The Night He Died Page 8

  “How long have you been working here?”

  “Couple months.”

  “This is about the last place I’d expect you to be working,” Bonin said.

  Lyric’s steely eyes glared at Bonin. “You’d be surprised at how little you really know about me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” Bonin returned Lyric’s cold smile.

  “You hear anything about girls being trafficked?” Cage cut in. “Maybe some of the dancers going missing?” People went off the grid in New Orleans all the time. Some moved to the city for that very reason.

  Lyric laughed, her smile so rare it threw Cage off-balance. “You can’t be that naive. Girls are selling sex up and down this street.”

  “All of them willingly?” Bonin asked.

  “Probably not.” Back to stone cold. They weren’t going to get anything else from her.

  “Will you call me if you hear of anything?” Cage asked. “Especially about these two girls?”

  “Of course.” Her flat gaze made it clear she didn’t mean it.

  “And spend some time with Annabeth. She’s lonely.”

  “She’s got a boyfriend. She’s not lonely.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I keep an eye on her. She’s not having nightmares anymore. She’s less paranoid, although she did have Alexandrine make a gris-gris bag for protection and good fortune. She carries it with her everywhere. Makes the boyfriend carry one too.”

  That reminded him of the root the psychic had given him. Her fingerprints should have been back by now, but the LBI lab had a week’s worth of backlog. “You know anything about this psychic she sees? Madam Marabel?”

  “Only that she’s got badass silver hair. Wish mine would hold color like that.”

  “How many women have silver hair?” Cage asked as they threaded through more partiers.

  “You’d be surprised. It’s a trend.”

  “I’m a broken record, but this isn’t a coincidence.” Not in a major crime investigation.

  “You think the LBI lab will rush her fingerprints now?” Bonin asked.

  “They damn well better.”

  13

  Kyle Roe’s warrants turned up exactly nothing. His roommate confirmed his story for the nights of Masen’s death and the girls disappearing. Aside from the collection of pot pipes, Kyle kept nothing of interest in his room. The lab search proved futile, especially since Professor Morrow kept strict logs and permitted no one in the lab unless he or one of his graduate assistants were in attendance. Forensics had lifted multiple fingerprints, and Cage had begged for rush results.

  Madam Marabel only held readings on the weekend. After the mystic shop refused to cooperate, Cage had left Annabeth a message to see if she had the psychic’s contact information. She hadn’t returned his call, which probably meant she did and wanted to avoid him.

  Dozens of tips had poured in over the last twenty-four hours from psychics and well-meaning people who thought they saw Trish or Zoey. Cage and Bonin followed up on the most credible tips. Nothing panned out.

  Trish and Zoey had been missing four days. He had a better chance of finding their bodies at this point.

  He should be out combing the streets, looking for the girls. But he’d put in nearly sixteen hours without a break, and the patrol guys would do a better job, anyway.

  A cold wind whipped the purple and green Carnival flags hanging everywhere. Half the people at the NOPD’s Criminal Investigations Division wore something purple or green every day, and some had decorated their cubicles. For the first time, Cage wished his office was at the LBI’s Poydras Street location, but they’d probably gone full Carnival too.

  Cage put on his warm cap and started walking toward the parking garage. His cell dinged with a text.

  Bonin. Meet me in the lobby if you’re still here. You need to see this.

  She waited just inside the main entrance. “First off, the fingerprint guy just called. Kyle’s prints weren’t on the bottle—nor were any prints he lifted from the bedrooms. He used personal items like hairbrushes and toothbrushes, so I think we can say Zoey and Trish didn’t touch the bottle, either.”

  Yet another dead end. “Did you call me back to gloat?”

  “Madam Marabel’s fingerprints match the ones on the vodka bottle.”

  Silver hair and a fingerprint match. Now they might be getting somewhere.

  “What motive does she have for killing him?”

  “I might be able to answer that too,” Bonin said. “Did you do an online search for Dr. Ginger Hughes?”

