The Lies We Bury

by Stacy Green

  She had to take two steps to his one, but she somehow made him feel like she was in charge, and he had to work to keep up with her. “Annabeth?”

  “Right now I’m thinking about food. Let’s head toward St. Peter Street. It’s pretty much a straight shot to the grocery.”

  “We’re going grocery shopping?” Now he was really confused.

  “Rouse’s,” she said. “Isn’t that where Lyric went the night she disappeared? Maybe someone there saw the blue pickup.”

  “Detective Bonin and I planned to go there tomorrow.”

  Annabeth drained her glass and picked up her pace. “You and I can go tonight instead. They have a yummy deli.”

  He wished he’d ordered another beer and then immediately felt foolish. This was the French Quarter. Bars on every corner and in between.

  “You know you’re walking over dead bodies?” Annabeth spoke loudly enough two women passing by turned and stared.

  Cage decided to play along. She’d let him have it eventually. “Let me guess. A crime discovered during renovations?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nothing that interesting. The hotel’s built over the city’s first cemetery. So are a ton of other buildings in this area. Hundreds of bodies underneath. Here’s St. Peter Street.”

  Cage fell into step next to her. “So, the cemetery?”

  “Back in the early 1700s, this area was out of city limits. It became St. Peter Cemetery. Don’t ask me the exact area, but we’re on top of it now, and it’s several blocks. Anyway, it took them a while to figure out people were going to float up because of the whole sea level and water thing. The above-ground burials came later. The cemetery got full, the city grew, and the Spanish created St. Louis No. 1. And they built right over the top of St. Peter Cemetery.”

  “They didn’t move the bodies?” He should have a more compartmentalized view of death, but his mother’s grave flashed in his head. If people built over her, Cage would tear them apart. “Didn’t the families care?”

  She shrugged. “Some did. The rich people moved some of their family members. But a whole shit-ton stayed, and now they pop up all the time. Some dude went to build a swimming pool in his backyard a few years ago and wound up finding, like, fifteen coffins.”

  She scowled as they passed Bourbon Street. “I hate that place. The whole of it. Crowded and full of pushy drunks. Plenty of locals and horny college kids. And not a damn one appreciates the history they’re partying on top of.”

  “At least this isn’t peak tourist season,” Cage said. “It’s too damned hot.”

  Annabeth pulled her dark hair back into a loose ponytail. “Hot as balls, for sure.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes. At the late hour, past the bars, the crowd seemed to thin out. But the streets felt even more narrow and claustrophobic to Cage. He wanted to talk about the blue pickup, but he wasn’t sure how far he could push her.

  “I thought I was a native Creole.” Annabeth broke the silence. “That my ancestors helped settle this city. Even though I couldn’t remember, that was my identity, and I was proud of it.” She rubbed her eyes. “Gran said I’d just forgotten, thanks to my head injury. So she taught me the history of the city and our—her—family. Now I don’t know who I am.”

  “Your past is different, but the last seven years are still the same,” Cage said. “That’s who you are.”

  “But that’s all Gran, isn’t it?” She craned her head up at him. “She taught me what to believe, so I could be Lyric.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “She loved you, and she made choices to protect you. And you may not be Creole, but you’re biracial. Your grandfather marched with Martin Luther King. You did a project on it in high school.”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “The other me did. She’s gone, and I’m this … enfimyè.”

  In the distance, lights illuminated the St. Louis Cathedral. Another place he’d have to take Dani. “What?”

  “An imposter.”

  Cage stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’m real damned sorry about what happened to you.”

  Annabeth stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared up at him. “What do you want from me? Am I supposed to tell you it’s all good? That you didn’t make a mistake? Well, I’m not going to say that because you did. So did I by even associating with the guy. And probably being stupid enough to trust him. Stop being all drama queen about the past. At least you remember. And we’re doing something about it.”

  Pain shone in her dark eyes, her uneven face more pronounced when she was upset. Cage cleared his throat. “I’ll stop being all drama queen if you stop pretending the last seven years weren’t real.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She pointed across the street. “There’s the grocery.”

