”

  “Nope.” He didn’t want to get into a discussion about magic and psychics, and he’d promised to keep Hart’s abilities a secret. “I know places still sell sex, but to run an actual brothel?”

  “We busted one in 2003,” Bonin said. “Girls living and working in the place just like the old days. Think about it—we’re always looking for johns and girls on the streets or shit going down in the clubs. An in-house operation like that could fly under the radar. And The PhoeniX is definitely geared toward wealthier clients.”

  “No names makes it impersonal, not to mention more secure.”

  “From all accounts, Masen was a mess. How did he track them down—if he did?” Bonin asked.