by Stacy Green
“Even with the tarp speeding up decomp, she’d need a good five days or more to be in this state,” the coroner said.
Trish and Zoey disappeared seven days ago.
She turned to Robins. “Does the owner have any security cameras?”
“Inside the cabin. That door was locked.”
“What about the marina? Surely the city has security footage.”
“I’ll get it,” Robins said.
With so many marinas bunched together, a person could easily sail from Bucktown Harbor, around the breakwater, and right into the Municipal Harbor. Trish’s small body could have been rolled up in the tarp and slung over a man’s shoulder. Just a guy carrying some stuff to his yacht.
Like everything else owned by the city, the harbor’s funds were limited, which meant only a few security guards at low wage were employed. If a person had the balls to sail around the breakwater at night, charming a security guard would be no problem—if they’d been stopped at all.
Her half-asleep brain finally got to the obvious point. Dumping a body on a yacht where it would surely be found was meant to send a message.
“I need to talk to the owner.”
“I figured you would. She’s waiting in the boathouse.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ginger Hughes.”
Ginger sat inside a private room in the boathouse. Her pallid face had a gray tint that matched her telltale hair.
“Dr. Hughes.” Bonin struggled to find respect for the psychiatrist. Her efforts to aid lower-income patients had softened the edges, but the psychic part still irritated her. Not Madam Marabel—let Ginger have her side jobs. But using her so-called abilities in her practice wasn’t right. If Bonin’s brother had a therapist like that, she’d have her head in a second.
“Detective Bonin, how is Agent Foster?”
Streetcar drivers had been warned to watch for emergency vehicles for an officer down near the Washington Street stop. The drivers who’d jumped off to help had done a noble thing, but some of the car riders had jumped off and started recording on their cell phones.
“Critical,” Bonin said.
“He flatlined, didn’t he?” Ginger said. “Which means clinical death. How many minutes?”
“I’m not discussing it.”
Ginger clutched her coat and gloves. “You don’t have to. I saw him in a dream that morning, lost and confused. I told him it wasn’t his time and to go back.”
“Do not pull your psychic crap right now. Tell me why Trish Millwood’s kidnapper would dump her body on your boat.”
“That’s hard to do without bringing up my psychic crap,” Ginger said.
“Fine. Leave Cage out of it.”
“Is it definitely Trish?”
“Pretty certain. But shouldn’t you know that already?”
“I told the other officer I was bringing supplies, but that wasn’t true,” Ginger said. “As soon as I woke up from the dream that morning, I was hit with this overwhelming drive to come check out the boat. The demanding voice wouldn’t stop until I made it out here.”
“You’re telling me Trish’s spirit brought you here?”
“I don’t know,” Ginger said. “But something intangible did.”
“Or you’re part of this whole thing.”
“Please don’t waste your time with that. We’ve established my alibi.”
“Then someone sees you as a threat,” Bonin said. “Go back to the night Masen died. You’re sure you didn’t see anything else? Someone lured him and probably gave him the bottle that night.”
Ginger shook her head. “I’ve gone back to that night a hundred times, trying to figure out what I could have done differently. I was so upset I didn’t even notice those kids when I left.”
But Zoey didn’t know that. Had she witnessed Ginger’s argument with Masen before she backtracked to get her friends and left Trish’s body as a warning just in case Ginger saw something?
And why bring the friends at all? If she was scouting girls, Trish wasn’t a good fit. She kept in touch with her family and despite her shyness knew she was loved and had a home to go to. Many of the girls lured into trafficking were groomed by some slick jerk who knew how to pick the vulnerable girls. Part of her alibi?
“How did your George Leighton take Cage trying to get into the London Club?”
“From what I heard, he wasn’t upset. I guess he knew the frat had some security policy, and Matt had proof of his innocence. My father was fit to be tied.”
“I hate to ask this, but I have to.”
“My father wouldn’t do that. He’s a pretentious ass, but he’s not a killer.”
“Even if he was a client?” Brooks Hughes didn’t seem the type, and he certainly wasn’t a junior member of the social club.
“You mean paying for sex? I doubt it. Honestly, I’m surprised my brother and I were even born. Dad’s always so preoccupied with money and status, I don’t think he’s interested in anything else.”
Even if another member was involved, Brooks Hughes was powerful within the club and krewe. Would anyone in the organization have the guts to mess with his daughter? “And your brother?”
“Is out of town on business.”
“Speaking of Leighton and Hughes, they do business corporation type stuff, right?”
“I think so. George is the corporate guy. My brother specializes in maritime law.”
“Do you think George Leighton would help set up tax shelters for clients?”
“He’s done it for most of my family. It’s all legal, my brother says. I just don’t understand how it works. Why?”
“Just curious. Think back over the last week,” Bonin said. “You’ve done something that made them decide you needed a warning.”
Ginger didn’t answer right away, her eyebrows knitted together. “There is something, but I don’t want to hear any jokes, all right?”
“Fine.”
