The Night He Died

by Stacy Green

  “Seriously? You just moved up to stable condition.”

  “Easier to think work than anything else.” Like whatever he’d experienced in that trauma room. “I want the truth, Lyric.”

  “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “I’ll tell you if I get tired.”

  “I haven’t been totally honest with you about a few things.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  Her smile actually reached her eyes. “A few months ago, I ran into a childhood friend, Amy, at Fatbacks. I really didn’t want to talk to her, but she didn’t bug me about my years with scumbag, so I let her buy me a drink. Long story short, she’d been earning a nice buck working as a high-end escort. The Uptown wealthy still like their light-skinned secrets.”

  “Of course they do.”

  “Then she asks me if I know anything about a new blue book with some organized brothel—you needed a password to get in. One of her rich guys offered her five grand to find out the details. She’s there to meet a recruiter for The PhoeniX, like it’s all professional and shit. Amy had already got her hands on one blue book, and she’d talked to the right people, I guess.”

  “Why were you there that night?”

  “To have a drink.”

  He waited.

  “I was tired of hearing Annabeth and Remy have sex.”

  “Oh Christ. Go on.”

  “Amy goes over to talk to this curvy blonde. I got tired of waiting, so I got up to leave.”

  “That sounds like something Annabeth would do—just get up and leave.”

  “Except I knew it was rude, and I just didn’t care. I’d already given her my cell number—even though I didn’t plan on answering her call. Amy catches up with me and is all excited because this blonde had the hookup with The PhoeniX and wanted to meet in a few days to talk about Amy having a job opportunity. Supposedly impressed that Amy had a higher-end client. Amy had just introduced me to her when Masen made his appearance. Started screaming at this blonde girl about taking his girlfriend into The PhoeniX, and he could prove it. Pretty sure if the bouncer hadn’t stepped in, the blonde would have taken his head off. Anyway, I left and didn’t think anything of it until I saw Amy’s name on the news.

  Cage guessed where the story was going. “Homicide?”

  “Overdose. Fentanyl. Highly concentrated.”

  “You’re kidding me. Masen had traces of fentanyl in him.”

  “I convinced some intern at the coroner’s office that I was Amy’s lesbian girlfriend, and her family didn’t want anything to do with me. I told him they blocked me from the funeral, and I just needed some closure.”

  “You’re a stunning liar.”

  “Thank you,” Lyric said. “Amy was found six days after that night at Fatbacks, and the coroner said she’d likely been dead less than twenty-four hours.”

  “How’d you get him to tell you that?”

  She folded her hands in her lap. Her face softened, and a tear actually welled in her eye. “I wanted to make sure there was nothing I could have done. That it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Jesus, Lyric.”

  “If I didn’t ask, she wasn’t going to get justice. She was a working girl who OD’d. On to the next.”

  “You broke into her apartment and stole the blue book, didn’t you?”

  Lyric smiled. “Very good, Agent. And then I started looking for her, which is how I ended up at 325 Cabaret.”

  “Why did you pick that one?”

  “Because Amy specifically mentioned it.”

  “The bouncer at Fatbacks is certain Layla and Zoey are the same person.”

  “That’s the ‘not completely honest part.’ I like to call it selective omission.”

  He ground his teeth, his muscles screaming in protest. “You recognized her that night.”

  “I hoped she was too blasted to recognize me, since we barely spoke before, but she kept getting too close, trying to get a better look at me. I looked at her dead in the eyes, letting her know I had more to say. She followed me outside on my break. I said she killed Amy because of the blue book sex ring deal and is either running the thing or helping bring in girls.”

  Lyric’s face hardened into the mask she’d worn the night her kidnapper died. “She threatened me, the dumb bitch. I put the fear of God in her, and she backed off real quick. Starts giving me this story about selling drugs and being involved in something she shouldn’t have been, but she’s clean and going to school now. Went on about being there with her roommate.

