The Night He Died

by Stacy Green

  He and Bonin looked at each other. “Because Suzette Masse knew, and that bitch is behind The PhoeniX, just like I thought.”

  For once, Cage struggled to keep up with Bonin’s fast pace. Anger rolled off her in waves. “She’s alive. After all that’s happened, that girl is in on this. When I find her, I’ll kill her myself.”

  “You’re thinking that Layla comes to Suzette—who’s probably the boss—and tells her about Amy’s big fish Carson who’s a London Club member. Easy enough to figure out who he is since everyone knows the Hughes’s legacy. She sees the chance to make some extra money. Shana spots the doubloons and sees even more dollar signs. They go back to Suzette with a gold mine, and everyone’s happy until Masen makes his accusation.”

  Bonin nodded. “I just can’t understand why Shana would do this to her uncle or Masen.”

  “That’s why we need to find Layla,” Cage said. “Shana’s probably with her, hiding in plain sight since she’s presumed dead.”

  “Not anymore.” Bonin already had her phone out. “I’m putting out a BOLO for attacking Ginger Hughes and a person of interest in a homicide.”

  38

  Annabeth peeked out the window. Yep. Retired old fart still there, supposedly protecting them. She’d rather have Cage and his PTSD, especially since she was babysitting Emma.

  The chatterbox and Remy had passed out on the floor underneath the blanket fort Remy made, and Annabeth could finally get back to her new project.

  She hadn’t stopped thinking about JoJo since they left Sanders’s place. How had she flown under the radar so long—if that Pops guy had been right about her really having a brothel? Cage was right—Storyville had been researched to death, and none of the historians mentioned a secret brothel or any madam named JoJo.

  Digging up stuff on the internet had become her specialty once she discovered she’d lived a different life before getting kidnapped. Plenty of people from Roselea who knew the old Annabeth wanted to tell her all about it, but she couldn’t handle the noise and the pity-morbid-curiosity gleam in their eyes. The internet was a safe space, entirely in her control. She could quit looking any time she wanted. Getting someone to shut the hell up was a lot harder.

  She’d found dick online so far. No record of any JoJo working at Valentina’s, which didn’t mean anything since she had been a kid. Those favors weren’t exactly advertised in the blue books.

  ‘Secret madam’ brought up pages of repetitive crap about Norma Wallace. Police had been tipped off by a rat of a customer and eventually raided her place on Conti. She was considered the last madam of Storyville.

  “I’m not a quitter.” Annabeth tried various search words, hoping that one would give her a nugget to go on. On the third page of results, she clicked on a link to an article in the Times-Picayune about bringing down the secret brothels long after Storyville.

  “Dammit.” Archived, and the place wanted money to read it. Rip-off. She grabbed her purse and dug out the credit card Cage had taken out for her: “emergencies only. I’ll see the statements.”

  A minute later, she had access to an article from 1975 that mostly talked about Norma. Waste of freaking money.

  Wait.

  The police had numerous tips about clandestine brothels. Many were discovered, and the madams arrested. Just months before Norma’s arrest, he’d followed up on a lead for a brothel in a house in the Marigny on Esplanade. The lady of the house was a formidable woman in her later years who claimed to run a legitimate boarding house. He found nothing to warrant further investigation, and the NOPD moved on, raiding Norma Wallace’s place just three months later. Most believe Norma was the last madam, but the now-retired officer who searched Josefa Hayle’s boarding house isn’t sure that’s the case. “Something about her cool demeanor and confidence didn’t sit with me,” the officer said. “She had a license for a rooming house, but I found no death record for the husband who allegedly died during the war, nor a marriage record for Josefa and Harold Hayle. I’ll always believe I missed something at her Esplanade house.”

  “Josefa?” Annabeth snorted. “No wonder she went by JoJo. Josefa sounds like a fat grandma with hairy moles on her face.”