  The psychiatrist should be back in the office tomorrow. If she didn’t return his call, Cage intended to pay her a visit. “Her website’s really basic. No picture.”

  Bonin handed him her phone. “There’s a reason for that. Tell me what you see.”

  “That’s the owner of the Saints and her family. Quarterback too.” At least twenty additional people posed behind a red ribbon, and a gray-haired man held a giant pair of scissors. “What am I looking for?”

  “The back row. Behind the guy with the scissors.”

  He enlarged the picture. The sun glinted off her hair, making the silver less noticeable. But her face, that soft smile. “Is that Madam Marabel? What’s she doing at a ribbon cutting with the Saints?”

  “Because Madam Marabel is Dr. Ginger Hughes.” Bonin swiped left, pulling up another picture—Marabel and the gray-haired guy holding the scissors, fake smiles for the closeup. “I knew I recognized her from somewhere.”

  “She’s the psychiatrist?”

  “Yes, but you’re missing the most important piece. Hughes, as in Redmond-Hughes. Her great-grandfather was Philip Redmund, who started the London Club and their parade krewe.”

  Atlas. Sonofabitch. “Please tell me her fingerprints were on the doubloons too.”

  Bonin shook her head. “I wish. Maybe we’re dealing with two people—if he didn’t commit suicide.”

  Cage ignored her last comment. “Masen gets referred to Ginger Hughes as a doctor and then realizes she’s moonlighting as a psychic and threatens to expose her. He may have even told her about Shana being Dotty’s descendant.”

  “Assuming he knew Ginger was a Redmund-Hughes,” Bonin says. “She keeps a low profile compared to the rest of them.”

  “Either way,” Cage said, “why kill him and the two witnesses?” He could only think of one answer. “What happened to the mask?”

  “Legend goes no one found it at Dotty’s room in the brothel. As far as I know, it never turned up.”

  “Safe to say, it would be worth some money, not to mention a family heirloom.”

  Bonin looked up at him. “You think Shana’s family still had it and Masen knew?”

  “It’s possible. Any chance you can ask her uncle?”

  “He feels like we screwed up her case, and then I ask about that? Another injustice to his family? Besides, Ginger Hughes doesn’t seem to be as concerned with her lineage as the rest of the family. Her office is in Mid-City, and this deal with the Saints’s front office is the only public event I could find her in. Her father and brother are out front and center all year around.”

  “This ties back to the mask, even if it’s not the motive. Maybe it’s what connected them, and something else set her off. I’m guessing her family doesn’t know about her psychic gig, and she’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Maybe, since she’s from such a high-profile family. But everybody in this city has a ghost story, and half of them claim to have psychics in the family. And if he did threaten exposure, I’d think money would have done the trick.”

  “We have to talk to her. Can we get her home address?”

  “She won’t be there. Atlas is having their big Mardi Gras kick-off party tonight at the Redmund-Hughes mansion on St. Charles.”

  “Then we party crash.”

  Bonin held up her hands. “You have to work with old-line society differently. They live in a cocoon. And they need their ego
s stroked.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well you should because Ginger’s dad is on the city council committee that backs your new unit. He’s known to rub elbows with the deputy superintendent.”

  “Jesus. It’s all inbred. And I thought krewe and social club membership was supposed to be some big secret.”

  “For most, it still is. But it’s never been a secret which family and social club founded Atlas. The Redmund-Hughes take their lineage seriously, and Fat Tuesday’s parades and ball are everything. Members spend all year working on costumes and floats. Their parade is famous worldwide. See where I’m going with this?”

  Tourism—New Orleans’s lifeblood. “Money.”

  “Let’s wait until tomorrow, when she’s back in the office. I’ll call and ask to meet with her. And remember, we still have two missing girls. That has to be our priority.”

  “I’m sure Madam Marabel the debutante can give us some answers.”

  “Tomorrow. Trust me on this.”

