by Stacy Green
“No, but I’m investigating her boyfriend’s death. Masen Malone.”
“I heard he committed suicide.”
“I just want to make sure I’ve followed up on every lead.” Nice and casual. He still had his Southern charm as long as he wasn’t thinking about the pain in his chest and shoulder and the weakness in his legs. “Did you think he might have hurt Shana?”
“Yeah, I did. Especially when the cops went that way. Kid seemed to care about her, but he was an addict, and Shana’s a fixer.”
“Did he tell you they fought because he’d accused her of cheating?” Her uncle likely didn’t know about the stripping, and Cage didn’t want to tell him unless he absolutely had to.
“Beat himself up about it. Overdosed. I had to call the paramedics. Narcan saved his life. The ungrateful shit left and stuck me with the ambulance bill.”
Narcan was used to reverse heroin and opioid overdoses, acting to block the receptors, essentially kicking the drug out. It worked well if the person was found in time. Masen had traces of fentanyl in his system when he died, but there was nothing in the medical records about an overdose.
Annabeth had finished the candy bar she’d brought along. “Don’t you think he beat himself up because he lost his shit and killed her?”
Cage kicked her under the table, the effort draining his energy. He’d instructed her to stay as quiet as possible since her disinhibition tended to come out at the worst possible moments.
If Sanders was offended, he hid it well. “Maybe. But it’s my experience that alcohol brings out the honesty in people. Especially whiskey. He kept repeating the same story. Like he’d memorized it.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Maybe three months ago. He’d stopped coming around, and then he shows up out of the blue. Smelled like a two-day binge. Looked even worse. Then started going on about Layla again. Said he’d found her and was going to get to the truth.”
“You told the detectives you’d never heard of Layla.”
“I hadn’t, but he claimed she was a new friend of Shana’s. Said she was a bad influence, and that’s why she didn’t bring her home to meet me.” Sanders shook his head. “He was the bad influence.”
“Masen thought Layla had something to do with her disappearance.”
“All he talked about, right from the beginning. The police didn’t believe him, so he got obsessed with proving his case. His theory was Layla was getting her into some sex trafficking thing.”
“Did he ever mention any specific clubs or bars he thought might be involved?” If Masen had tracked down Layla, he might have figured out where she’d lured Shana into dancing—probably The PhoeniX’s main place.
“I don’t think so, but he blabbered a lot. I couldn’t get up with it all.” Sanders sighed. “But the trafficking made sense. Happens all the time, and Bourbon Street is the epicenter of nasty. I always thought if she had been taken for that, she’d been shipped off. Why keep a girl who police are looking for?”
“Masen had a different take,” Cage said.
“He had a booklet, some modernized version of a Storyville Blue Book. You know what that is?”
Cage nodded.
“They’re so cool,” Annabeth said. “I would love to see one of the originals. I’ve only seen the photocopies.”
“Me too,” Sanders said. “And this book was skimpy on information, and nothing like the old blue books. I figured it was some silly tourist deal. But Masen was dead set this had to do with Shana’s disappearance.”
“Did he say why?” Cage asked.
“He says Shana had it the day she disappeared. He figured it was something to do with school so didn’t ask. He finds it hidden in some of her clothes at his place. She’d made a bunch of notes in it, trying to figure out where this so-called brothel was. Her shorthand was more confusing than the book.”
Shana’s notes had been nothing but various initials. They might have meant something to the right people, giving them motive.
“I told him to give it to the police. Said he tried, but they laughed at him. I asked the other detective about it, and he said Masen never showed him the book. He couldn’t find him by then, but I don’t think he looked that hard.”
“Is Shana really related to Dotty Jean?” Annabeth blurted out.
“Sure is.” Sanders perked up. “Dotty was her great-great-grandmother.”
“Do you know what happened to the mask Dotty stole?”
“Stop,” Cage said. “That’s none of our business.”
“I just want to see it if he has it.”
“You’re a straight shooter, aren’t you?”
“Brain damaged, but straight shooter sounds better. Although, I have a shitty shot.”
Cage closed his eyes, but Sanders burst out laughing.
“My grandpa was Dotty’s son. He was young when she died, but he remembered. She worked the brothels to save up money to go to school to be a teacher.”
“Did she steal the mask?”
“Annabeth—”
“You know the history, right?” Sanders leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clearly proud of his family history. “Dotty was half black, but her skin was light enough she passed for an octoroon—the rich white guy’s favorite flavor. She was plucked by the madam from one of the cribs on Basin Street and all trussed up. Dotty did what she had to in order to live. And those men had plenty of trinkets to lose.”
“She stole other stuff too?” Annabeth nudged Cage. “Octoroon is 1/8th black, by the way. Part of the whole ‘one-drop’ era. Considered very offensive now.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s what I’ve always been told,” Sanders said. “The mask was the last straw, and the guy pushed her down the stairs. My grandpa saw it happen. He was only five or so, and she’d brought him for the afternoon. Some of the working women had girls that were around all the time and ended up doing favors for some of the men.”
“Gross,” Annabeth said.