  A Louisiana death records search turned up zilch. Unsurprising, since records before 1980 were sketchy at best. Louisiana state law said birth records had to be private until a hundred years after birth. Josefa definitely fit the criteria, but shocker, no birth certificate. Plenty of families didn’t even fill them out back then, especially the poor. No obituary on record, either. Even if she really had a boarding house license in the sixties, chances of it being archived online were slim. And Annabeth didn’t know where to search for it, anyway.

  “Mother-effer.” Think. Where else can I check?

  If the house was on the fancy stretch of Esplanade in the Marigny, maybe it had stayed in the family. Land records?

  “Mother-effer.” Emma’s singsong voice made Annabeth jump. “Mother-effer!” She hopped up and down.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Cha’ me.” She hopped up and down. “Cha’ me.”

  ‘Chase me’ was Emma’s current favorite game. Annabeth closed the laptop. “Start running.”

  Emma squealed and took off on her tippy-toes, straight for the kitchen. Annabeth lagged behind, letting Emma think she had a big lead. She’d probably stopped at the fridge looking for a juice box.

  Her scream scared the shit out of Annabeth.

  39

  “Masen had a drug problem,” Bonin said. “He OD’d on fentanyl after she went missing. Maybe he got her hooked, and that’s why she’s involved in this whole mess.”

  Cage didn’t have the answer. He just knew that Shana had walked into Carson’s office with Layla two days before Thanksgiving. “She gets into the sex trade to pay for her drug habit and didn’t want uncle to know?”

  “That’s the only thing that makes sense,” Bonin said.

  “Voicemail.” Cage left a message for Sanders, letting him know they had new information in the case.

  “I’m going to call in and have Dumas run Suzette Masse’s driver’s license.”

  “You’re on medical leave, remember? I’ll call as soon as we get through this traffic.”

  “Madam Suzette. Has a nice ring to it.”

  “She seemed so sweet.”

  Cage snorted. “That’s why she’s so good at staying hidden.”

  Bonin smacked her horn. “A siren would come in really handy right now. My exit’s five hundred feet away.”

  Cage settled back into the seat, trying to ignore the sudden headache he’d been told to expect for a while. “Bets on how long it’ll take to get there?”

  “Too damned long.”

  He flipped through Carson’s copied pages of the book. “I wonder if he’s right about the secret madam being their JoJo.”

  “If he’s telling the truth about the family gossip. And if that whole secret madam thing isn’t bullshit.”

  “Whether she is or not, she means something to PhoeniX,” Cage said. “Someone damned close who knew things no one else would.”

  Annabeth’s number flashed on his screen. He normally didn’t hear from her much during the week, but she’d called to check on him every day since he’d got out of the hospital.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “With Bonin—”

  “I don’t give a shit. Emma saw someone outside, and Remy’s out there now looking for them.”

  Time seemed to stop, the world around him going silent. “Emma is there with you?”

  “Dani wanted time to grocery shop and get a haircut. She told you.”

  Had she? “Stay inside. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  He looked at his partner. “Use the shoulder, and get me to my daughter.”

  Cage’s feet hit the ground before Bonin stopped the car. Annabeth stood on the front porch, nose to nose with the retired cop he’d hired, screaming. Remy lingered in the doorway, holding Emma and trying to cover her ea
rs.

  “What’s the fucking point of your sitting out here if you let this happen?”

  Cage pulled Emma away from Remy and held her close. Red splotches dotted her face, her eyes still wet from tears. She babbled between her sobbing and hiccups.

  “She’s okay,” Remy said. “Just scared. And Annabeth’s screaming isn’t helping it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Annabeth said. “But this never should have happened.”

  “Don’t you think she might have imagined it?” the retired cop demanded. “You said you didn’t see it. And he went around the house and saw nothing.”

  “What happened?” Cage asked.

  “She wanted me to chase her,” Annabeth said. “I let her run ahead into the kitchen, and she lets loose this screech that stopped my heart. I catch up to her, and she’s a wreck. Kept saying monster, monster, I think. It was hard to understand. Anyway, she saw something outside that scared the shit out of her. Remy went running out to check, and this fat motherfucker sat in his car, sleeping.”