  “First thing.” He headed back outside, temper ticking up with every step. Like hell he’d wait until tomorrow to give Ginger Hughes time to create a cover story.

  St. Charles Avenue boasted several spectacular homes dating back to the power days when the city’s non-Catholic residents set out to surpass the wealthy Creole homes in the French Quarter. The historic society considered the Redmund House home to be a crown jewel of Greek Revival architecture. The family probably had a hand in that designation.

  Hundreds of Mardi Gras beads dangled from many of the old oak trees on St. Charles Avenue, and most of the big homes had strands of beads hanging on their courtyard gates. The Hughes family stood apart with giant yellow and green silk ribbon draped over the lavish cast-iron fencing that surrounded their property. Two flags—one purple and green for Mardi Gras and the other yellow, with the Krewe of Atlas’s seal stitched in bright red. Laughter floated from the backyard, where most of the influential people in the city were getting hammered.

  A young woman in a black-and-white uniform answered the door. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so.” He leaned against the doorframe and gave her his most charming smile. “I’m a friend of Ginger’s. She said to stop by.”

  The girl hesitated. “Tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  A wave of homesickness hit him as soon as he stepped inside. With its gleaming mahogany trim work and long entry hall, the house looked nothing like Ironwood. But its grandeur and charm reminded him of the plantation house he and Dani had restored. It would always be home.

  “Nice night for a garden party.”

  “Yes,” the girl answered stiffly. “Whom should I say is calling?”

  The old-fashioned question sounded odd coming from her; empty, little holes revealed her ears were pierced four times, along with her nose. He’d noticed a tattoo on the underside of her arm when she messed with her hair.

  “Cage Foster.” He held his badge up. “We met the other day in the French Quarter.”

  Her eyes widened. “Wait here, please.”

  Her short heels thudded against the thick Persian carpet runner as she hurried to the closed doors at the end of the hall. Cage glimpsed the end of a white stone counter and marbled floors before the girl disappeared.

  Cage lazily followed, stopping to look at the massive chandelier. A stunning gold and red medallion glittered from the center of the glowing lights, likely original to the house.

  He peeked in the first room to his left. An empty parlor with floors so shiny he could see his reflection. Expensive trinkets decorated the marble fireplace, and the fancy furniture looked uncomfortable. A sitting room across the hall was smaller and cozier. He passed two more parallel rooms, each one as fancy as the first two. Near the end of the hall, lights adorned the newel post of the staircase, making the stained-glass window on the first landing glow brighter than a church’s. Beautiful as it was, zero personal touches made the place feel more like a museum.

  Cage barely dodged the door next to the stairs as it flew open. Ginger stared him down. Her silver hair flowed past her shoulders, fresh-faced and glowing, although her shocked expression might have caused that part.

  “You look better with your beautiful silver hair down, Madam Marabel.”

  “Please, keep quiet. How did you find out?”

  “Found meds you prescribed Masen, and Detective Bonin recognized the name and put two and two together. Funny, I would have guessed Marabel would be the silver-haired persona. How is it Masen came to see you as a psychic and a therapist?”

  “Because I decided to break my rule. He needed help.”

  “Sounds like a conflict of interest to me. And I need to know that whatever you’re telling me doesn’t need a search warrant for client confidentiality.”

  She smirked. “But then you’d be able to use it in court. And why would I make it easy for you?”

  “I don’t expect you to, but that’s part of the fun.”

  “Could you please wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’ll make it quick.” He smiled, silence as thick as smog hanging between them. “Big party, though.”

  She drummed her fingers against her crossed arms. “My parents never do anything halfway. And my father will send someone to find me.”

  Cage shrugged. “I won’t tell them you’re a psychic.”

  “They know that.”

  “Then why—”

  “About my abilities. Not about Marabel.” She rocked on her heels, jaw tight. “What do you want?”

