The Night He Died

by Stacy Green

  “Honey, this tall dude next to me is with the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. You sure you want me to check that ID?”

  Her eyes popped wide, and she scurried off, her friend trailing behind.

  Big Gary belly laughed. “I love scaring those little shits off.”

  “It’s good to see someone takes it seriously,” Cage said. “What happened that night you threw this guy out?”

  “He went off on a woman about his girlfriend. Kept screaming at her that ‘she did it,’ and a bunch of other crap. He wouldn’t quit, and I was afraid he’d get physical.”

  “Who was the girl?”

  Big Gary shrugged. “A regular.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Blonde, fit. Pretty.”

  “Great. That should be a big help.”

  Big Gary glared at him. “Anything else?”

  “Did you call the cops?” Masen didn’t have any arrests in his record.

  “I don’t like dealing with the NOPD. It’s bad for business. And I handled it.”

  Cage didn’t doubt that. “You remember the other crap he said?”

  “Something about The PhoeniX having his girl. Made zero sense.”

  Adrenaline rushed through him. The PhoeniX.

  “The woman was a regular?”

  Big Gary waved a group of senior ladies with boas and light-up purple tutus inside. “I escorted him to the cab, and he kept running his mouth. Explained how it’s some sort of brothel, and his girl was kidnapped into it. Insisted the woman he went after was involved.”

  “You heard about anything like that?”

  “I hear deals for sex all the time. I worry about some of the girls who leave here with men they just met. But I haven’t heard anything about this PhoeniX thing he talked about.”

  “You know the blonde’s name? If she was a regular, you must have checked her ID several times.”

  Big Gary laughed. “I’m just looking for faces and birthdays on IDs.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about her?”

  “I don’t pay much attention to what goes on inside unless I need to.”

  “You ever see her with anyone?” Cage asked. “Was she alone that night?”

  “I don’t think so. I went to apologize to her when I came back in, and she was talking to that girl who came back from the dead.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the one who disappeared in Katrina and ended up being kidnapped by some creep who used her to help abduct other girls? One of them got away and ended up here—using the first girl’s name. A clusterfuck for sure.”

  Red stained Cage’s vision. Technically, both Lyric and Annabeth had come back from the dead. He needed only one guess to know which one had cozied up to the mysterious, blonde girl. “Did she have a thin, diagonal scar across her lips?”

  Big Gary nodded. “That’s the one.”

  He’d wring Lyric’s neck for this one. Impeding his goddamn investigation into two missing women. She of all people should know … last night. He’d asked her about Layla last night.

  Gary snapped his fingers. “Let me see that first picture with the redhead.”

  Cage handed it over, and Big Gary pushed his glasses onto his forehead, bringing the photo to his nose. “That is her. She’s just changed her hair color.”

  “The redhead is the woman the guy accused of working with The PhoeniX?”

  “Absolutely. I like the blonde hair better.”

  Cage left Lyric a message to call him immediately. She had a blue book. She’d lied about Layla, and she’d been with her when Masen made his accusation. His empty stomach bottomed out. What if Lyric was caught up with The PhoeniX in some capacity? He couldn’t give her another pass.

  He should have put it all together sooner. Layla and Zoey had to be the same person—and likely the woman who blackmailed the junior London Club member. She’d probably created the Zoey persona to infiltrate the college crowd. He doubted those kids had the money to pay for escorts, but poor college students made great prospective employees.

  Rogers better be able to get that warrant for the Loyola records today.

  Cage unlocked the door to Zoey and Trish’s empty apartment and eased inside. Fingerprinting dust still covered the side table, and nothing seemed to have changed since his and Bonin’s original search.

  Trish’s room was unchanged. Her family wasn’t ready to clean out her things. Cage lingered in front of Zoey’s closed door. Was the hint of perfume there before? He stepped to the side for cover and then opened the door.

  Silence.

  He breathed too fast. His pulse throbbed through his carotid.