  “I asked her why Masen accused her of taking his girlfriend into a sex ring. Said it was pretty funny ‘Layla’ saw him come in and go off, and then ‘Zoey’ finds him.”

  “Wait.” Cage held up his hand. The drugs had to wear off soon because he was slogging too far behind. “Goddamn, you knew they were the same person and point-blank lied to me?” His heart rate monitor accelerated.

  “I knew that’s what they called her. No idea if it’s her real name. Let me finish. She starts to answer, and then her whole body just stills. The roommate—Trish—had come outside to find her. I have no idea how much she heard, but they were gone when I came back inside.”

  Exhaustion kept Cage from screaming at her. “Why didn’t you tell me the first night I asked about it?”

  “Because I was working at the club to get more information, and I didn’t think I could trust you.”

  “After everything I’ve done?”

  “I’ve got issues. And you’ve got people to answer to,” Lyric said. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I wanted to talk about that morning?”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  “I’ve been trying to find out who the hell Layla/Zoey really was without getting my own ass in trouble. Everyone thought I’d left after my shift, but I stayed around. The walls are paper thin, so I could hear arguing on the other side, from the manager’s office. I heard something about ‘one screw up after the other. Cop’s getting too close and it has to be taken care of.’”

  His stomach turned.

  “The club’s employee entrance is in the back. I hid in the alley and waited to see who came out.”

  “Zoey?”

  “Two women wearing hats and hoods. I couldn’t make out their faces. One woman was crackhead skinny, and the other looked like a Weeble Wobble. Anyway, I knew it was time to tell you everything. You know what happened next.” She glared at the heart monitor. “I wanted to run that bitch down, but you would have bled out.”

  “You don’t know it was Zoey who shot me. A gangbanger’s not too happy with me, either.”

  “Do gangbangers have red hair?”

  Cage stilled. “You saw red hair? I saw a mask and a hoodie.”

  “She ran like hell when I screamed. The hoodie flew off, and she had a ponytail under the mask.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “You told Bonin you didn’t see anyone.”

  “Because I don’t trust her. I wanted to tell you.”

  “What if I’d died?”

  “Then I would have hunted the bitch down and taken her out myself.”

  “God Almighty, you’re all kinds of screwed up.”

  “And you’ve only touched the surface,” Lyric said. “If it weren’t for the hell you’ve been through and the morphine, I’d be disappointed you haven’t got to the most important question. The one which could blow your case wide open.”

  “You’ve lied about so many things I can’t catch up.”

  “But I’m telling you now, and I saved your life, so … deal with it.”

  He closed his eyes and prayed for sleep. Then it hit him. “Amy’s wealthy guy who started all of it. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know, but Amy bragged about him belonging to one of the elite gentleman’s clubs. Didn’t some chick blackmail a junior member of the London Club?”

  Cage sank onto the couch. Two weeks in the hospital had turned his legs to jelly. Emma climbed onto his lap, set
tling in with her juice. She’d clung to Cage every time she visited the hospital, and he had a feeling she’d be sleeping in their bed for a while.

  Gunshot wounds were unpredictable, the surgeon had said. Cage should have died from sheer blood loss, but the bullet had missed bone and vital organ. Most of the damage had been limited to muscular and tissue trauma, which should heal quicker and allow him to get back to work faster.

  Agent Rogers had made it clear it wouldn’t be that easy. After he was medically cleared, he would need to be psychologically cleared. Apparently being shot twice in less than three weeks and ending up clinically dead—twice—meant he needed trauma therapy.

  He’d rather just put everything behind him.

  “Stop.” Dani sat down beside him.

  “What?”

  “Thinking about work. You need to rest.”

  “I’m sitting down.”

  She glared at him and then rested her head on his shoulder. “I almost lost you. I can’t go through that again.”

  He wrapped his arm around her and held her as tightly as he could without disturbing his bandages. Emma shifted into the crook of his other arm.