  25

  Like everything else in the French Quarter, Rouse’s occupied the lower level of a three-hundred-year-old-plus building. Vines and hanging plants decorated the wrought-iron balcony above, likely a residential space. A four-man jazz band sat out front, their horns blaring.

  Cool air and the scent of fresh-baked bread greeted them. Annabeth skipped the crowded liquor aisle and headed for the fresh food market. “I’m starving. Feed me. Ooh, po’ boys. Probably not as good as Johnny’s, but I’m not picky.”

  The curvy African-American woman behind the counter scowled. “Our po’ boys are just fine.”

  “Is your owner here, by chance?” Cage asked.

  Her eyebrows knitted together. “He’s always here. Somethin’ wrong?”

  “No ma’am.” Cage showed her his badge. “I’m investigating a cold case and had a few questions for him.”

  She sent the bored-looking kid working with her to fetch the manager while Annabeth ordered a club sandwich po’ boy.

  “Can you double the meat?”

  “Gotta charge extra for that.”

  “He’s paying.” Annabeth smirked at Cage. “And I see you checking us out. He’s got a ring, I don’t. We’re not like, together-together. He’s married, with a kid. Yuck on that. And we’re not having an affair. Which kind of sucks because he’s hot.”

  The woman stared. Cage’s skin burned. “She has a problem with filtering her thoughts.”

  “I’d say so.”

  A man in a crisp white short-sleeved dress shirt bustling down the aisle from their left saved Cage from further embarrassment. “Lyric Gaudet? Is that you? After all this time?”

  Annabeth turned to face him, and the pudgy man skidded to a stop. “Sorry. My mistake. But damn if you don’t look like her, at least from the side.” His gaze seemed to deliberately avoid her face and landed on the tattoo. He looked confused. “Wait.”

  “I’m not her,” Annabeth said. “I thought I was. Charlotte had me get the tattoo. Lyric and me were kidnapped by the same person, a few years apart. I’ve got a traumatic brain injury that screwed up my memory.”

  Both the owner and the deli worker stared.

  Cage put his hand on Annabeth’s arm and squeezed it, hoping she’d get the hint. She shoved his arm away and glared at him.

  “I’m Cage Foster, with the LBI. We’re looking into Lyric’s disappearance. This is Annabeth.”

  “Guy’s got a type, then.” The manager adjusted his belt and puffed his chest. “I watch crime shows.”

  The woman behind the deli rolled her eyes. Annabeth burst out laughing, and the woman winked.

  The manager kept talking. “’Course, NCIS New Orleans is my favorite. You know they film here? Close by too. I think it’s a lot of outside shots but still, pretty cool.”

  Wonderful. Another person without a clue how the system really worked, thanks to television.

  “I know it’s been a while, but do you remember telling Charlotte Gaudet that Lyric came in for supplies right before Katrina hit?” Cage asked.

  “Sure do. Lyric and me had a whole conversation about whether we should evacuate. We figured the weather people were overreacting, like usual. And the Quarter’s t
he highest ground. I told Charlotte all that. How’s she doing, anyway?”

  “She’s dead,” Annabeth said. “Cancer.”

  The manager blanched. “I’m sorry.”

  “Until she spoke with you,” Cage said, “Charlotte believed that Lyric decided to try to leave and drowned. But your story convinced her something else happened.” He glanced at Annabeth. “Now we know for sure it did. Can you remember anything from that day?”

  The man’s eyebrows knitted together. “Boy, I remember everything from Katrina. August 28th, day before she hit, we had a mandatory evacuation. Most people in the Quarter were like me and Charlotte—they weren’t leaving. Store was busy. I thought when the storm was downgraded to a Category Three that New Orleans got lucky. You know the levees were supposed to withstand up to a Category Three?” Bitterness crept into his tone. “Bunch of lies that killed a lot of people.”

