by Stacy Green
In a simple satin dress with very little jewelry and a modest mask, unlike the women who’d preceded her. But he had a full head of steam now.
“You’re a fraud, and I’m sick of people lying to me.” He smacked his fist on the railing. “Why didn’t you tell the truth from the beginning? We might have stopped Trish’s death.”
Ginger removed her mask. The compassion in her eyes made him even angrier. “You’re right, but I don’t think that’s what you’re angry about.”
“Oh really? Shrink away, Doctor.”
“You’ve been through an extreme trauma. And the booze is clouding your judgement. What pain meds are you taking?”
He held up his hand. “I’ve been lied to more times than I can count during this whole case. I can’t trust any of you.”
“Cage.” He felt dizzy, the alcohol sloshing in his stomach. She’d said his name exactly as she’d said during his … whatever it was.
“You have every right to be angry. Any number of different decisions might have kept that girl from shooting you.”
“This has nothing to do with my getting shot.”
She glanced around. “I know you like to surprise people when you question them, throw them off guard. It’s a smart tactic. But this isn’t the time or place. It’s all going to backfire on you. Preshooting, you would have never taken this risk.”
“Ginger.” Carson Hughes appeared, his joker’s mask crooked. “What are you doing?”
“It’s fine, Carson. Go back inside.”
“I thought you were supposed to be blasé about all this.” Cage flicked one of the ridiculous bells on his hat. “You look pretty into it.”
“His wife runs the show,” Ginger said. “She’s all about the ball.”
“Ginger, be quiet.” Carson took her elbow. “Come inside.”
“We’re not done talking,” Cage said. “She bought the mask from Sanders. Shana told Masen. Is that why you killed him, Doctor?”
“My sister hasn’t killed anyone,” Carson said. “Keep your voice down. What mask?”
Ginger sighed. “Philip Redmund’s.”
Carson removed his joker’s mask to more camera flashes. He stood a few inches taller than his sister, but the family resemblance was clear. “You found it?”
“By sheer luck,” Ginger said. “A client dated Dotty Jean’s descendant. He told me the family still had it.”
“That client’s dead, by the way,” Cage said. “His girlfriend is presumed dead.”
“Masen? The kid from the cemetery?”
“Yes,” Ginger said.
“I can’t decide if your sister is a good liar or dumb and innocent,” Cage said. “But we have her fingerprints and now motive. Anyone else would be brought in for a twenty-four-hour hold. Must be nice to have such a powerful last name.”
“I had no reason to hurt Masen—and certainly not over the mask. Come by my office tomorrow evening. I’ll explain.”
“Why not now?”
She smiled. “I’m a little busy. And you’re more than a little drunk.”
The sympathy in her eyes spiked his blood pressure. Why didn’t she lose her temper? Guilty people almost always caved to pressure eventually—save for sociopaths. He glared into her soft eyes. Was she a sociopath? Or just a really kind woman stuck in the middle of a pile of shit?
“How can I believe you when you haven’t been honest?”
“Let’s talk about this tomorrow, please. I’ll be available after five p.m.”
“I’m sure you’ll have your story all ready.”
Carson stepped forward. “That’s enough. She’s been more than accommodating. If you’ll excuse us—”
“What happened to the list, man?” Cage said.
“I’m sorry, Agent Foster,” Carson said. “No one is willing to talk, especially after your shooting. I’m glad to see you up and around, but we need you to leave.”
“Here’s the thing. Remember your rumor about the junior member being blackmailed?” Cage didn’t give him time to answer. “Pretty sure it’s not a rumor. I’ve got solid evidence that one of your members paid his favorite working girl a nice chunk to find out how to gain entrance into The PhoeniX. Bam! There’s your blackmail.”
“What’s the evidence?” Carson asked.
“Not at liberty to share.”