“I want to find Masen’s spirit and apologize for failing him. I’ve been back to Holt and felt nothing. I decided to try Fatbacks. He told me—Marabel—that every time he got near the place, he felt like Shana’s ghost was in his head, urging him to go in. And I assume Agent Foster spoke with them about the information I gave them?”
Bonin nodded. “Did you tell Cage about going to Fatbacks?”
“It’s not relevant. He doesn’t believe, and I just wanted to clear my conscience, I guess.” Ginger fished a tissue out of her coat pocket and dabbed her red nose.
“When did you go to Fatbacks?”
“A couple of days after Masen died.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“A few people,” Ginger said. “A ghost hunting group was sitting at the bar, and we got to chatting about investigations. I didn’t tell them about my abilities, but I asked if they’d ever felt a presence in the bar. They hadn’t, but we kept talking. And drinking.”
Ginger looked down at her hands. “The ghost hunters left, and by then I was drunk and lonely and wallowing in guilt. The bartender asked if I was all right. I started talking about one of my recently deceased clients who was obsessed with this place. I think I mentioned something about his girlfriend’s disappearance and The PhoeniX too. I’m not a heavy drinker. I can’t remember all of the details.”
Bonin wanted to scream. Why couldn’t anyone just tell the entire story the first time around? “What did the bartender look like?”
“Just a regular guy.”
Someone at Fatbacks had to be involved. This thing was too big for one person.
“I put myself on their radar, didn’t I?”
“And they just sent you a message to shut up, or you’ll end up like Trish.”
“Trish knew Zoey’s secret. That’s why she killed her.”
“When did you realize this?” Bonin asked.
“Just now,” Ginger said. “It just hits me, and I know. That’s the best way I can explain it.”
“Well, you need to take some se
rious security precautions. I’d stay with your parents if possible. That place has to have state of the art security.”
Ginger’s nose wrinkled. “No thanks. My place has a video-operated security system, and I know how to shoot.”
“Except the person’s on top of you before you even register what’s happening, and it’s too late to get your gun out.”
“I promise I will be careful.”
“You better, because I don’t need the death of a goddamned Redmund-Hughes on my hands.”
“You’re so kind.”
A yawn threatened to split her skull. “Too tired to be polite. Your boat’s our property for the foreseeable future.”
“Understood. Will you please keep me updated about Agent Foster’s condition?”
“I’ll try. Cage came to you in a dream? That morning?” Spirits existed. Her religion believed the ancestors remained on this plane to become loa—powerful spirit guides.
Ginger nodded. “How long did he flatline?”
“The second time was longer. He was technically dead for almost three minutes.”
Any more than three minutes almost guaranteed brain damage. They wouldn’t know until Cage woke up. If he woke up.
“What was he wearing?” Bonin asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“In your dream. What was Cage wearing?”
“A bloody white shirt. More blood on the back.”
Information probably cleaned from voyeuristic cell footage.
“Ole Miss,” Ginger said. “A grungy shirt with ‘Ole Miss’ on the front—the logo had peeled off a bit, I think.”
Bonin’s insides hollowed out. She struggled to keep a neutral expression. “Good to know. By the way, I assume your gun is registered?”
“Of course,” Ginger said. “It’s a .22.”
“And you were in bed at five a.m. yesterday morning?”
“I see,” Ginger said. “I hit the mark on the shirt, so you’re thinking the only way I would know is if I shot him.”
Bonin didn’t answer.
“That’s my free morning. I’m usually up around eight, and then I go for a Pilates class at nine thirty. So yes, I was sleeping.”
“Not much of an alibi.”
“I have security footage,” she said. “Both exits of my home. I didn’t leave.”
“Thanks for your time, Doctor.”
Outside, she called her boss and brought him up to speed.
“I want a rushed warrant for Ginger Hughes’s security footage. I’m going to make sure she stays at the scene until I can get to her house with the warrant.”
“No goddamned way. What possible motive would she have?”
“I’m not sure, but how else did she know what he had on when he was shot?”
“Some asshole got better cell footage than we realized.”
The call ended.
Bonin leaned against the building, gulping in the sea-scented air.
“A warrant wouldn’t do you any good.” Ginger stood in the boathouse doorway. “My system is set to recycle every twenty-four hours.”
“Isn’t that convenient?”
“Believe what you want,” Ginger said. “But I had no reason to shoot Agent Foster.”
“Let me search your house, then.” If she hadn’t washed the clothes, the analysts might be able to get gunpowder residue off her clothes. Cage had been shot with a nine millimeter, but Ginger could be lying about how many guns she had.
Ginger smiled. “I’m innocent, but I’m no fool. You can either waste your time getting a warrant or take things on faith and find the person who did this.”
31
Every single molecule in his body hurt. His eyelids felt like they’d been sewn shut. His throat might as well have been yanked out of him.
The beeping. His heartbeat, slow but steady.
His heart was still beating.
