The Night He Died Read online

  He felt cold all over, but hot inside, like someone struck a match. There had to be a rational explanation. “You’ve got connections. You must have made some calls and heard the story.”

  “I didn’t, but I don’t care what you think.” She hugged her shoulders. “If he’d had help right away, would he have survived?”

  The coroner doubted it, but he’d play the cards he needed without feeling guilty after her charade. Of course she’d found out the details of Masen’s death. She probably had a source at the NOPD. “Possibly.”

  “I should’ve stayed.” Her soft voice broke on the last word, and she lowered her face. He let her stew. If she ever admitted the truth, it would be now.

  The timeline added up. Ginger made sure he drank, and then she left. Then Zoey and Trish saw her on their way to the cemetery, and Ginger must have realized they could identify her. Did she have help getting rid of them? Were they still alive?

  “He called my name—after I’d started walking away. I told him not to contact me again. He started opening the bottle and told me to go to hell, so I left. And then he started calling me names. I didn’t stop.”

  Her sadness seeped into the air between them. He should have done something. If he’d spent less time talking to Zoey, Masen might have been able to tell him more.

  “I took an oath to protect,” Ginger said. “And I walked away.”

  “You couldn’t have saved him.” Cage wanted to snatch the words back. He’d just pissed on his best opportunity.

  “You said that—”

  “I know what I said.” He cleared his throat and stepped back, putting precious distance between them. “Did Masen ever talk about Layla?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “You’re pulling that card on me right now? Seriously, Marabel?”

  “Fine, he mentioned her. I can’t tell you anything more without a warrant, I’m sorry.”

  Cage’s temper ticked up several notches. She was hiding behind ethics after her whole act. “Can you at least tell me if he gave you the impression he blamed her for his girlfriend’s disappearance?”

  “My impression was that he hated Layla. Please, Agent Foster, get a warrant. I will gladly give you my notes.”

  “After you’ve altered them.”

  “I use a computer program that logs every change,” she snapped. “Surely you have people capable of verifying its accuracy.”

  His head clear and his patience long gone, he stepped back into her personal space. “Atlas doubloons were found with his body.”

  “There are thousands of those all over the city—probably the country.”

  “These weren’t throws. They were mint condition original 1960s silver Krewe of Atlas.”

  She stilled. “You’re certain?”

  He nodded. “Since your family is the founding member of London Club and Atlas, I’d expect there’s a few lying around in this house.”

  “My father’s are framed in his study. I saw them tonight.” She looked blankly past him, her face slack, clearly running through her options.

  “Who else would have them?”

  Ginger snapped back to attention. “Old-line clubs like the London Club are exclusive. You must be a legacy to ask for membership.”

  “Every active member dates back to the 1960s?”

  “Most likely, and most much further than that. The Redmunds aren’t the only original family line left.”

  Ginger’s prints hadn’t been on the doubloons. He didn’t have a chance at getting a warrant that had anything remotely to do with Atlas. “Show me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Show me the coins in your father’s office so I can scratch him off the list.”

  “Absolutely not.” The fire had returned to her face. “You want proof, get a warrant. Good luck.”

  If she thought that minor detail was going to stop him, she had a hell of an awakening coming. He dropped his last card. “Did you know Masen’s girlfriend was a descendant of Dotty Jean?”

  “From Storyville?”

  “Her uncle confirmed it during the original investigation into her disappearance. Your great-grandfather pushed her down the stairs for stealing a pricey mask and got away with it.”

  She sighed. “Some people in my family still insist Philip was innocent.”

  “Being psychic, what do you think?”

  “Psychic has nothing to do with it. Common sense says he pushed her. It’s terrible he got away with it and not a family anecdote I’m proud of.”

  “What happened to the mask?” He’d kill for better lighting right now. The streetlamp and twinkling party lights on the gate weren’t enough.

  “No one has seen it since.”

  “Given the history, I’d think the mask is worth some real money. If she didn’t steal it, what happened to it?”