“Since Dotty had a boy, he couldn’t stay with them. Only visited once in a while, and when he did, JoJo usually took care of him. And anyway, the law didn’t care, and they basically never talked about the guy, even though everyone knew the truth.”
“Who was JoJo?” Annabeth asked.
“One of the working girls’ daughters. She was one of them that started doing ‘favors’ before she turned ten. And she’d watch my grandpa while Dotty had a man—if she wasn’t tricking herself. Way Pops told it, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs, and she landed at his feet. He saw the guy push her, but some whore’s kid didn’t get to accuse a Redmund of murder. Sorry for the language—theirs, not mine. JoJo’s the one that took him away from the body and kept him till Dotty’s mama came for him.”
“All this information comes firsthand from your grandpa?” He couldn’t imagine a child watching that happen and then being told the man who’d pushed her was too important to accuse.
Sanders nodded, his eyes misting. “JoJo promised him she’d come get him after she got her own place up and running. That was their little secret. JoJo had a plan to have her own brothel, and he could be the handyman or whatever else he wanted to be.”
“Did she come for him?” Annabeth asked.
“She tried. Big Mama wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Did JoJo ever get her own place?” Annabeth asked. “Storyville closed in 1918, and I’ve never heard her name mentioned.”
“Pops said she did and never got caught. He wouldn’t say how he knew, but I can guess.”
“So, what about the mask?” Annabeth asked. “Your grandpa had to know what happened to it.”
“It’s been sort of a family heirloom. Kind of a blood money thing.”
Annabeth bounced in her seat. “You have it? Do you know how much money it’s worth? You wouldn’t have to live in flood zone hell anymore. I don’t understand why you rebuilt anyway—”
“Because it’s my home, and I’m not
leaving. And my grandpa flat-out refused to sell the mask. He wasn’t going to make money off his mother’s death, especially when he was old enough to understand who the Redmund-Hughes family was. My daddy just carried that on.”
“Can we see it?”
Sanders rubbed the back of his neck. “I said my father carried it on. But I don’t have any retirement or family to take care of me when I get old. Katrina sucked everything up, and now Shana’s gone. She’d never forgive me, but I have to get by.”
“Shit.” Annabeth deflated, sinking down in the chair. “How much did you get for it? Please tell me it was a metric fu—”
“Annabeth, that’s enough,” Cage said. “The mask is gone.”
“You two should have come around earlier,” Sanders said. “I just sold it a couple months ago. Lady claimed she was a descendant of the original owner and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Can’t remember her name.”
Cage slammed his hand on the dash. “Sonofabitch.”
“Ginger Hughes, right?” Annabeth started the engine. “Masen probably told her.”
“And she continues to lie to me.” Pressure built in his chest, his ribs burning.
“Why, though? Masen didn’t know she went and bought it.”
“He must have found out. Decided to out her double life.”
Annabeth cut off a car merging onto the highway. “Dude, Masen was a hardcore addict those last months. Money would have kept him quiet.”
She was probably right, but Cage couldn’t see past the continued lying. Only guilty people had something to hide.
“A secret madam no one knew about. How cool is that?”
“Probably the ramblings of an old man,” Cage said. “Storyville’s been researched to death. Someone would have identified her.”
“You have no imagination,” she said.
He was too busy thinking about confronting Ginger Hughes to respond.
35
Ginger Hughes wasn’t answering her phone. Big surprise. She and the rest of her family were probably staggering drunk right about now.
He’d planned on taking Dani and Emma to watch the parades, but he didn’t have the energy or patience to deal with the noise and drunks. Lyric and Annabeth had taken them, joining Miss Alexandrine at a supposedly prime, safe spot.
Every local network broadcasts the parades live. Cage watched from the couch, drinking an aged Bourbon he’d saved for special occasions. Being stuck inside on your first Fat Tuesday in New Orleans because some redheaded bitch nearly killed you seemed special enough.
He scrolled through a website that listed by-the-minute information on the day’s parties. The Atlas Ball was the grand finale, with the London Club elite pretending to be royalty for a few hours. The whole spectacle was so important the site listed arrival times for the most important people. Ginger couldn’t avoid him if he confronted her tonight.
She’d explain why she lied about the mask, and she’d tell him how in the hell she knew what shirt he’d worn that day.
Dani would never let him out of the house if she knew what he was doing, so he needed a driver and an accomplice who wouldn’t rat him out.
He drained his glass. Good thing he knew the perfect person.
“You reek of booze.” Lyric edged his car through the packed streets.
“It’s Fat Tuesday. Everyone does.”
“Does your wife know what you’re doing?”
“She’s asleep with Emma.”
Thankfully he didn’t need to come up with an excuse to leave the house. Dani had been exhausted since he’d been in the hospital. Mardi Gras day wiped her out.
“Should you be drinking on pain meds?”
“Not taking them.”
“That’s dumb.”
“They don’t let me think straight.” And they’re addictive. He’d rather suffer.
“If this is thinking straight, you might have a problem,” Lyric said. “What is the point of this?”
