by Stacy Green
A snide smile spread over Parsons’s round face. “That, Special Agent Foster, is what you’re being paid to find out. Not a witch hunt based on ramblings and a hundred-year-old scandal that negatively affects one of New Orleans’s most important social organizations.”
“I agree,” the commander said. “The theory may be right, but it’s best to leave anyone connected with Atlas out of this. Focus on these girls. Investigate the victim. You know how this works.”
“And if I find more evidence connecting Atlas or the Hughes?”
“Bring it to me,” Rogers said. “I’ll decide what to do with it.”
“I trust you to make the right decision,” Parsons said. “Atlas and all of its social club members have been very good to the city, particularly post-Katrina. We owe them our gratitude and respect.”
Cage finally blew. “This is why the NOPD’s homicide solve rate is so pathetic. You’re all in bed with each other. Nothing’s going to change until someone grows some balls and stands up to these people.”
“That’s enough, Foster,” Agent Rogers said. “Sirs, I apologize for the outburst. Foster was shot at a few nights ago and took a hard hit in the vest. I’m sure he’s still working through all of that, and his judgement’s been clouded.”
Hughes’s mouth puckered to the point of ridiculousness. Sweat glistened on Parsons’s shiny baby head. “Then you better get him straightened out, or your entire experiment is over.”
Anger burned through him, and Cage was covered in sweat by the time he reached his car. Rogers had to play bureaucrat, but there had to be a limit to the amount of interference from people who knew nothing about police work—especially if they were suspects.
“Wait.” Bonin had caught up with him.
“What?”
“Don’t get attitude with me. I stood up for you as best I could. This is why I begged you to wait to talk to Ginger Hughes. It’s bullshit, but it’s the system. You have to work within it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Shana researching the story? It wasn’t even in the file.”
“Because I forgot,” she said. “I only saw Masen as a suspect. It should have clicked earlier.”
“I don’t care how crazy it sounds. This is all connected. Dr. Ginger Hughes knows more than she’s telling.”
“And yet you didn’t out her as Marabel to her father,” Bonin said.
“Strategy. Information like that always comes in useful.” Was that why he’d stayed silent? Or did he believe her? “He talked to her about Layla in his therapy session. She won’t give me details, but she had the impression he hated her. We need her records.”
“You’ll never get a warrant now.” Bonin ran her hands over her face. “Masen’s death will be ruled a suicide. And we do have to put the girls first. If their disappearance leads us to The PhoeniX and Shana, then so be it.”
He took a deep, raw breath. “Did you find Zoey’s next of kin?”
Bonin shook her head. “Trish’s family is coming tonight. I’m having them put up at the Maison Duprey. But they aren’t going to be any help. Trish had no enemies, etc. Loyola will want a search warrant before they give up any personal information.”
“What about the apartment manager? He should have her social security or driver’s license number on file. We can backtrack her from there.”
“She didn’t have a driver’s license,” Bonin said. “I left him a message.”
“I’d like to talk to Shana’s uncle.”
“Not yet,” Bonin said. “I know I sound like I’m kissing ass, but that man’s been through a lot. If you come knocking on his door, he’s going to think we have something real to tell him instead of more theories. He didn’t know she was stripping, and he never mentioned that book. If she had it, he didn’t know. He can’t help us right now.”
“Fine.” Cage’s mouth soured as Rogers’s number dinged a text message. His boss had flip-flopped worse than a politician.
“You were right, but we have to play the game. Keep working the case and put it all together. Commander Dumas on board.”
“While you were pissing people off last night, I tracked down Trish’s coworker Becky to find out what happened at the frat party. Trish accused one of the members of trying to drag her into the bedroom. That’s as far as it got. And she doesn’t know anyone named Layla.”
“Trish didn’t report the assault?”
Bonin shook her head. “Becky had already left, so her information came secondhand. Trish refused to talk about it, but everyone who saw things go down put the blame on Trish.”
Disgust rolled through him. “Frat boys are going to back up their buddy.”
“Zoey privately told Becky that it was a misunderstanding because Trish had been drunk,” Bonin said. “The whole ‘Kappa Phi Douche’ comes from him threatening to call his uncle, who just happens to be a lawyer in a very prestigious firm.”
“What’s the kid’s name?”
“Matthew Leighton.”
Where had he heard that name before? It rattled in his head with the booming voice of a commercial.
“Leighton and Hughes.” Cage’s lips thinned. “Brooks Hughes is a lawyer?”
“This is Carson Hughes, Ginger’s brother. George Leighton is the founding partner. He specializes in corporate tax laws and personal injury, but he cut his teeth as a public defender.”
“Is Leighton a London Club member?”
“Most likely.” She eyed him. “I know you want to go blazing into the London Club, but you have to be patient. If you think Brooks Hughes was a pompous ass, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should, because you’re only going to get one shot at this kid. If you show up and he’s not there, he’s likely to say something to his uncle. Which means you’re completely vis sou.”
“Screwed?”
“You need help from someone who knows how the game is played.”