  Cage peeked around the doorframe, gun ready to fire.

  Empty.

  All the clothes and shoes and makeup were gone. The bed remained, stripped of its sheets. She’d taken everything from the dresser. Empty drawers and closet.

  He definitely smelled sweet perfume—the kind that might be overpowering if a person stood too close.

  Had Zoey worn it that night at Holt? He only recalled the smell of rain and gunfire.

  Cage turned to say something to Bonin before remembering he’d been left on his own. Some cops preferred working alone, but a good partner was an invaluable asset, especially in a city Cage still wasn’t completely familiar with.

  A text from Rogers: got the warrant.

  It was already past six p.m. The provost’s office would be closed. He’d have to wait until morning, and Zoey would still be out there, probably hurting Trish if she hadn’t killed her already.

  Trish must have figured something out after that night. If Zoey were Layla—and Cage had no doubt she was—she’d killed Masen because he’d tracked her down. She must have had something to do with Shana’s disappearance and The PhoeniX, just as Masen said. How high up in The PhoeniX food chain was this woman that she’d kill to protect a lucrative business?

  26

  Four a.m. darkness blessed Cage with a winter chill as he jogged through his neighborhood. His thighs still burned, but not as much as last week. He’d grown lax about working out since moving to New Orleans, but nearly getting gunned downed by Spider had been a wakeup call. He needed to stay in shape, get faster, gain stamina. Warming up his muscles with a good run helped lessen the pain in his back and clear his head.

  This case had him twisted. Masen didn’t commit suicide. He’d made enemies at a club with Zoey in attendance—who was actually Layla and associated with the brothel. She killed Masen and left valuable Atlas doubloons in his pocket.

  If Zoey’s actions had been centered on protecting The PhoeniX, why leave those doubloons? Leaving tokens like that sometimes meant a signature. However, they hadn’t been arranged in any specific way. She’d stuffed them in his pocket as if she wanted them to be found. Was that it? Was Zoey being forced to do things, and she hoped the doubloons would help bring down the ring? But she’d left roughly sixty thousand dollars with a dying man. If she wanted out, pawning the doubloons was a good start. Collectors would want to know how she came by them, but she had the charm to talk her way out of it.

  A call cut off the hard rock music blasting in his ear. Who in the hell called at this time of morning?

  Lyric, of course.

  He slowed down, catching his breath. “About time.”

  “Were you having sex?”

  “Out running.”

  “Okay, good. I know you’re pissed, but I have my reasons, and I have more to tell you. Can you meet me?”

  “You always have your reasons.” He slowed to a walk, wiping his face with his ancient Ole Miss shirt. “I’m sick of being played.”

  “Please, just meet up with me this morning. I’ll tell you everything, and then you can get rid of me.”

  He didn’t want to get rid of her. He wanted to fix her, and that just wasn’t possible. “Just tell me now.”

  “Not over the phone. I don’t want anyone else to hear. Where are you?”

  Her qui
ck whispering unnerved him. Lyric didn’t fear anything. “Uptown on St. Charles.”

  “I’ll get on the streetcar and meet you at Lafayette Cemetery in twenty or so.”

  She didn’t give him time to say no, ending the call. Worry tightened his muscles. He stretched his legs and then headed back down St. Charles toward the Garden District. If Lyric didn’t show up, he’d ring her neck.

  Cage checked his watch. Thirty-two minutes since she’d called. She was at the mercy of the streetcar, but most of the drivers had been running the cars for years and had the routine down to the second.

  He needed water, but he hadn’t brought his wallet. He’d expected to be home by now, getting showered before Dani and Emma woke up. Dani would love hearing about this special stop for Lyric.

  He wiped the sweat off his face and then braced himself against the locked iron gate. The sky had only shifted from black ink to navy, so the tombs and ancient trees inside Lafayette looked like a haunted movie scene. Not as creepy as Holt, but plenty unsettling.