  His eyes stung. He almost missed so much. And yet he’d wanted so desperately to stay with his mother and sister. Cage had heard stories about near-death experiences and chalked them up to the scientific explanation of the brain protecting itself.

  Is that what he experienced, or had it all been real?

  Ginger made him go back. She knew he’d been wearing the Ole Miss shirt. She’d warned him from day one. Maybe she really was able to tap into something.

  Or Bonin was right, and some video existed of him in the shirt, bleeding to death. He almost wished she hadn’t told him, and he was pretty sure she hadn’t intended to, but she stepped in it when she mentioned trying to search Ginger’s security footage.

  “What are you thinking about?” Dani sounded about five seconds away from passing out. She had to be absolutely drained.

  His throat closed up at the idea of talking about it. “Just about how lucky I am.”

  Had Amy blackmailed the London Club member? Layla might have killed her for them.

  Bonin had listened stone-faced to Lyric’s story before launching into a tirade about how they might have found Zoey. Lyric had simply shrugged.

  Layla/Zoey. He couldn’t keep them straight. From now on, she would just be Layla.

  Bonin had worked her butt off the past couple of weeks. It took him a couple of times to understand the whole shell corporation thing. Bonin had used the room’s whiteboard to explain it until the nurse yelled at her.

  Cypress Inc., LLC, was the top shell, and it owned Fatbacks and two other LLCs. Those LLCs owned 325 Cabaret and two clubs downtown. George Leighton was the contact on each LLC.

  Unless the LBI could prove his ties to The PhoeniX, Leighton was untouchable. Those ties might not even exist. Leighton was a top tax attorney. He could easily be as out of the loop as the employees. The PhoeniX was too covert for many of them to know.

  Bonin managed to confirm Layla frequented Fatbacks and the two downtown clubs. She’d likely stayed away from 325 Cabaret because of Lyric.

  Bonin was probably at Fatbacks now trying to rattle someone loose. Cage wished like hell that he could join her. He needed to work. How was he supposed to sit around at home while Zoey—Layla still ran the streets?

  33

  BONIN

  With Fat Tuesday just days away, crowds packed Bourbon Street. Nearly every bar had an overflow, and it wasn’t even noon. Peak tourist season also meant most of the managerial staffs were in house. The gruff assistant manager at 325 Cabaret had little to say, stating he ran a legit business and didn’t know much about the corporation other than they cut his checks.

  “Who signs those checks?”

  “Hell if I know. Direct deposited. You want to see it, get a warrant.”

  The downtown clubs had been equally as hospitable. She saved Fatbacks for last, armed with the information on Layla/Zoey’s activities and Fatback’s position in the shell corporation.

  Bonin forced her way through the sea of drinkers and found a tiny space at the corner of the bar. She waved her badge at the bartender. “I need to speak to the manager.”

  If Bonin wasn’t so exhausted, she would have been flattered at the flirty smile. The guy couldn’t have been more than thirty, with a mop of blond hair and sky-blue eyes. “That would be me. I’m Jared.”

  “What do you know about your owners?”

  His eyebrows knitted together. “Quite a bit. They’re my parents.”

  “Any chance one of them is around?”

  “Not this time of year.” He laughed. “They put in their time dealing with this crowd. I pretty much run things.”

  She showed him a picture of Zoey. “Do you know her?”

  “Yeah. She’s all over the news. Shot a cop.”

  “Ever see her in here before but with blonde hair?”

  He opened three beer bottles and set them on a server’s tray. “God, I don’t know. We stay pretty busy.”

  “She’s been seen as a blonde in multiple bars that can all be tracked via tax shelters to Cypress Lane LLC., which owns this bar.”

  Jared’s eyes widened. “Let me call my mom. Can you wait in the back office?”

  Suzette Sellers looked soft. Bonin’s grandma used the adjective for bigger women with even bigger hearts and personalities. She must have vigorously protected her fair skin from the Louisiana sun because she barely looked old enough to have a son Jared’s age.