“Ginger.”
“Precisely why I said wait for me before you go hauling off. If she can’t get us to Matthew, she might be able to tell us more about him—or get us to someone who can. You’re going to have to use the Southern charm that your wife and Annabeth swear you have.”
“I won’t need that,” he said. “She owes me, remember?”
15
Ginger’s private practice in Mid-City outed her lack of interest in the family spotlight front and center. Instead of lush landscaping and magazine-ready exteriors all competing for best in show, the plain, two story blended into the rest of the working-class neighborhood. Her Carnival décor was less obnoxious than her father’s as well: beads wrapped around the porch columns and a small wreath on the front door.
A small wooden sign hanging on the porched confirmed he’d found Dr. Ginger Hughes, MD, and warned not to ring the bell if the red “with client” sign was propped in the window.
Cage settled into a wicker chair and checked his messages. Dani, letting him know dinner would be ready at seven, and he’d better not be late if he wanted any action this Valentine’s Day, and Bonin, still coming up empty on Zoey’s next of kin. Kyle didn’t know where she worked on campus—he and Trish had only met her a few months ago. Zoey claimed to be local, and yet Bonin couldn’t find any record of her.
The door finally opened, followed by Ginger’s gentle voice. “You’re making excellent progress, whether you realize it or not. Same time next week?”
“Yes, thank you, Dr. G.” The middle-aged woman jumped and dropped her purse when she saw Cage.
“Good Lord, baby. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
He handed her the bag. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t want to interrupt your session.”
“I appreciate that.” She nodded and ambled down the steps, saying one last goodbye.
Ginger blocked the doorway, looking like she’d just eaten some bad takeout. “What do you want?”
“I’d expect you to be a little nicer since I didn’t tell
your father about your side gig when he chewed my ass this morning in front of my superiors. He made it clear Atlas wouldn’t be subpoenaed for anything—including your records on Masen.”
“You’re kidding. He went that far?”
“He’s got the deputy superintendent stuck firmly up his ass,” Cage said. “Dumas is trying to remember he’s a cop.”
“He has no say over my records. Get the warrant, and I’m happy to share.” Suspicion deepened the fine lines around her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
“Not my place.”
“Thank you.”
“I need a favor.”
Her lips twitched into a smile, revealing a dimple on her left cheek. “Did you put that root with the gris-gris like I told you?”
“Sure.” But he didn’t buy into her schtick, and he wasn’t completely convinced she’d told him everything. He couldn’t quite trust someone who’d already lied to him and had a successful side hustle as a psychic.
The smile disappeared. “Believe what you want, but take my warning seriously.”
“Help me out, and I will.” Charm wouldn’t work on her. Fine with him. Being a pain in the ass was a lot more fun.
She pushed away from the door and headed inside. “You have ten minutes.”
He fell in love as soon as he stepped into the side hall. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting prisms on the scruffy hardwood floor. A ‘private’ sign hung on the closed door at the end of a long, narrow hall.
“Do you live here?”
“Yep. Makes paying the rent easier.”
“Not exactly safe, is it?”
The first room to the left turned out to be her office. She motioned for him to sit down.
“This is a family neighborhood. Blue-collar workers.”
“It’s not that. I just wouldn’t want my patients having access to my home.”
“They don’t. This is the only room I keep unlocked.”
Still bugged him, but cops saw danger everywhere. “This isn’t exactly the sort of private practice I’d expect from a debutante.”
She laughed. “Precisely why I’m here. I endured Sacred Heart Academy and my debutante years so I could get into a good school. But I have zero use for that lifestyle. And low-income people need help too.”
No wonder Annabeth liked the woman so much. Her biological parents funded her therapy bills, but the low maintenance attitude had no doubt put Annabeth at ease.
“I take it you’re the black sheep?”
“And proud of it. My younger brother ate it up—he didn’t care about the silliness of keeping up old-society traditions. I never had the time for them.”
“I take it he’s more like your dad?”
“Actually, no. He’s middle ground, thank God.” She gave him a pointed look. “But he doesn’t know about Marabel, either.”
“Does he believe your abilities are real?”
“I’ve proved myself too many times for him to doubt me. My father is just another generation, and it’s not worth the arguing. He and my brother are close, and I don’t want to ask him to lie for me.”
Cage still took issue with her rolling her psychic abilities into her practice, but he wasn’t here about ethics. “Your brother is a partner at Leighton and Hughes, right?”
Her defenses shot back into place. “Why?”
“I need to talk to Matthew Leighton about an assault he committed on one of the missing girls at a frat party last fall.”
“George Leighton’s nephew? I suppose you’re hoping I can get you into the inner circle?”
“I’m not proud of it, but I’m trying to play by the rules your dad and his crony laid out this morning.”
“And if I can’t help you?”
“Then I’ll just bulldoze ahead. It’s my specialty.”
She laughed. “I do see why Annabeth adores you.”
He shrugged. “I do my best.”
“I’m not sure I can help,” she said. “My brother isn’t going to rock the boat with Leighton. Did the girl file a report?”
