by Stacy Green
“Because she moonlights as Madam Marabel—a fact you forgot to mention.”
“You didn’t ask what her day job was.”
“Are you serious?” He glared at her.
“Mostly. And I wouldn’t have told you. I promised Ginger I wouldn’t.”
“But she used her psychic shit on you as part of therapy.” Cage tried not to raise his voice.
“Separately,” Annabeth said. “At no charge. And it’s none of your business.”
“It is when she’s a suspect.”
“Dr. Hughes? Of what?”
He went back to the door, shoving the hinges in place. Didn’t Annabeth see the conflict of interest? Or realize Ginger could manipulate her into continuing therapy even if she didn’t need it?
“Hello,” Annabeth said. “You think she did something to Masen?”
So far, the press hadn’t heard the two missing girls were the ones who had found Masen, and Cage wasn’t about to share that with Annabeth.
“She admitted to being at Holt. She’s got a lot to lose with her secret. It’s motive.”
“Don’t be a dumbass. I’ve told her to give up Marabel a hundred times and own her abilities. She’d have a waiting list balls deep.”
“Don’t be so crass.”
“Don’t be so judgmental.”
“I’m not being judgmental. I’m pissed off you didn’t tell me.”
“I promised her I wouldn’t, and I didn’t know she was at the scene.”
Cage looked at her. “Would you have told me if you knew that?”
“No.”
He grit his teeth and went back to work.
“This is more about her being psychic. You hate anything you can’t explain.”
“That’s not true. I respect your religion. I even carry the gris-gris Bonin gave me. But psychics are a dime a dozen, especially around here. She’s more likely to be scouting new patients like she did with Masen.”
“She was my psychiatrist first.” Her voice had started sliding up an octave.
“Just don’t base your major life decisions on her advice.”
“You’re so narrow-minded,” she said. “A loa helped you find me, and you still can’t accept it.”
“I don’t have to accept it. I never said it wasn’t a possibility. And there’s no harm in your believing that. A psychic can really screw a person up, especially someone like you.”
Annabeth was on her feet. “Like me?”
“You went through hell—half of it you don’t remember. You’re carrying all sorts of baggage, and you’re doing great with it. But someone like her can derail all of that.”
“Except she’s my psychiatrist too. All the progress I’ve made is because of her.”
“It’s because of you,” he corrected. “You took whatever real-world advice she gave you and used it. And you’re determined to live your life. Don’t get sucked into a scheme. And don’t be referring people to her.”
“You should get your head out of your ass and accept that every once in a while, you’re wrong about someone. Might save your life one day.”
Annabeth stomped downstairs. Cage let her go—she’d reached her limit. A few months ago, she would have stomped toward him instead of away, so she had made progress.
Didn’t mean she should trust Ginger so explicitly. Talking about Cage never admitting he was wrong, and Annabeth was doing the same thing.
He finished fixing the door, hesitating in front of Lyric’s closed door. She wasn’t home. Going into her room was wrong. Lyric never gave away any more information than absolutely necessary. She kept the crucial stuff back to use as a weapon.
He inched the door open, careful of noise. Annabeth would have his head if she found out. So would Lyric. He needed to earn her trust, and this wasn’t the way to do it. What was he thinking?
A flash of blue caught his eye. His entire body heated up.
Lyric had a blue book on her desk.
17
Cage expected the Kappa Phi house to resemble the fraternity houses in movies: sparsely decorated with old furniture likely found on someone’s curb, the requisite sea of discarded beer cans, and at least two or three guys in the main room drunk off their asses.
Instead, membership pictures and awards covered the walls near the front door. A gleaming hardwood floor led to two large common rooms filled with more big-box store furniture than curbside junk.
“Is that lemon?” He’d braced for the aroma of questionable hygiene and stale everything.
A guy wearing rubber gloves and a bandanna had answered the door. “Some guy threw up all over the place last night. We had to mop.”
And there it was.
“I’ll get Matt for you,” the kid said. “I’m pretty sure he’s in his room.”
An average-looking guy in athletic shorts and a Tulane sweatshirt ambled into the room and offered Cage his hand. “Matt Leighton. How can I help you?”
“Agent Cage Foster with the LBI.”
“Nice to meet you, sir, although I’m not sure what Kappa Phi’s done to bring you around.”
“I’m not here to investigate hazing or underaged drinking.”
“We don’t haze.” Matt shrugged. “It’s stupid.”
“Again, I don’t care. I’m here to talk to you about Trish Millwood?”
Matthew’s expression never changed while he pretended to recall who’d accused him of assault. He probably didn’t even know her name.
“Zoey’s friend, right?”
“Trish Millwood said you assaulted her at a party last fall.”
Matthew nodded. “Oh, that. We worked it out.”
“Saying no multiple times and then being forced into a room doesn’t sound like a misunderstanding. It sounds like assault.”
No doubt he was debating playing the uncle card. “That’s not what happened.”
“Trish is missing.”
That rocked Matt back onto his heels. “Missing? As in disappeared?”