“Ginger Hughes had that mask all along. She probably found out from Masen that Shana’s family still had it, so she’s been lying from the start. Her fingerprints were on the bottle.”
“What motivation would she have to poison him?”
“Even with her supposed rebelling by living outside the family comfort zone, she’s proud of her heritage. An Atlas member is the one who asked your friend about the brothel. See where I’m going?”
“You think she killed him to protect the family name? She’s a psychiatrist. Mandatory reporter. Why would she do that?”
He didn’t have an answer right now, and he didn’t care. He was sick of being lied to. Not a single person in this investigation had been honest with him. If they had, he might have caught Zoey before she shot him.
“You’re big on instinct, right?” Lyric asked.
He shrugged.
“Before you were shot, you believed Ginger told the truth about the night Masen died. You asked for her help to get to that frat kid.”
“So what?”
Lyric sighed. “So, your head is scrambled right now.”
“Trish’s body was left on Ginger’s boat,” Cage said. “Zoey finds out who she is, realizes she’s got ties to Atlas—who’s evidently part of their clientele—and warns her to shut up by dumping Trish on the boat.”
“Or she found out Ginger was there that night and is worried she saw something.”
“She went to Fatbacks and started asking questions like an idiot.” He shouldn’t have told Lyric so many details, but since he was benched, screw it. Bonin was still pissed at her for keeping so much from them. He should be, too, but he understood her on a weird level. Everything she endured changed her entire perspective.
And she’d saved his life. Maybe he felt obligated.
“There you go,” Lyric said. “That’s why Trish was dumped on her boat.”
“She still lied—repeatedly.”
“Did she, though?”
Cage shifted to stare at her. “What?”
“She didn’t tell you she was the psychic, but she told you everything about the reading. When you confronted her, she admitted she’d been at the cemetery.”
“Because her fingerprints were on the bottle.”
“Shut up, I’m not finished. Next time you see her, she tells you about the Leighton family and hooks you up with information on the frat.”
“She didn’t tell me about having the mask.”
Lyric shook her head. “She probably sees it as irrelevant. And did you specifically ask her whether or not she had the mask?”
Had he? They’d discussed it. She’d admitted it came from someone in her family. “Doesn’t matter. She’s a smart woman, and she knew the mask would make her look like a suspect.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You don’t have to.” Anger simmered in his gut and spiked his adrenaline. Someone had to be held accountable.
Lyric stopped at the intersection. “Canal’s blocked off—I can’t get you much closer. Can you handle the walk?”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Sheraton is one block over and about a block and a half down on Canal. You won’t miss it.”
“I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“You might have to wait for me. I’m not sure how close I can hang around.”
Cage shut the door and headed toward Canal Street, the alcohol keeping him warm in the chilly air. Noise came from everywhere: music from cars and the hotels, people laughing and shouting, cars honking. Purple and green flags flew, and the stupid damn beads were everywhere. He’d stepped on at least three strands already.
Throngs of people lined the sidewalks, and spotlights shined on the street in front of the hotel. He dug out his badge and started pushing his way through the crowd.
A red carpet lay between barriers to make an aisle. The local press waited against the barrier across from him like the president was in town. He wedged his way between a couple of women—badg
e out—and leaned against the cold metal.
So damned tired. His legs had turned to jelly a long time ago. How long would he feel this way? Healthy, active people were supposed to recover faster. He had shit to do.
He checked his watch—7:12 p.m. The royal court was supposed to arrive at seven thirty, but according to tradition, the Captain of Atlas—Brooks Hughes—and his guests—arrived before the court. Ginger claimed she participated in the big Mardi Gras events to placate her father.
A black stretch limousine pulled up, and two men dressed in tuxedos rushed to open the door.
Cage’s stomach flipped. Atlas still wore masks to their balls, keeping membership secret.
A man and a woman came first, wearing masks that reminded Cage of melting wax. Probably Brooks Hughes and his wife, going by the aged hands and enormous wedding ring set. The second couple masked as jokers.
Ginger walked last and alone, silver hair up, her simple mask revealing most of her face.
Cage leaned forward, ready to call her name. But Ginger’s head snapped toward him. She broke ranks, leaning over the barricade.
Whispers from the crowd. God, these people and their pomp and circumstance.
“Agent Foster.” Her gloved hand touched his arm. “It’s so wonderful to see you. How are you feeling?”
“Uh, fine, thanks.” He hadn’t expected this sort of reception, but his building anger refused to let him change course. “I know you bought the mask from Shana’s uncle weeks ago. More lies from you.”
“You never asked if I had it. What difference does it make?”
Cameras flashed, but Ginger’s family had disappeared, evidently unaware of her detour. Or unwilling to go against tradition.
“Have you been drinking?”
“It’s Fat Tuesday.” He smirked.
“I’m sure you’re taking multiple medications. Mixing alcohol with them—especially pain meds—is dangerous.”
“No pain meds, but thanks, Doc. Masen told you Shana’s family still had the mask.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Are you suggesting the mask as motive for his death?”
“Look at you. You claim you don’t have any use for all of this crap, and yet here you are.”