  “She probably did steal it,” Ginger said. “Philip was a self-absorbed ass. I can’t blame her for looking out for herself. Where are you going with this?”

  “Maybe Shana told Masen her family still had the mask. He slips and tells you, and you see a chance to get it back. Things go south.”

  Ginger’s harsh laugh grated through him. “That’s your theory?”

  “Maybe he had the mask with him and wanted money you didn’t want to give. Combined with knowing about Marabel—”

  “That mask is nothing but a blood artifact, if it still exists. I have no desire to own it.”

  “Then let us search your home.” Wasting his breath, but it never hurt to try. “Make sure there’s no sign of the missing girls. Or anything connected to Masen.”

  She blanched. “No.”

  “Your fingers on the bottle give us probable cause.”

  “Once again, get a judge in this town to sign off on a warrant,” she said. “And you can search to your heart’s content.”

  He glared at her. “Let’s break this down. Your family has a history of abuse of power. Shana is connected to you through her ancestor, and her boyfriend believed she’d been abducted into some sort of sex trafficking ring. He dies with vintage Atlas doubloons in his possession. See where I’m going with this?”

  “I don’t have any vintage Atlas doubloons. And my father’s are accounted for.”

  “Ever heard of The PhoeniX?”

  “Now you’re talking about a mythical bird?” She threw her hands up. “I’m done. I have guests to entertain.”

  Cage glanced over her shoulder. Brooks Hughes strode toward them, glass of red wine in his hand. “Looks like I can ask your dad about the doubloons.”

  “Please don’t tell him about Marabel. My father loathes my so-called abilities and he would be furious about my doing readings. He won’t even talk about them. His entire life is wrapped up in Atlas, anyway. But I don’t want to deal with him over Marabel, and I need that outlet.”

  Cage ignored her and waved at Brooks. “Mr. Hughes. Just the person I wanted to speak with.”

  Ginger spun to face her father. “Dad. What are you doing out here?”

  “Came looking for you, darling. Who’s your friend?”

  Cage held up his badge. “I’m investigating the death of one of Ginger’s clients, along with two missing witnesses. There’s evidence an Atlas member may be involved. Mr. Hughes, is there any chance I could take a look at your study?”

  Brooks Hughes blinked, his glass frozen in midair. “Pardon me?”

  “We found silver 1960 Atlas doubloons at the scene. Just want to verify yours are accounted for.”

  “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.” Hughes’s glare had probably intimidated plenty of people. Good thing Cage was stubborn.

  “I’m not insinuating anything. Masen Malone got those doubloons from someone in your exclusive club. I need to know who gave them to him and why.” Or someone placed them around the body. He’d keep that idea to himself for now.

  “You’re aware of whom you’re speaking to?” He stood up straight, chin inched up, every bit the Southern
diva.

  “Masen’s missing girlfriend is a descendent of the woman Philip Redmund murdered.”

  “What you’re suggesting is ridiculous.” He glared at his daughter. “Ginger, I’ll see you back inside. You have one minute.” He stalked up the wide steps and slammed into the house.

  “What are you doing?” Ginger hissed.

  “I feel like we already established that.”

  “Yeah, well you just killed your case.”

  14

  Deputy Superintendent Parsons reminded Cage of the crying baby mask—right down to the bald head and missing eyebrows.

  The man in charge of the NOPD’s entire investigation and support bureau sat to the left of Brooks Hughes and Commander Dumas, Bonin’s new boss, on the right. Hughes sat at the head of the conference table, his hawk eyes on Cage.

  “Are we at a Mardi Gras meeting?” Cage asked as he sat down opposite Hughes. Bonin took the seat next to Cage and kicked his shin.

  The door opened, and Cage cursed under his breath. His boss at the LBI division hurried in the door. “Sorry I’m late,” Rogers said.

  “Just on time,” Hughes said. “Thank you for attending.”

  Hughes called this meeting? Seriously? And the brass just jumped?