“Aren’t you a pre-law student?” Cage asked. “I’d think you understand the terms. You told her your uncle was a lawyer from a family of Uptown big shots and that no one would believe her.” Becky hadn’t offered that much information, but filling in the blanks might get him talking.
“You’ve got it all wrong. She’d been drinking all night and was hanging all over me. I thought she was going to pass out, so I tried to get her somewhere safe before she ended up on the floor. She freaked out and said I was trying to rape her.”
“Listen, I’m not from around here, and I don’t give a damn about the social hierarchy or whatever dreamland you people live in. This girl is missing, and I want answers.”
“Sir, it’s not a story. That’s how it happened. My brothers can back it up. There’s video.”
“Really?”
“Look, plenty of guys are assholes, especially when they’re drunk. We don’t want assaults going on here or false accusations. I’m not saying the girls do that. I’m saying we want to know exactly what’s going on so no one gets hurt.”
“You’re recording the parties?” Cage asked.
“We don’t have a camera set up or anything creepy,” Matt said. “We have designated sober brothers who keep an eye on things and record as much as they can with their phones. And we don’t make it a secret. Anyone who comes to our parties is informed at the door when their ID is checked. Kappa Phi isn’t trying to get shut down.”
Smart idea, even if it violated privacy rules. “Does every member have access to these videos? And do you keep filming when couples go off on their own?”
“The sober brothers make sure the girl is cool with things. It’s not foolproof because she might change her mind later and we won’t have that on camera, but we’re not making porn. And no, only the fraternity president and vice president have access. The sober brothers send the files to the officers, and they store them.”
Cage laughed. “You’re trusting the sober brothers to delete stuff?”
“Sounds like you have the perfect system.”
“I think it’s pretty solid since I’m the one who created it after the #MeToo movement got going. I know girls who’ve been assaulted at parties and didn’t report because no one would believe them. It’s not right.”
“You’re a regular Pollyanna.” Cage prickled at the idea he’d misjudged this kid. Surely, he had an angle. If he came up with it, he was probably trying to cover his own ass somehow. “You do realize that your videos could ultimately work against a girl?”
“If she changes her mind, the guy could use our videos to show her consenting before. It’s never happened, and everybody knows we take this shit seriously.”
“I get it,” Cage said. “And it’s admirable. But if everyone knows you record, you can bet your life that if it ever does happen, a defense lawyer will come for that video.”
“It’s a risk, but it’s better than doing nothing. I’m tired of fraternities getting bad names because of assholes who think they have a free pass. That’s not what the brotherhood is supposed to be.”
“I want to see the footage.”
“Don’t you need a court order?”
“Don’t you need permission to film people?”
“I told you, they’re informed when they come in the door. If I show you this without the right paperwork, your case is screwed.”
“Only if you’ve done something I can charge you with.”
Matt pulled out his phone and started scrolling. “We have a secure app we store them in.”
“If you’re so innocent, then why did you throw in your family name?”
“Because I was freaked out and shocked. And I never told her she wouldn’t be believed because of my family. I tried to explain we had stuff on video, and she’d end up embarrassed. She threatened to sue. That’s when I brought up my uncle. Here’s the video.”
“You understand that by handing me your phone, I can look at anything I want?”
“Go ahead. I’m a pretty boring guy.”
Cage was starting to believe him. “This file is ten minutes long.”
“We try to record in ten-minute increments. Watch from the beginning so you understand I’m not scamming you.”
Kids drinking and dancing with a distinct lack of rhythm filled the screen. A couple made out against the wall, oblivious to the partiers.
“Who recorded this one?”
“James.”
Partying, drinking, screaming in each other’s ears. Skinny guys trying to be cool in front of the buzzed sorority girls, but nothing illegal.
A flash of red hair caught his attention. Zoey, sandwiched between a jock and a cheerleader. A few feet behind them, Trish braced against the wall, drinking beer.
Cage’s hopes deflated as she started to sink to the floor. Matt appeared at her side, helping her up and whispering in her ear. She nodded, and he looked directly at the camera.
“Follow me,” he mouthed.
Down the hall, maneuvering through the sweaty crowd until Matt reached a door. He opened it and said something to Trish. She ran her hands down his chest to his crotch, her eyes half-closed. He pushed her away, and Trish started screaming, flailing her arms. Zoey appeared and wrapped her arms around Trish. House music drowned out the conversation, but Cage got the gist.
Matt finally yelled back at Trish, and Zoey whipped her head around, staring icily at Matt.
“That’s when I brought up my uncle. I’m not proud of it, but she freaked me out.”
Zoey kept a tight hold on Trish while she talked to Matt. The flirty girl had returned, soft and smiling.
“What’s she saying?”
Matt shifted restlessly from foot to foot. “Just apologizing. I told her it was cool, but Trish needed to leave.”
Cage played back the video, pausing on Matt’s surprised expression. “Right here. What did she say?”
Matt unconsciously rocked back and forth, sucking in his cheek. The kid wasn’t running a game—he had zero poker face. “I’m sure it was nothing.”
“Let me decide that.”
“I don’t want to piss my uncle off.”
“These girls are missing. Forget about pissing him off, and do the right thing.”