  One of the reasons Dani had initially hesitated about moving here. Their house was in Uptown—a good distance from the water. But with Katrina, it didn’t matter. Who knew if the levees were secure now?

  “I’m sorry to bring it up,” Cage said. “When did Lyric come in that day?”

  “She came in around five-thirty. Half an hour before the curfew. I told her to get home so she didn’t get in trouble.”

  “You’re certain she was going home?”

  “She bought Charlotte’s favorite candy. Said she hoped it would keep her calm during the storm.”

  “Peanut brittle,” Annabeth said. “Not pralines. She joked that made her less New Orlenean.”

  The manager nodded. “Let me tell you, it was raining hard and getting dangerous. I told her get on home and stay safe. She walked out the door and turned left. Headed home.”

  “That’s St. Peter Street,” Annabeth said. “It’s the shortest route to Charlotte’s house. St. Peter to Chartres, then on to her house on Madison. Fifteen minutes on a hot day.”

  “You’ve made the walk?”

  “I used to work right around the corner.”

  The manager stared at Annabeth, his forehead wrinkling. “You know that place is one of the oldest homes in the area and probably worth a mint. Lyric was Charlotte’s only heir. What’s going to happen to it?”

  “We’re figuring all of that out,” Cage said before Annabeth could blurt something else out. “Was Lyric alone that night?”

  “Far as I could tell.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone suspicious?”

  “Man, it was chaos. I didn’t pay attention.”

  “What about a blue pickup?” Annabeth beat Cage to the punch. “He let a guy with a blue pickup go before I got taken. We think it’s the same guy.”

  “Hell, I can’t remember that kind of detail, especially from a night like that one.”

  The deli worker handed Annabeth her overflowing po’ boy. “Well I can, because the guy was rude and pissed me off. Skinny, white dude parked his damned truck in the no-parking area, right where the band plays. Even if they weren’t out that night, there’s a rule. He came in like he owned the place, still smoking his cigarette. I told him to get out, that we was closed. He grabbed a box of condoms and sauntered out. I hollered that I was calling the police, but he flipped me off and told me they had more important things to do right now. Now who the hell’s going to be worried about condoms in a damned hurricane?”

  26

  Annabeth chowed through the rest of her sandwich as they headed toward Chartres Street. Cage was grateful for the silence. Rouse’s didn’t have the security footage from Lyric’s visit twelve years ago, and the deli worker could only remember the man being “plain, skinny, white, and rude.” Not much help, but essentially the same description as Sean Andrew’s.

  “It’s the night before, the Quarter’s creepily quiet, probably boarded up. Maybe it’s raining.” Working through things out loud helped Cage see the bigger picture—and sometimes the tiny, crucial details. “She’s carrying groceries and…” He checked his notes from the owner. “Two gallons of water. The man she knows offers her a ride home. She doesn’t like him, but the hurricane is coming in and she’s desperate. Sonofabitch.”

  “You say that a lot.” Annabeth finished her sandwich and took a long drink of water. “He takes advantage of bad situations. Fucking bastard.” She spit the last two words. “He killed us both.”

  He stopped in front of the Cathedral, the historic landmark illuminated by floodlights, and leaned against the wrought-iron fence surrounding it. Calculating bastard was more like it. He watched, waited, and knew enough about his victims to know when to strike. Organized, careful planners like him terrified Cage. How many like this guy were out there, skillfully moving in plain sight?

  “I think the Cathedral’s closed,” Annabeth said. “It’s pretty late for priests and nuns. They get up at the ass crack of dawn.”

  He turned to admire Jackson Square. The gates were closed, but the blooming flowers shined beneath the moon, along with the big statue of Andrew Jackson. Horse-drawn carriages waited on the other side of the park.

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  “He could be. But even if he isn’t, he took other girls. And he may have one now. Or be on the hunt for one.” He’d gone over the map at least ten times before even trying to go to bed. “Looks like he takes a girl around every three years, and usually in warm weather. It’s already August.” Cage wasn’t backing down on retracing her steps. If she wouldn’t consider hypnosis, then maybe the stress of being back at the accident site would force her to face her memories. Cheap shots, but he was getting desperate. “That’s why I want to take you back to Jasper.”