  “We understand you paid a visit to the Hughes family during their annual party last night.” Parsons’s scowl deepened. “Without permission.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cage said. “I wasn’t aware that I needed permission to interview a person of interest in a possible murder investigation.”

  “My daughter is not a person of interest in anything,” Hughes said. “Nor am I. Your allegedly finding Atlas doubloons doesn’t mean we’re involved.”

  Cage tossed the evidence bag onto the conference table. The silver doubloons landed with a thud.

  Hughes ignored them. “And I’m to believe these are 1960 originals based on your opinion? An outsider who clearly knows nothing about our traditions?”

  “I recognized them,” Bonin said. “And I’ve spoken with three different established collectors. All agreed these are Atlas .999 silver doubloons worth anywhere between fifteen thousand and twenty thousand dollars. And your daughter said yours are in your home study.”

  “They are.” Hughes slid the bag closer and put on his glasses. “Your collectors are correct. These are from the same mint as mine. However,” he removed his glasses with a smirk, “at that time, every officer and remaining founding legacy member received these. My father was only one of many. And no, you will not be given access to the other recipients.”

  “We can subpoena it.” Cage glanced at Rogers, but his cool veneer was impossible to crack.

  Hughes’s nasally, pompous laugh almost brought Cage out of his chair. “Go ahead, if you want to look like a fool in front of the judge—not that it would make a difference.”

  “Agent Foster will not be asking a judge for any such thing,” Parsons said. “This isn’t a murder investigation. The coroner is ruling it a suicide.”

  “The toxicology reports aren’t back yet. He can’t rule anything. And we need a warrant for Dr. Hughes’s records regarding Masen Malone.” Cage looked at his boss, hoping for some backup.

  “You’ll get nothing of the sort,” Hughes said. “My daughter saw him one time, and she prescribed him an anti-anxiety medication and implored him to continue seeing her. He refused.”

  He turned to Parsons. “Mr. Malone called her out of the blue that night to say he was doing something drastic. She knew what he meant and went to help. Sadly, she failed. And there is no evidence my daughter was involved in anything other than as a physician.”

  “Her fingerprints were on the vodka bottle that contained the acid.”

  Bonin’s sharp-toed boot nudged his foot. He’d agreed not to blow Ginger’s cover as Marabel—for now.

  “How did you get her fingerprints?” Hughes demanded.

  “From the card she gave Masen after she prescribed the meds.” He waited for Dumas and Rogers to say something. Both men knew fingerprinting paper was hit and miss.

  “She told you she tried to take the bottle because the man was already under the influence.”

  “I think Dr. Hughes’s explanation is more than enough to remove her from your suspect list,” Parsons said.

  I’m sure you do, you boot-licking horse’s ass. “What about the fact she was spotted by the girls who found Masen—and now those girls are missing?”

  “A sad coincidence, I’m sure,” Hughes said.

  Dumas flinched at the word, his upper lip twitching. Finally, someone else grew a set.

  “Commander, you worked in the field a long time. You know there’s no such thing as coincidence in these cases.”

  Parsons’s chest puffed. The deputy super had worked his way up the paper chain, a bureaucrat all the way.

  “I’m inclined to agree with you on that,” Dumas said. “However, given the likelihood of suicide and reasoning for Ms. Hughes’s appearance at the scene, I think the missing women would be better served if we focused on finding them.”

  “Their disappearance is connected,” Cage said. “And it goes beyond that night. Masen believed his girlfriend had been abducted into a sex ring. Zoey and Trish are the same age and were last seen at a bar that replaced one busted for trafficking less than a year ago.”

  “That has zero to do with my daughter or our family.”

  “Except Shana Sanders is a descendant of Dotty Jean, and her family may well have your missing heirloom mask.” Borderline ridiculous motive, but Cage was running out of options.

  Hughes’s pompous laugh filled the room. “You’re saying someone from Atlas is involved in all of this because of a mask that disappeared nearly a century ago? Agent Rogers, I thought this man was a star. Barney Fife could do better than this.”