“Of course.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” Cage gripped the barrier, trying to stand straight. “It’s just selling sex. Happens everywhere in New Orleans. I don’t care about the services exchanged. That’s vice’s problem. But I do care if minors are involved. And we can tie at least two murders to The PhoeniX. Someone’s willing to do anything to protect their business. Then there’s the whole mask that’s probably worth a pretty penny. See how it all circles?”
“Agent Foster—” Carson started.
“I think this woman left those four doubloons on Masen to lead us to the London Club. She’s sending a message.”
Ginger stared at him. “You didn’t say there were four.”
“Four silver mint 1960 Atlas doubloons worth roughly sixty thousand. A scratch on one knocks the price down.”
“I would think the scratch might make it easier to narrow down the owner.” Ginger’s hard voice sounded nothing like the gentle therapist-psychic she peddled.
“Probably would, if I could actually talk to the right people.”
“We need to get inside before Dad comes out. Agent Foster will lose his job for sure.”
Cage didn’t care. He’d move Dani and Emma back to Roselea and Ironwood. He’d miss the friends he’d made, but a job and a relatively safe life waited for him back home.
Ginger grabbed Cage’s hand and squeezed. “Please, Agent Foster. Go to therapy.”
He couldn’t let her leave yet. “How did you know it was an Ole Miss shirt?”
Ginger glanced at her brother. “Go inside and wait for me.”
“Not without you. Dad’s probably on his way.”
“Don’t push me, Carson.” Her cold tone matched the glare she gave her brother. “I’ll see you shortly.”
“Fine.” Carson nodded at Cage. “Take care, Agent.”
A man with a press pass around his neck had somehow wormed around the crowd and now slithered toward Cage. “Agent Foster, can I ask what you’re doing here?”
Cage turned his back to him. “Tell me how you knew about the shirt.”
Ginger gave the reporter a dirty look and then leaned over the barricade to whisper in his ear.
“Agent Foster, you know the answer to that.”
His chest tightened, chills down his spine. The camera flashes blinded him.
“The other side is nothing to be afraid of,” Ginger said. “There’s no real end for us, just another existence. But it wasn’t your time.”
He pushed her away. “Stop.”
“Agent Foster.” The reporter shoved his way next to Cage. “What is your business with Dr. Hughes?”
Ginger stared the little man down, her expression as unflappable as her father’s. “I’m assisting him on a murder case, sir. Please step back from our private conversation. Agent Foster, come see me tomorrow to discuss this further. I’ll be available after five.”
“Sir, you need to come with me.” An NOPD officer seized his arm.
Cage put his badge in the man’s face. “Special Agent with the LBI working a murder case.”
“Well, you can’t be here.”
“Good thing I’m leaving then.” He shoved back through the crowd, his heart racing. He’d died twice on the table. Had he really experienced life after death?
He broke free from the crowd and texted Lyric to meet him at the intersection she’d dropped him at. Sweat soaked his shirt and scalp. His hands refused to stop shaking. He stopped to rest twice before he made it to the intersection.
“Hey man!” Some drunk in a mask came at him, glass raised. “Toast to the end of Carnival!”
The black-and-white mask
coming out of the shadows, pointing the gun. He was going to die. Run. Run before she shoots …
“Fuck, man!” Beer soaked the man’s shirt. “What the hell?”
His friends looked ready to attack.
The air seemed stuck in the bottom of his throat. His pulse made his head hurt. Dizziness made everything blur, but somehow the threat seemed crystal clear.
The drunk stepped toward him. Cage held up his badge, his sweaty, shaking hand nearly dropping it. He pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it toward the man.
“Sorry. Have one on me.”
Turn around and walk away. His feet cemented to the dirty sidewalk. He wasn’t about to turn his back on this man and his crowd until they started walking away.
The man snatched the bill and stumbled back to his friends. “Cop’s buying me beer, ya’ll.”
Cage still couldn’t move, even after the group rounded the corner. People walked around him, most drunk and oblivious to the tall man in a soaked white long-sleeved shirt losing his shit on Canal Street.