  Shaking her head, Annabeth charged down the alley between Jackson Square and the shops. “I want to see the horses.”

  He followed her around the historic square, keeping an eye out for horse crap. A large crowd swarmed the famous Café Du Monde, and the smell of the beignets made Cage’s stomach grumble.

  Several artists displayed their work on the iron gate surrounding the historic square. Some things weren’t much better than the average find at a touristy gift shop, but others were truly incredible. Cage made a note to come back with Dani and buy a painting for the new house.

  A woman wearing a long purple scarf sat at a table advertising psychic readings, while the wheelchair-bound man next to her played his guitar. Cage dropped a five into the man’s plastic cup and ducked his head before the woman could offer to tell his fortune. The guitar player nodded his thanks and launched into a blues riff.

  Carriages waited along Decatur Street at the entrance of the park. A group of tourists climbed into a large white carriage and the mule strutted off, his big hooves echoing against the street.

  Annabeth strode right up to a large bay mule with dark, shining eyes. “Okay if I pet him, Rick?”

  The driver grinned. “Wondered when I’d see you again. Course you can. He loves you.”

  “I take it you’re a regular?” Cage asked as she stroked the animal’s soft coat, leaning into the crook of the mule’s neck.

  “Since Gran died, yeah. I like to come out here some nights and see the horses. They make me feel like I’m not going to explode.” She patted the bay’s nose. “He’s my favorite. I’ve wanted a horse for as long as I can remember.”

  It was a long shot, but Cage had to take it. “What would you name him?”

  Annabeth didn’t pause to consider the question. “Charlie. That’s a good name for a horse, right?”

  The air left Cage’s lungs. His jaw went slack.

  “Dude, now your face kind of looks like mine,” Annabeth said. “What’s your problem?”

  He glanced at the driver, whose nose was buried in his phone. Now probably wasn’t the best time to tell her, but she wouldn’t give up until he answered. “Annabeth’s family owns horses. Her horse is named Charlie.”

  27

  After he told her about the horse, Annabeth walked silently to Charlotte’s empty house and then back
to the hotel. This had been the route Lyric likely would have taken in the storm, but Cage doubted she made it more than a block or two from the store. The man in the blue pickup had been waiting.

  Annabeth turned her back to him as the elevator ascended. She stalked to the door and waited for him to swipe his keycard. “You sure I get the bed?”

  “Yes.” Cage held the door for her and tried one last time. “Please consider hypnosis. If you can come up with that name—”

  “I’ll think about it. But I’m not making any promises.”

  Cage almost cried with happiness when Bonin arrived with the giant cup of caffeine. Between worrying about Annabeth taking off and the miserable couch, he’d only slept a couple of hours.

  “It’s probably the only good thing that’s going to happen today,” Bonin said. “My boss found out and immediately called the Georges. They’re due at the station in an hour, and he says if I have any idea of her whereabouts, I’m to bring her in. Unless I want to get fired.”

  Cage’s stomach dropped. He’d been hoping for another day before the shitstorm erupted. And Rogers would be livid the NOPD got the jump on his glory. He no doubt had an entire press conference planned.

  “Shit.” Cage didn’t want Bonin to take the heat for him. “This was my decision. Not yours.”

  “You can tell my boss that. And her parents.”

  “She’s not ready to see her parents. Shouldn’t she have some say in that decision?”

  “It’s not up to us. What if this were your daughter? Can you imagine what they’re going through?”

  The idea of something happening to Emma—of never knowing what happened to her or if she was even still alive—made him physically ill. “I’m just trying to put her first. Someone should.”

  Bonin drained her cup and tossed it in the wastebasket. “I’m going to tell my boss I spoke to you in person this morning and relayed the message, but I didn’t see the girl. As long as that door doesn’t open,” she glanced at the bathroom, “I’m not lying. You do what you have to.”