  Bonin’s heel came down on Cage’s foot, the hard sole digging into his loafers. He kicked her off.

  Agent Rogers finally spoke. “Agent Foster is a very good investigator. I don’t believe in coincidence either, and it is interesting that Masen’s girlfriend might have had access to a mask that’s worth a significant amount of money. She disappears, the boyfriend believes she might have been trafficked. Then he dies with Atlas doubloons near the body. Add your daughter’s involvement, and he’s following a logical path.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Hughes looked like he wanted to punch Rogers. “I don’t hear any logic in that at all. It sounds like he’s trying to shove a bunch of things together that don’t fit.”

  “I agree,” Parsons said. “You’re basing this entire line of thinking on the ramblings of a murder suspect.”

  “Let me lay it out in simple terms,” Cage said. “I think the mask is just a bonus. Shana’s kidnapped and taken into a trafficking ring—”

  “What evidence do you have of this ring?” Parsons demanded.

  “This.” Cage tossed the clear evidence bag containing The PhoeniX’s blue book. “Masen hid it. It starts out like some kind of cheap Storyville replica, but then you get to the new stuff, with notes made by someone who tried to decipher the shorthand.”

  Parsons reached for it, but Agent Rogers beat him to it. He used a handkerchief to examine the book. “Foster, you think this is legit?”

  “As in The PhoeniX being the real deal? I don’t know. But Masen told Bonin’s old partner—and Dr. Hughes—that Shana had been taken into a ring. Looks like he was trying to locate it when he died.”

  “Were my daughter’s fingerprints on that thing?” Hughes snapped.

  “No,” Cage said. “But as I was saying, it looks like Masen stumbled onto something he wasn’t supposed to know about. We find the doubloons with him. Are they a calling card? Did he steal them? We don’t know. But Dr. Hughes’s connection with him suggests that she—or someone close to her—might be trying to cover their tracks.”

  “That is preposterous!” Hughes slammed his fist on the table. “I will not have you slander my family like
this.”

  “Calm down,” Dumas said. “Foster, where’s the mask fit in?”

  Cage shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. Maybe discovering Shana was the descendant of Dotty caught someone’s eye.”

  Hughes’s face would surely burst open at any second.

  “No.” Bonin looked like she’d been woken from a deep sleep. “I was the lead investigator on Shana’s disappearance. I assumed it was Masen from the start and didn’t look anywhere else.”

  “What’s your point?” Parsons asked. “You screwed up? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Bonin’s tone turned to steel. “I’m saying we have new information. Shana Sanders disappears. Masen starts saying she was trafficked and then dies, with the doubloons at the scene. He’s hiding this information about The PhoeniX. The two girls who found him are missing. And we have Dr. Hughes’s prints along with her admission of being at the scene.”

  “What about the chemistry major?” Dumas asked. “Kyle Roe?”

  “Cleared.” Cage tapped his fingers on the table. “You have any of Shana’s handwriting in the file? Something she might have signed?”

  “I’d have to look,” Bonin said. “We need to get a sample of Masen’s handwriting too.”

  “The more likely scenario is that the girlfriend was involved with this place, and he finds out. Loses his cool and kills her,” Dumas said. “Keeps the book out of guilt.”

  “That’s very possible,” Cage admitted. “I don’t know without doing my job. And pretending there’s no way Atlas can be involved makes that really difficult right now.” He pointed to the book. “Some of these appear to be minors.”

  “Then Special Victims will handle it,” Parsons said.

  “Right now, we have two missing women,” Dumas said. “They have to be priority.”

  “Once again, they saw a woman matching Dr. Hughes’s description leaving the area shortly before they found the body. Now they’re gone.”

  Parsons glared at him. “Then the likely scenario is Dr. Hughes was lucky she left and should keep her doors locked—if this wasn’t suicide.”

  “If it’s suicide, then why did Zoey and Trish disappear?”