  “We found your fingerprints on the vodka bottle. The same one that contained the acid. And we have eyewitnesses who put you at the cemetery that night. Funny thing is, they’ve both gone missing.”

  She swallowed, her face slack. “What?”

  “You handled that bottle,” Cage said. “Presumably when you gave it to him.”

  Laughter erupted from the kitchen. Ginger glanced back at the closed doors, chewing her lip. “Let’s take this outside.”

  She’d regained her composure by the time they neared the front gate. “How did you match my fingerprints when I don’t have any on file?”

  Outsmarting a suspect gave Cage almost as much pleasure as catching them off guard. “Don’t you remember? Madam Marabel gave me a little gift.”

  She stared. “Is that legal?”

  “Bigger question would be, is your whole gimmick a breach of ethics?” A defense attorney might have an issue with the fingerprints, but Cage would worry about that later. “So why don’t you tell me the truth? Then you can get back to your party.”

  “I never lied to you.” She stepped close enough he caught a whiff of her sweet perfume, her heels putting them at eye level. “I omitted. I did see him only once as Marabel, and he was so deeply troubled that I knew he needed real counseling and medication. I’ve never done this after someone came for a reading, but Masen was different.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “I knew where he worked.”

  A buzzing started in Cage’s head. Had Masen told her, or had Annabeth? Was she one of Ginger’s psychiatric patients? Why hadn’t Annabeth just told him?

  “Because I only trust a few clients with the truth—those I feel my extra abilities can help. And I swore her to secrecy.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Now you’re a mind reader?”

  “I read expressions very well, and I’m an empath. Call it an educated guess.”

  “But you’re peddling yourself as a psychic.”

  “Because I have ESP abilities.”

  And he might sprout wings and fly. “You gave me that root and said I needed to protect myself. You see the future?”

  “I told you, more like I know it—as though it’s a movie I’ve watched already. Sometimes I see or hear a spirit connected with the person I’m reading for, and they guide me. No one can predict the future. We hone in on possibilities. You set your own course, Agent Foster.”

  Tension embedded into h
is shoulders. “How do you do that?”

  “I don’t have a scientific explanation for it. I just know what I’m capable of.”

  Meaning she made some lucky guesses and decided she had special abilities. He wasn’t buying it. “How many times did you meet with Masen—as both identities?”

  “Twice. He came to see me as a therapist only once. I wrote him the prescription and hoped he would return. I didn’t hear from him again until he called me the night he died—high and absolutely paranoid. He believed someone was stalking him and planned to summon Ghede for help. He asked me to tell his mother he loved her and that it wasn’t his fault, just in case he didn’t come back.”

  “Why did you go to Holt?”

  “To try to stop him. You don’t mess with the loa, especially in Holt Cemetery. And especially if you don’t even practice voodoo. And he obviously needed more help than the spirits could offer.”

  Spirits, always with the stupid spirits. “You brought the bottle to calm him down?”

  Her gray-blue eyes flashed. “He had it when I found him at the tree, with offerings scattered around. He was howling at Ghede to come forth, sputtering nonsense. He told me to leave, and when he started to open the vodka, I tried to take it from him.”

  She pulled up the silky sleeve of her dress. Finger-like bruises bloomed on her fair skin. “He grabbed my arm and threw me on the ground.”

  “We’ll find your DNA under his fingernails, then.”

  The angry flush drained from her cheeks. “Probably, but I would never hurt anyone.”

  He’d cracked her steely façade. Time to tighten the net. “Masen had an incredible amount of damage to his stomach and esophagus. He literally burned from the inside out—from the first swig.”

  Ginger swayed and grabbed the gate. “That can’t be.”

  “Worst thing is, he lived for a while after drinking it.” He saw Masen’s decimated mouth and throat, his eyes begging for mercy. Pain rippled through his back at the memory.

  “You found him.”

  Somersaults tore through his stomach. “I’m sorry?”

  “The sadness and trauma is pouring from you. Was he still alive when you found him?”