  Cage let go of the gate and looked behind him, chest tight. Smell of gunfire … Spider’s leering grin.

  Deep breaths. Stop freaking out. Think of something else.

  Dani said the tombs were better for the environment and the pocketbook—the concrete and hellacious heat made a natural crematorium. No need to waste money embalming and having a funeral service for everyone to critique whether she looked alive or dead.

  That had been the worst part about his mother’s death. She’d refused to eat in the last couple of weeks, and she looked gaunt despite a decent job by the undertaker. Cage wished she would have been cremated, but his father insisted on having one last look at her, even though her body was a broken shell and her soul had gone on to wherever a soul goes.

  Cage didn’t like the idea of slowly baking in a vault for a year, but the idea of being embalmed and his body preserved was even worse. One thing New Orleanians had right—they celebrated the person’s life instead of mourning the death.

  He turned his back to the cemetery. Enough depressing shit for the day. If the dead really were watching, he didn’t feel like being stared at.

  Cage went over to the giant live oak near the entrance, balancing on the gnarled roots busting through the sidewalk. As a kid, he played on the roots of the live oak in front of his grandmother’s house. Miles from town with plenty of room to grow, the roots stood at least two feet high. His favorite game was the monster hand, with extra fingers perfect for sucking a kid into the earth, never to be seen again.

  His sister preferred the tire swing.

  Cold sliced through him. How had Hart known?

  A figure moved through the shadows, walking slowly from St. Charles Avenue. Cage stepped onto the biggest root and grabbed a gnarled, low hanging branch.

  She came into full view, striding toward him.

  “What’s with the mask?” Leave it to Lyric to wear one of the creepiest Carnival masks available. All white, with blacked-out eyes and a mouth, topped with sweeping black eyebrows. “And you’re late.”

  “I think I’m right on time.”

  “Who—” He shifted, stumbling until his foot wedged between the heavy roots.

  She was less than six feet away, the Glock’s suppressor pointed straight at him. Too tall and thin, not her voice.

  “Please, don’t do this.” He thrashed back and forth. The roots seemed to tighten their grip, ciphering the energy from his legs, but his foot slipped out of his tennis shoe.

  Run.

  Pain seared through his chest and then tore through him, shredding a path through muscle and vital organs.

  Hart’s worried eyes. Don’t trust the root.

  Cage collapsed on the tangle of roots, his head connecting with the wood. Stars burst in his eyes as he rolled onto the ground.

  A weight descended on his eyes. He fought to keep them open.

  Dark, wavy hair blocked his vision. “Can you hear me?”

  He opened his mouth but couldn’t make the words come out.

  Lyric shrugged out of her sweater and pressed it against his chest.

  Sky blue. Her sweater was sky blue. She had a white headband holding back her curls. The shooter wore black. And the horrible mask.

  “Cage? Look at me.” Her face was an inch from his. The fear in her eyes paralyzed him.

  “An ambulance is coming. You do not get to die and ruin your daughter’s life, you asshole.”

  Emma.

  His eyelids refused to stay open.

  Lyric’s angry voice seemed to grow farther away.

  He should have woke up Dani instead of going for a run. He should have kissed his daughter goodbye.

  27

  LYRIC

  The shot didn’t make a sound, and yet it seems to blast in my head. I sprint toward Cage’s crumpled body, phone in hand, and the shooter takes off. The black hoodie would make a decent noose.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “Officer down. Agent Cage Foster of the LBI shot in front of Lafayette Number One. Tell EMS to haul ass.” I kneel next to him, shoving the phone aside and putting it on speaker.

  “A unit is on the way. You need to administer first aid.”

  No shit.

  He’s looking at me, trying to speak. But the blood is pooling on the ground beneath him. He coughs up blood, gasping.

  New Orleans never had enough paramedics—the city siphoned that money somewhere else, and the overworked first responders usually wound up late.