  “You’re disrespectful and ungrateful.” The guy looked like a fat tick ready to burst.

  “I’m brain damaged,” Annabeth shot back. “I can’t help the things I say.”

  “Can you give us a second?” Cage stepped between them.

  He grumbled something and headed down the stairs to talk with Bonin. Emma snuggled into Cage’s shoulder, her hiccups slowing.

  “She saw something,” Annabeth said. “Maybe it wasn’t anything to do with that redheaded bitch, but it scared her.”

  He believed her. Emma had a temper, but she was adventurous and didn’t scare easily. And she rarely screamed. Kicking was more up her alley.

  Cage rubbed her back. “Emmy, what did the monster look like?”

  “No monster.” She patted her chubby fingers against her wet face. “Make.”

  “Make?”

  “What the hell is a make?” Annabeth asked.

  “Make,” Emma’s voice rose. “Make. No eyes.”

  “Is she trying to say mask?” Remy said.

  Dizziness swept over Cage. “A mask, Em? Like the ones people wore at the big parade?”

  She nodded. “But not pretty. Ugly.”

  Cage hugged her, locking eyes with Annabeth and willing her not to blurt out the masked person had shot him.

  “Did you check on Dani?” Annabeth asked.

  Cage already had his phone out, texting his wife. “She’d just pulled in the driveway to unload groceries. I told her to go in and lock the door, and I’d let her know when I got here.”

  “Wow,” Annabeth said. “Enjoy no sex for a month.”

  Bonin joined them on the porch. “She must have snuck around the back. He feels awful.”

  “He should,” Annabeth said.

  She and Bonin stared each other down until Annabeth rolled her eyes and headed back inside.

  A makeshift fort took up most of the small living room. Remy yanked the sheets out of the way. “We were playing.”

  “Thanks for taking care of them,” Cage said. “I’m glad you were here.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Annabeth said.

  Emma squirmed out of his arms and pulled on Remy’s arm. “Don’t do that.”

  He laughed and tossed the pile on top of her.

  “Cha’ me!”

  “I’ve been trying to find Pop’s JoJo. Think I might have her.”

  He and Bonin looked at each other, and she shrugged. “Might as well see what she can find.”

  Cage showed her the copies he’d taken from Carson Hughes, explaining the Redmund love child whose mother was probably JoJo and that whoever was behind PhoeniX knew the truth.

  “Pops was positive JoJo got her brothel. And I think he was right.” Annabeth launched into a story about obsessively searching until she found the article about Josefa Hayle’s alleged boarding house on Esplanade. “If my name were Josefa, I’d sure as hell use a nickname. This cop always felt like she was the one who got away. He just couldn’t prove it.”

  “What are you thinking?” Bonin asked. “That this JoJo’s descendants jumpstarted the family business?”

  “If this secret madam really existed and never got caught, who else would know about it?” Cage asked. “It’s worth trying to figure out.”

  “Suzette would have extra ammo for blackmailing Carson Hughes if her grandmother was Philip Redmund’s secret kid.”

  “Exactly.” Cage poked Annabeth. “See what you can find for Suzette Masse. She owns Fatbacks.”

  “Who’s blackmailing who now?”

  “JoJo supposedly blackmailed Philip over the child until he died. Years later that child shows up and does the same thing to her half-sibling—Carson Hughes’s grandmother. Suzette Masse came to blackmail Carson after he asked about PhoeniX—”

  “Whose blue book has a special story about the secret madam,” Annabeth finished. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

  “The only thing that bothers me is Suzette’s been a client forever,” Bonin said. “Carson’s a six-year partner. Why take so long to act?”

  Annabeth’s fingers stilled. “Cage is right. Suzette’s probably JoJo’s granddaughter.”

  Emma’s screech stalled Cage’s heart. She zipped through the living room at toddler speed, with Remy “chasing” her.

  Guess the guy was all right.

  “Run us through the short version of the family tree,” Bonin said.