“Matthew Leighton threw around his uncle’s name and family power at her.”
Ginger’s eyes darkened. “Reason number 372 why I loathe the upper class. Can you call the frat and get his information?”
Exactly the reaction he’d hoped for. No point in telling her witnesses—including Trish’s own friend—cast doubt on the story. “Not without a warrant, which I’ll never get. I don’t even know if he lives in the frat house. Asking around will tip him off before I can talk to him.”
“If you found out he lived at the frat house, you’d drop in unexpected? That seems to be your thing.” Ginger’s cool tone made it clear she wasn’t impressed.
“Throws you off guard, doesn’t it?”
“Do you think he’s involved with the girls’ disappearance?”
“I think he needs to be questioned. He has ties to Atlas through his uncle, which brings us back to these girls finding Masen, with the doubloons scattered around him.”
“You’re certain the doubloons are vintage?”
“Three collectors signed off on their authenticity. And your father admitted they’re from the same mint as his. He was very happy to tell me several members had received them as gifts, and I would never get access to the names. I don’t suppose you could help with that?”
“My dissociation from almost everything involving the London Club and Atlas hasn’t exactly made me popular. Carson might be able to find out. I’ll ask and get back to you.”
“What about the Leightons? Are they Atlas?”
“A legacy family, but you’re not supposed to know that.”
He rolled his eyes at the cloak and dagger. “George Leighton vouched for his nephew to get into Tulane, I assume?”
“I imagine so, but Masen doesn’t play into your scenario. Say the Leightons wanted to silence Trish—which doesn’t make sense considering she hadn’t pressed charges—what does Masen have to do with anything?”
Cage debated how much to tell her. The whole thing was still jumbled in his head. “The PhoeniX.”
“There you go with the mythical bird again.”
“The PhoeniX may be the name of the sex trafficking ring Masen was looking for. He had a fake blue book with backpage advertising tucked behind Storyville copies.”
Her eyes widened. “You think the Leightons are somehow involved in that?”
“Wouldn’t George Leighton be one of the families who might have original doubloons?”
“Yes, I think so. But George Leighton isn’t going to be interested in an all-female brothel, if you get my drift.”
“Married and still in the closet?”
“To the public, yes. It’s one of the things we good Uptown folks don’t talk about, which means everyone knows about it.”
“What if the ring had boys?”
“Men, maybe. But not boys.”
“Matthew may be involved somehow, and he’d have access to his uncle’s doubloons. This whole thing is a shit pile, and I need to figure it out before it’s too late for Zoey and Trish.”
Ginger stilled, her vacant-looking eyes staring through him. “Trish. I think it’s too late for her.”
“Is her spirit here?” He tried to keep the condescending tone in check.
“No, but when you said her name, I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like ice-cold fear and desperation. And complete darkness.”
“I see.”
“You don’t have to believe me,” she said. “But I’ve had a similar feeling before, and I haven’t been wrong yet.”
Her hard stare made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wasn’t about to go down that road. “Can you help me with Matthew or not?”
“Give me a day.”
“If I don’t hear from you by this time tomorrow, I’ll pop by the London Club to say hi.”
“I’m tempted to miss the deadline. I’d love to see their faces. But I want you to fi
nd the girls, so I’ll do my best.” She checked her watch. “My next appointment will be here shortly. I need to go over records.”
“Thanks for your time.” Cage hesitated, a question burning through his skull.
“Yes?”
He couldn’t spit out the words, so he improvised and asked the next question that popped into his head. “You’re my age. Why the silver hair? You don’t strike me as trendy.”
“Genetics,” she said. “I grayed early and decided to go with it. Might as well make a statement when you can.” She held the door open. “But that’s not the question you wanted to ask.”
“How do you know?”
“Gut feeling.”
“Any chance you’d share your notes on Masen without a warrant?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He was on the bottom porch step when she called his name.
“The answer to your real question is yes. The very same feeling. Keep the root close.”
16
“Be quiet.” Annabeth shut the door behind Cage and pointed to Remy asleep on the couch. “They had a late show last night.”
“He can’t fix it?” Annabeth had been on Remy for weeks to fix her closet door.
“He’s a musician. What if he hurt his hand?”
“For Christ’s sake.” Cage headed upstairs.
Annabeth’s bedroom was exactly like her: passionate and scattered. A voodoo altar took up the back corner. Pictures had been scattered over her dresser—some of them from the lifetime she didn’t remember.
“What the hell did you do to this thing?” Cage ran a hand over the old closet door that had been propped up in front of the closet.
“I didn’t do anything. The top hinge broke.”
“How did the bottom one break?”
“When I unscrewed it. I couldn’t leave it like that.”
Cage held up the new hinge Dani had found for the door. “Looks like a decent match.”
He went to work while Annabeth flopped on her bed. “Did you find out what happened to Masen?”
“Not yet, but I’m glad you brought it up. Is Ginger Hughes your psychiatrist?”
Annabeth sat up. “Why?”