He cracked his eyelids open and immediately closed them. The lights overhead made him see stars.
He licked his lips. Thirsty now, so dry his mouth felt shriveled.
Something cold and plastic touched his lips.
“Slowly.” Dani.
But the straw commanded his attention. He sucked in water until she took it away.
“I said slowly, dummy. You don’t want to throw up.”
He needed to see her.
His eyes opened again, blinking against the brightness.
Her cool hand brushed his forehead. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
He drifted in and out for a while. Voices came and went—most he didn’t recognize. Dani’s stayed constant, reassuring him every time he tried to pull himself to the surface.
“Just rest. You’ll wake up when your body is ready.”
He needed to tell her something important. He kept trying until he crawled his way out of the stupor, fighting through the brightness and the constant, throbbing pain.
Her pale face leaned close to his. Fatigue circled her eyes, but she was smiling.
Cage made his lips move. “I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I love you.”
Her blue eyes welled with tears. “I love you too.”
Four days. He’d been sedated and on a vent for four days after the surgery. The loss of time seemed impossible.
The burning down his throat came from the intubation tube being yanked out. His swollen face ached, and his chest felt like Thor’s hammer had given him a beatdown.
“You lost so much blood.” Bonin stood opposite Dani, looking just as exhausted. “You had luck on your side.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I left the gris-gris bag at home.”
“Did you see his face?” Bonin asked. “Because we’re going to get this sonofabitch.”
His heartbeat ticked up. “He wore a white mask. Black eyes. Good luck on finding him. I’m sure the NOPD isn’t too worried.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “Outsider or not, you’re a cop, and this trash bag shot you point blank. Even the cranky veterans are out for him.”
“Why didn’t I die?” He should have asked this question first, but the sedative still clogged his brain.
“Lyric saved your life,” Dani said. “She was down the street. If she hadn’t been …” She cleared her throat. “Your dad is on a cruise. I’ve been keeping him updated as much as I can.”
“Good for him,” Cage said. “Mom would want him to be happy.”
Lana.
Mom.
Ginger.
Hovering over his own body, watching the surgeon with the Mardi Gras scrub hat trying to stabilize him.
“Someone else needs to see you before she loses her mind,” Dani said. “She’s been absolutely distraught. I’ll go get her.”
His mother and sister had been so real. He’d wanted to stay. They didn’t want him to.
A dream. Had to be. His mind conjuring whatever it could to keep him calm.
Ginger told him to go back.
The door opened, and Cage expected to see his daughter. Instead, a tearful Annabeth rushed to him.
“Be careful.” Bonin grabbed her arm. “He’s still hooked up to stuff.”
Annabeth’s hand shook as she wrapped it around his. A single tear ran out of her eye. “Right now, you don’t look like Agent Sexy. More like Agent Corpse.”
Bonin smacked Annabeth’s arm. Dani laughed.
Pain kept Cage from laughing. “What about my hair? They didn’t need to shave it?”
“No, thank God,” Annabeth said. “I’d have had a funeral just for that.”
“You know?” Cage asked Bonin.
“About what?”
What was he trying to say? So much fog in his head. The memory of that last day couldn’t be entirely gone.
“The message.” He took a drink of water.
“About Zoey’s scam? Yes, I got it.”
“Find them?”
Bonin glanced at Dani, who shook her head.
/> “You need to rest.”
“I will, after you tell me things.”
“Tell you things?”
“Know what I mean.” Sleep sounded so good.
“Zoey is still missing.”
“Atlas,” Cage said. “She knew …” Something he’d forgotten, but it was important.
“She probably blackmailed someone. We’re working on it.”
Probably not. Everyone pissed their pants at the idea of confronting those society people.
At least he remembered that part. He blinked, Bonin and Dani going in and out of focus. Wait.
“You said Zoey is still missing. Trish?”
“Just rest.” Dani smoothed his hair, running her fingernails over his scalp. Not fair. No relaxing until he had an answer.
“Tell me.”
“If I do, will you stop asking questions and sleep?” Bonin asked.
Cage shrugged. No promises.
Bonin sighed. “Trish’s body was found a few days ago. We don’t know how she died.”
He clenched his fists, sending waves of pain through him. “When?”
“Given the decomposition, probably within a day of disappearing. No more questions.”
He didn’t have the energy to protest.
32
Lyric sat in Dani’s vacated spot. His wife finally left to sleep, promising to bring Emma back with her.
“You look like you died.”
“I did, technically.” The rest stalled in his throat. One of the first responders had come by and told him what Lyric had done.
“You saved my life.”
“True, but I also asked you to meet me there, so it’s the least I could have done.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, staring at her hands before looking back up at him. “I’m so sorry for putting you in that position.”
“It’s not your fault. I run the same route every day. They probably followed me.”
Cage slowly drank water. No point in trying to schmooze Lyric to get her to talk. She already knew how much she’d reveal, so might as well get down to it.
“I know you lied. You were there the night Masen got thrown out, talking to Layla.”