  “Suzette LaBauve married Charles Masse in 1982. Her mother, Lily Hayle, signed as a witness to their marriage. Lily Hayle married Marvin LaBauve in 1965. They opened Fatbacks in 1980.”

  Her ability to focus on something so tedious amazed Cage, but Annabeth clearly enjoyed it. He wondered if Dani could use a research assistant.

  “You’re assuming this Lily Hayle is JoJo and Philip’s daughter?” Bonin asked. “That’s a fairly common surname.”

  “Except it isn’t,” Annabeth said. “Look. Four people with the last name Hayle in the death records up to ’68. And then five with an alternate spelling.”

  “She didn’t die in ’68 if she opened Fatbacks in 1980,” Bonin snapped.

  “No shit, Detective Sherlock. My point is that between 1890 and 1968, there were only a handful of Hayles on record, which means not a common name.” Annabeth leaned back and smirked at Bonin. “Meaning it’s pretty freaking likely that the Lily Hayle-La Bauve who opened Fatbacks is the bastard child.”

  “Are the La Bauve’s still alive?” Cage asked.

  “He died of cancer around ’93.” Bonin still glared at Annabeth. “Big funeral parade and party at Fatbacks.”

  “I can’t find an obit for the wifey, so she might be,” Annabeth said. “Any chance you could get access to Suzette’s actual birth certificate? That would help.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Let’s go with her being the descendant.” Cage looked at Bonin. “Can you run her driver’s license?”

  Bonin nodded. “Soon as I drop you off at home, I’ll head into the office.”

  A thunderous knock made everyone jump.

  “Motherfu—” Remy covered Annabeth’s mouth.

  Cage picked up Emma and checked out the window. Dani glared back at him and pointed to the door.

  Annabeth hung over his shoulder and snickered. “Get ready to lose a piece of your manhood.”

  40

  LYRIC

  I shove college boy’s hands off my hips. I can’t work another damned day here. Women dancing and taking off their clothes for money is all good. Men need to get it through their heads the waitress is off-limits.

  The boss isn’t ever going to enforce that, and most of the bartenders don’t care. The only thing I’ll miss about this place is the homemade Aloo Tikki his wife makes. Mrs. Ganjoo had New Orleans’s Pakistani restaurants beat.

  “I quit.”

  “Why?” Ganjoo’s not a bad guy—unless he knows about 325’s connection to Layla.

  “I’m tired of being touched.”

  �
��You work at a strip club.”

  “As a waitress.”

  Ganjoo sighs. “You’re aware of the owner’s policy regarding the last paycheck?”

  “Keeping it for an extra week.”

  “I’m very sorry to see you go. I found your working here very brave after all you’ve been through.”

  His tone is nice, but my defenses snap to attention. “So, my quitting is cowardly?”

  “Of course not. None of these men should be touching anyone—including the dancers—without permission. But I’m told that’s bad for business.”

  I relax, pushing my hair off my shoulders. “The owners are never around, and you spend twenty-four seven here. Why not do things your way?”

  “My way is bad for business.”

  “His way’s bad for everyone else. What’s his deal, anyway?”

  “Just his policy.” Ganjoo stands and starts to stretch his hand over the desk. “My apologies, you don’t like to be touched. Lyric Gaudet, I wish you well.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get changed and leave the uniform.” I really thought he’d start talking. Guess the owners have him muzzled well.

  I skip the dancers’ room and change in the restroom. It’s dank, with only two narrow stalls, but it’s private.

  Just as I zipped my jeans, the restroom door opens and shuts. I peek through the gap at the door. The woman who entered yanks off her black knit cap and scratches her scalp until her chopped hair stands up all over. She starts digging in her bag, and something falls out.

  My insides fucking seize.

  She snatches up the plastic mask, but it’s burned into my memory like thousands of other terrible moments.

  That’s the bitch who shot Cage.

  My hand’s on the lock. She’s thin. I can jump her and get my hands around her neck before she knows what hit her. It only takes a few minutes to squeeze the life out of someone.

  Don’t, don’t, don’t. You won’t be able to cover it up. The security camera recorded both of us going into the bathroom.