Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Imogen pulled out her phone to summon another ride as Jury googled XLIV.
“It’s a club. On LaSalle. They do events.” She held up the key. “This has to open a locker or something inside. We gotta go. It says they’re open right now.”
“Give me the address.”
Jury rattled it off, and Imogen typed it in as their destination and confirmed it for their ride.
“We’ll have a car in two minutes.”
“God, I love rideshare. What did we ever do without it?”
Imogen’s attention was drawn to the upper floor of the house, where a man’s silhouette appeared to be looking down at them from the open French doors. It wasn’t the guy in the suit. He was wearing a baseball cap. Immediately, her mind went to the tattoo artist from earlier today.
No way. It couldn’t be. But then again, why not?
He was the one who’d given them the phone number.
He stepped away from the windows, and their car pulled up.
“Imogen?” the driver asked. “I’m Frank.”
“That’s me.”
“Hop on in. Just a quick ride ahead of us.”
Once she and Jury were inside the car, Jury said, “This is the strangest night I’ve ever had, and that’s saying something.”
“It’s not over yet,” Imogen whispered as Frank pulled out with Club XLIV as their destination.
She had no idea how they would explain what they were looking for when she didn’t even know herself, but they could cross that bridge when they came to it. Jury wasn’t wrong. Tonight was turning out to be a very strange night.
The driver pulled up to a fancy-looking club, right next to the football stadium, and XLIV was in giant letters over the doorway.
“Looks like this place is hopping tonight. Have fun, ladies.”
“Thank you,” Imogen replied as she hit the Tip button and slid out the back door after Jury.
“You think they’ll let us in?” her sister asked.
“I have no idea.”
Well-dressed revelers were entering and exiting the doors, and Imogen knew she and Jury were underdressed. Jury didn’t seem to notice or mind.
She marched straight to the doorman and held up the key. “Do you know what this goes to?”
“Say what?” He cupped a hand over his ear.
Jury held the key chain in his face. “We need to open the door this goes to.”
The doorman’s expression changed. “Where’d you get that? That’s to a locker in the players’ lounge. That ain’t public.”
“Our sister.” Imogen figured it couldn’t hurt to name-drop. “Keira Mount.”
At the name Mount, the doorman froze.
“Come again?” he said, like he must’ve heard her wrong.
“Keira Mount,” Jury repeated. “Lachlan Mount’s wife. Our sister.”
His gaze dropped to the Seven Sinners logo on Jury’s chest before cutting to Imogen’s.
“Oh shit. It’s true? For real? They’re dead?”
Imogen nodded.
“Hold on.”
He yelled to someone just inside the door, and another man in a black suit appeared. He said something into the man’s ear, and the other man nodded.
Then he turned back to them. “Come with me.”
Imogen and Jury looked at each other and then followed him inside. He took them across the marble floor to an elevator and pushed the button.
“We gotta be quick. It’ll be empty tonight, but still … don’t wanna lose my job.”
Imogen was amazed Jury stayed silent as he led them through the building. He swiped his badge to let them into a swanky lounge with wooden lockers along one wall.
“Number seven’s over there. Be quick.”
With a deep breath, Imogen followed Jury across the carpeted floor. Her sister slid the key into the lock and turned it. Jury glanced at her before pulling the handle to open it.
Inside was a box and nothing else. It was wrapped in thick, shiny black paper, and a number seven was written in gold on top.
Jury grabbed the package, and Imogen scanned the rest of the locker. She used her hands to feel the inner panels, but it was empty. She and Jury turned to face the doorman.
“Got what you need?”
They shared a glance.
“Yes,” Jury said.
“Good. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
They followed him out of the room as Jury clutched the box to her chest.
Once back out on the street, Jury said, “Get us a ride to the hotel. I don’t want to open it here.”
Amazed at her sister’s restraint and in full agreement, Imogen nodded. “One second.” She tapped the app, put in the information, and hit Confirm. “Three minutes away.”