  “You need—” the dispatcher is still talking.

  “Shut up. I know what I need to do.”

  I can do this. God knows I’ve been trained.

  His cough is worse—the sucking wound in his right chest is bad, but the blood coming from the exit wound in his back has to be stopped first.

  Cage’s eyes follow me as I dump stuff out of my old backpack. The inside liner’s already half off. I rip out the entire thing. It’s far from sanitary, but it’s all I’ve got. I fold it in half and put it over the small hole in his right chest, and then lay my sweatshirt over his chest. I need to roll him over.

  Christ, he’s heavy.

  I shove my knee against the exit wound. At least it’s not gushing. Maybe the bullet missed an artery. But gunshots are unpredictable, so he’s probably screwed either way.

  I press harder, and Cage grunts in pain. Good. He’s still conscious. And he feels my knee. Maybe his spine is okay.

  The dispatcher asks for an update.

  “He’s got a sucking chest wound and is bleeding out of his back. I’ve stopped them as much as I can. But he needs paramedics.”

  I hear sirens, but who knows if they’re coming to us or if they’re even an ambulance. My arms are already burning from keeping the sweatshirt tight. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can do.

  Blood trickles from beneath my knee and I shift, pressing harder without totally flattening him to the ground and cutting off what little air he has. His body shakes every few seconds—he’s still coughing up blood.

  I focus on his neck. His veins look normal, but I can’t look for any more symptoms of a collapsed lung without moving him and taking pressure away.

  Footsteps. Did the shooter come back to finish the job?

  My tunnel vision clears, and I see people running toward me. Civilians. Transit workers. Way down at the intersection, I see the St. Charles Streetcar stopped, its few early morning riders staring out of the windows. I hope one of them told the other cars about the unplanned stop.

  “Someone shot him and took off. EMS is on the way. He’s a cop.”

  One of the men motions for me to switch with him. Fuck off.

  Cage isn’t coughing, and I can only see the side of his face.

  “Look at his face. Are his lips blue?” I brace my right hand against the ground, trying to give his body a little leeway and still keep pressure on the exit wound.

  “Yeah, a little. He’s been coughing up blood.”
/>   The bleeding’s slowed a lot too.

  Goddamn it. Has his blood pressure dropped?

  “How’s his breathing?”

  “I—okay, I think.”

  The other man is on his knees, his hand on Cage’s neck.

  “I barely feel a pulse.”

  Should I move the plastic seal?

  How do I know if too much pressure is building?

  I scream toward the phone. “Where the hell is the ambulance?”

  “They’re just a few blocks away.”

  “I don’t care if they have to drive on the fucking sidewalk. If he dies, it’s on the city’s corrupt ass, and I’ll make goddamned sure everyone knows how long it took EMS to get here.”

  Sweat is rolling off my face.

  The sirens are closer.

  “Is he still conscious?” I ask the second transit worker.

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Cage, listen to me. Don’t die. Your family needs you. And Annabeth. And I will be really pissed if I did all this for nothing.”

  Flashing lights. Paramedics shouting at us to let them in.

  One is in my face, telling me it’s time to let them help.

  Every muscle locks in place. If I move, will he bleed out? This kid looks twelve. Does he know what he’s doing?

  The guy’s fingers wrap around my arm and reflexes kick in. I shove him on his ass and stumble off out of the way. The transit workers have moved too. One of them is praying.

  I don’t think it will be enough.

  How am I going to tell Annabeth?

  A uniformed cop is in my face. “You’re Lyric Gaudet, right?”

  Coming back from the dead makes you famous.

  “Yes.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Why were you here?”

  Oh, right. I must be a suspect because most people believe I had something to do with scumbag Billy getting eaten by the alligators. Which I did, but I would never hurt Cage.

  “Agent Foster has been trying to reach me. I called him this morning when I left work. I had some information for him about a case and since he was out running, I asked him to meet me here.”