“It’s just … you know the London Club, right?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Members names are never published. It’s more secretive than the freaking nuclear codes. But when Zoey apologized, she said Trish never would have done that sober, especially to a London Club legacy with a powerful lawyer in the family. My uncle would swallow his tongue before he talked about the London Club.”
“Maybe the membership isn’t as secretive as you think,” Cage said. “My partner knew Brooks Hughes was a member of the club and Atlas.”
“That’s because Philip Redmund started the London Club, and Brooks Hughes makes sure everyone knows that.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth—I’m not a legacy.” He shrugged. “My cousin is. Mom was the debutante queen, so no direct male line for me, thank God. I don’t want to get sucked into that stuff.”
If Matt wasn’t being overdramatic about the super-secret club, how did Zoey get her information? And why did she sound more concerned about upsetting the London Club member than a prominent attorney?
Only one way to find out. Bonin might kill him, but Cage’s rebellious streak had a mind of its own. Hopefully the London Club had plenty of members around tonight.
18
The London Club hid in plain sight on Prytania Street. Within walking distance of the Redmund-Hughes home, the historic house easily passed for a family home. An ornate iron fence surrounded the large property, with six feet privacy hedges and hulking live oaks protecting the lush back gardens and swimming pool. Going by the cars in the drive, several members were inside. Hopefully that included some of the Krewe of Atlas’s parade members.
Cage ignored the private property sign and jogged up the marble stairs to the front entrance. He glimpsed his casual attire in the spotless pressed glass—jeans and an LBI windbreaker, complete with worn loafers. These puffed up guys were going to love him.
He rang the bell several times before a distinguished, gray-haired man in a crisp business suit answered the door.
“Can I help you?” The faint odor of whiskey explained the glassy eyes. Booze-fueled laughter erupted from somewhere inside the house.
“Special Agent Cage Foster with the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. I’m investigating a possible murder that may have ties to the Krewe of Atlas. That’s your parade krewe, right?”
The man looked Cage up and down. “And how does your case involve us?”
“We found 1960 silver Atlas doubloons at the scene. Brooks Hughes confirmed they were from an original mint given to founding families and officers. I’m here for a list of names.”
“Brooks Hughes complied with your request?”
“More or less.”
The man stared him down, clearly used to his social stature speaking for itself. “I’m afraid Brooks isn’t here. You will have to make an appointment in his office. We don’t allow nonmembers inside.”
“Private gentleman’s club, right. Is that like The PhoeniX?”
“I’ve never heard of it, so I couldn’t tell you. Good day.”
Cage jammed his foot in front of the door. “I just spoke with George Leighton’s nephew. He claims a woman at one of Kappa Phi’s parties recognized him as a legacy.”
“His nephew isn’t a legacy,” the man said. “Mr. Leighton’s son is. He’s away at Yale.”
“I don’t care. Point is, this young woman has no connection to anyone Matt knows. He doesn’t understand how she knew his family were members of the London Club.” On its own, Cage didn’t find that as earthshaking as Matt had. The London Club might be secretive, but people loved to
gossip.
“Again, I can’t help you.”
“Thing is, this girl found the victim. Then she disappears less than a week later.”
“I hope you find her.” He sounded about as sincere as a junkie insisting he’d taken his last hit.
“I’m sure you can see how all these bits and pieces circle back to your club. You wouldn’t want the actions of one bad egg to cause a scandal. Easier if I just get the list of doubloon owners.”
“Make an appointment with Brooks. Good day.” The glass rattled when the door slammed shut.
Cage leaned against one of the white columns and waved at the security camera mounted in the corner. Would it kill for them to put some porch furniture out?
The door opened again, and a younger man stepped out with a smile, top buttons open and his tie loose. His blond hair had mostly grayed, but Cage put him no older than thirty-five. Had he met this guy before?
“Carson Hughes.”
That explained the familiarity. Carson had the same delicate bone structure as his younger sister, same penetrating eyes and gray hair. Cage shook the smooth hand. “No trendy silver for you?”
Carson laughed. “Frowned upon in the courtroom. Did you speak to Matt about the alleged assault? I can’t imagine he would do such a thing.”
“Ginger filled you in, did she?”
“Don’t be mad at her. She’s a wreck about all of this.” About Masen and the missing women or risking exposing Madam Marabel?
“Matt didn’t do anything wrong.” Cage skipped the unnecessary details. “But he mentioned Zoey Roberts knew the Leightons were a legacy family. No one knew her, so Matt had no idea how she found out.”
A few people recognized Trish from class, no one at the party knew Zoey. According to Kyle, Trish met Zoey a few months ago when she answered an ad for an apartment. Trish’s shyness nearly handicapped her at the time, so Kyle had been shocked when the two bonded so quickly. He saw it as a good thing: Zoey’s extroverted personality pushed Trish to come out of her shell and do something besides hang out at home. Yet so far, on paper she didn’t exist. That bugged the hell out of Cage. Was she a victim or something else?
“Is it possible she dated a member’s son? Kids aren’t exactly known for keeping secrets.”