  “My husband is out of town,” Suzette said. “Have we done something wrong?”

  “I hope not.” Bonin explained Layla/Zoey’s frequenting the bars owned by Cypress Lane LLC., and its subsidiaries. “You see where I’m going with this?”

  “Of course,” Suzette said. “I don’t think we did anything illegal with the tax shelter. We’re just trying to get a break from Washington. Mr. Leighton handles all of that.” Bonin had broken the rules and reached out to a friend who works in white-collar crime about Leighton. No reports or tax issues, no whispers of misconduct.

  “I’m not worried about the tax shelter,” Bonin said. “This woman is wanted for shooting an agent with the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. I need to know why she chose your bars to conduct business in.”

  “We don’t own the two places downtown anymore,” Jared said. “We sold those subsidiaries two years ago.”

  “I just couldn’t handle running three busy places,” Suzette said. “The other two clubs aren’t in the Quarter, and Fatbacks is the heart of our business. The buyer wanted to purchase both of them and keep the LLCs because he didn’t want to change the names. We were fine with that as long as we didn’t end up having to pay in taxes.”

  “And 325 Cabaret is a new place,” Jared said. “It’s never been one of ours.”

  “Who did you sell to?” Zoey had probably visited plenty of bars. How many were connected to this new owner?

  Suzette opened the file. “He was a foreign man, very nice and accommodating. From everything I’ve heard, the places are still doing well.”

  Bonin didn’t recognize the name. “Would he have kept George Leighton as his corporate lawyer?”

  “I’d think so. It would certainly make his life easier.”

  “Do you recognize this girl—not as the woman who shot a cop, but as a customer? She had blonde hair and went by Layla.”

  “Like the song.” Suzette hummed as she squinted at the picture. “I don’t, but my husband and I aren’t around as much as we used to be. Jared handles most things.”

  “How often do you scrub your security footage?” Bonin asked.

  “Every seventy-two hours,” Jared said. “I definitely haven’t seen her since she shot that cop. I would have recognized her from the news.”

  “Did you speak with the managers at these other places?” Suzette asked. “Surely they could tell you more.”

  “They d
eclined,” she said. “May I have a copy of this?” She held up the file. “I’m going to try to find this new owner.

  She had a better chance of getting a warrant for Leighton.

  34

  Helping Annabeth get her driver’s license might have been the worst idea Cage ever had. She drove too fast and took turns at whiplash speed.

  “Please slow down.”

  “I’m the driver. You’re shotgun, so shut it.”

  He should have been cleared to drive. His head was fine—physically. His right shoulder had muscle damage from the bullet’s trajectory and throbbed with any real movement. He drove left-handed, anyway. “Car’s owner trumps driver. Slow it down.”

  For once, she didn’t argue. “Look at all the empty lots.”

  Katrina had wiped out St. Bernard Parish, with nearly every structure covered in water to the roof. The storm surge and levee failures had attacked the small community from every direction.

  “I read somewhere that less than half the houses were habitable,” Annabeth said. “You know every place had at least six feet of water after the levees broke. That means mold out the ying-yang. I’m not living there even if some expert cleared it. And I bet they wouldn’t, either.”

  “Some people have no choice.”

  Annabeth held up her phone. “This navigation makes no sense.”

  “Give me that.” He snatched the phone. “You drive, I’ll navigate.”

  Shana and her uncle lived in a modest, post-Katrina fabricated house with an immaculate postcard-sized yard and a young magnolia just a few inches taller than Cage.

  A reedy man with sun damaged skin and thinning, brown hair greeted them. “Please have a seat. Ya’ll want any tea? You’re the cop who got shot, right?”

  Cage nodded, grateful to get off his feet. His stamina had yet to return. “Thank you for seeing us. This is my friend, Annabeth.”

  Shana had been raised by her uncle after her mother died in Katrina. She’d been the only family he had left. He wore the grim face of a man resigned to accept the worst. “I know you’re not here to tell me you found her.”