“Cage.” A horn blasted twice. “Cage, it’s me. Come on.”
Just turn around and walk. Get to the car.
His pulse ratcheted up again as he forced his feet to move.
Lyric’s light turned green, and the person behind her honked. She hopped out of the car, giving the finger to the irritated driver.
“Cage.” Lyric banged her hand on the top of the car. “Look at me and keep walking. Come on before I get a ticket you have to pay.”
The other drivers kept honking. Lyric ignored them. “You’re almost here. The door’s already unlocked.”
His shoes slipped down the curb, and he stumbled to the car, somehow getting the door open and falling into the seat. He didn’t remember shutting the door, but he must have, because Lyric gunned the engine and blew the yellow light, earning angry honks from every direction.
“I take it things didn’t go like you planned?”
Cotton mouth. Water—or better yet, a few shots. He scrubbed his hands on his face.
“Take me home.”
36
“You know why I’m here.” Rogers’s battle-worn face looked paler than usual. The bags under his eyes could carry groceries.
“Looks like you had a good Mardi Gras night.” Cage sat down, but Rogers remained standing.
“I could say the same about you.”
“Nah. Pretty much sucked.”
“Brooks Hughes called first thing this morning demanding an audience with myself and the deputy superintendent. After a ten-minute conference call that consisted of him handing us our asses over your display last night, the DS promised you’d be suspended—after chewing me out for not doing it before.”
Cage stretched his legs. “Can I serve concurrently? Since I’m already on paid medical leave.”
“The DS wanted you suspended indefinitely. Lucky for you, the LBI doesn’t work for the NOPD.”
“So, I still have a job?”
“Thanks to Ginger Hughes. She called in after her father did and spoke on your behalf. She assured us she’d talked with her father, and he understood your actions were driven by the trauma of being shot.”
“You’re kidding.” Cage’s stomach soured. Ginger had stuck up for him even after the scene he’d caused. Yesterday felt like an alcohol-fueled dream.
“She knows PTSD when she sees it. Counseling sessions are mandatory if you want to come back to work, and you keep going until the doctor clears you.”
“Won’t the deputy superintendent be pissed?”
“Not my problem,” Rogers said. “If Hughes is placated, the unit retains his support. The DS can stay behind his desk and keep his mouth shut.”
Cage didn’t know what to say. He’d showed his ass last night to Ginger and her family, and embarrassed Rogers. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, sir.”
“Tell me why you’re stuck on Ginger killing Masen,” Rogers said.
“I don’t know if I am.” Cage hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours. After he broke down to Dani, he’d laid awake, replaying the night. “I drank quite a bit yesterday.”
“Aren’t you taking pain medication?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like the way they make me feel. When I found she’d bought the mask from the Sanders and kept it from me, I couldn’t think straight. She just keeps peeling away the story instead of telling me everything.”
“The London Club has nearly one hundred members, and at least forty are Atlas parade krewe. Any one of them could be the guy who paid that girl to find the brothel. You really think Ginger gives a rat’s ass about any of them?”
Ginger’s reaction to the doubloons last night—Cage had forgotten until now. Four doubloons signified something to her. Her sudden coldness, the way she gripped Cage’s hand when she gave the doubloons back.
Come over tomorrow evening if you want to discuss this further. I’ll be free after five.
Ginger had recognized the doubloons because they belonged to the only person in the London Club she gave a damn about protecting.
“Foster?” Rogers said. “You hear me?”
Cage nodded. “You’re right. Her having the mask has nothing to do with the case. I’ll apologize.”
Rogers stared him down. “By phone. Don’t bother her again.”
“Scout’s honor.”
This whole not driving shit was going to make him more agitated than any PTSD. He’d convinced Dani to let him take an Uber to apologize to Ginger Hughes, and the entire drive had been filled with the driver’s pointless chatter to fill the dead air. He dreaded the ride home.
His badge in his pocket and his pistol tucked into the back of his jeans, he slowly walked up Ginger’s sidewalk. The houses practically sat on top of each other, making it easy for someone to hide out and wait until she had a clean shot.
Cage’s chest tightened. He inhaled and tried to count to ten.
Past five p.m., but no lights on inside. Must be in the back of the house. Or she’d changed her mind.
Carson likely realized Ginger had recognized the doubloons as his. She’d already done so much to protect him—had he convinced her to stay quiet?
Her Toyota sat in the driveway. Did someone pick her up?
Storm must be coming in. It shouldn’t be this dark already.
A motion-sensor light suddenly bathed him in safety as soon as he reached the porch. He breathed easier, climbed the steps and knocked. The security camera mounted in the corner flashed red.
No lights coming to life inside.
He knocked again.
His call went straight to voicemail.
“Sonofabitch.” Carson had gotten to her. She couldn’t avoid Cage forever unless she planned to ditch her patients.
Cage.
The hairs on the back of his neck shot up.
Had a woman just whispered his name? He yanked the gun out of its holster and edged back against the front door. Sweat ran down his face. Had Zoey found him?
His throat burned as his system shot into overdrive. Everything he’d learned as a cop the last few years evaporated. Should he call for backup? Search around the house?
Cage, help me.
He turned his flashlight app on and swept it across the small yard before shining it in her driveway.
Bloody hands gripped the Toyota’s hood.
Cage forced his weak legs to run.
Ginger clung to the car, trying in vain to stand. Blood covered her face, and one of her eyes had swollen shut.
“Stay down.” Cage carefully eased her onto the gravel.
Her busted lips moved. “Think ribs broken.”
“I’m calling 9-1-1. Just hold on.”
Ginger licked her lips. “Woman did this.”
“Don’t try to talk.” Zoey. She must have gone back to blonde, even though Bonin had released a new photo with her hair color changed.
“Warning for you.”
Cage’s insides turned cold. “F
or me?”
“Drop it, or the next will be one of the precious women in your life.”
“She said not to call her father.” Cage slouched in the waiting room chairs as Bonin furiously texted Dumas and Rogers.
He’d expected to have some kind of episode riding in the ambulance, but his anger kept him focused. He’d wring Zoey’s neck with his bare hands now.
“She’s sure it was a woman?”
“She kept saying it in the ambulance. And she wore a Carnival mask exactly like the one Zoey wore when she shot me.” Cage had already made the call to the girls and his wife, warning her to keep everything locked and for her and Emma to stay inside.
Lyric had laughed out loud. “Let the bitch come at me.”
Annabeth agreed, although she didn’t sound quite as confident as Lyric.
“Private security.” Lyric would have his ass, but she’d get over it.
“What?”
“I need to hire private security for the girls. I can’t be two places at once.”
“That’ll blow your entire savings in a few days,” Bonin said. “Let me make a few calls and see if I can find a retired officer willing to help out.”
Zoey had brass balls to attack Ginger Hughes when every cop in the city had her picture on his dash.
“They already warned Ginger by dumping Trish’s body,” Bonin said. “What’s the point of this?”
The answer had been eating away at him since he heard the warning. “I confronted her in front of all those cameras. Zoey must believe Ginger has information.”
He’d caused this.
Ginger had taken one hell of a beating. Her nose had been broken and both eyes had turned black. Three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder.
“She was waiting for me.” Pain meds slowed Ginger’s speech, but she insisted on talking to them.
“Hit me between the eyes and then swept my feet out. Then she started kicking.”
“And your shoulder?” Bonin asked.
“She pulled it behind my back. I thought I was going to pass out,” Ginger said. “That’s when she made the threat to you.
“I’m sorry,” Cage said. “My stupidity last night caused this. For what it’s worth, I’m 99.9 percent sure you weren’t involved in anything related to this.”