“Thank God.”
Neither of them spoke while they waited for the car or during the short ride to the NOPSI Hotel, where they were all staying.
Their parents had sold their New Orleans home years ago when they retired for a life of golf and fun in the sun in Florida, which meant there was no one to explain anything to when they arrived and rushed up to their shared guest suite.
Once inside, Imogen shut the door behind them, and Jury held out the box.
“Do we just … open it?”
“Uhhh … yeah,” Imogen said.
Jury offered it to her. “You do it.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t know. You’re the oldest sister I have now. You do the honors.”
Shocked by Jury’s sudden show of reluctance, Imogen took the box from her sister and carefully slid her finger under the paper so as not to rip it as she unsealed the tape.
“That’s why. It seems too important for me to just … tear into it.”
“Fair enough,” Imogen replied as she grasped the box within the wrapping and tugged it free.
It was thick black paperboard with a gold fleur-de-lis embossed on the lid.
“What in the world is even happening right now? This is some cloak-and-dagger shit.”
Imogen lifted the lid off the box to find black and gold tissue paper. She moved it aside to uncover a cream-colored envelope. She pulled it out and opened it. Inside was another key and a folded piece of paper.
“What the fuck?” Jury said. “Again? What’s this one say?”
“It says two-six-five-zero-seven-zero-four-three-five.”
“What? What does that even mean?”
“I have no idea.”
She handed the handwritten slip with the numbers on it to Jury and looked at the key. “Google it?”
Jury palmed her phone, typed in the number from the paper, and gasped. “It’s the routing number of Gulf Coast Bank & Trust.”
Imogen clutched the key. “It’s for a safe deposit box. I guarantee it.”
“You think?”
“I would bet you anything.”
“Okay.” Jury tapped on the name of the bank. “Gulf Coast Bank & Trust is closed until nine tomorrow.” She scratched her head. “Why send us to some players’ lounge at that club first? And that’s not Keira’s handwriting.”
“I have no idea.”
“So … I guess we wait for tomorrow?”
“There’s nothing we can do tonight.”
“Except more internet sleuthing.”
“For what?”
“Who owns that house in the French Quarter, for starters.” Jury was already typing in the address. “I should’ve done this earlier. I don’t know why I didn’t.”
Probably because we’re both still reeling from the news of the explosion and Keira’s, Lachlan’s, and their daughter’s deaths and dealing with the shock and grief, Imogen thought.
“Who is Niquaise St. Clair?” Jury asked aloud. “He’s listed as the owner on the deed. Hold, please.”
She tapped on her phone, and Imogen couldn’t help but wonder if her sister had staged this scavenger hunt to distract them from their grief.
Did Keira know she was going to die? Is that what her life was like with her husband? Just waiting for someone to take them out?
She couldn’t say she and Keira had been all that close over the last decade, which definitely didn’t make any of this easier.
In fact, if Imogen could give advice to her old self from a decade ago, it would be not to take for granted the fact that her sister would always be around. Because now … she wasn’t.
“He’s the tattoo guy. The one who gave us the number. I am a super sleuth.” Jury threw her arms up in the air with her phone in one hand.
It was him looking down on us from the French doors.
Something had told her it was. Imogen couldn’t help but shiver again.
“Okay, so what? What does he have to do with the safe deposit box?”
“He must know something,” Jury replied.
“Why?”
“He has to.” Desperation was leaching into her sister’s tone.
“Jury … it won’t bring her back.”
Her baby sister looked at her with her lower lip wobbling. “But what if … I mean, there’s a chance, right?”
Imogen almost said, A chance of what? But she felt it too.
“I know … I know. It doesn’t seem real. It feels impossible that this is happening.”
They’d all watched as the three caskets were sealed within the mausoleum, but Imogen couldn’t wrap her head around Keira really being dead. It just didn’t feel like she was.
That doesn’t mean anything though. Does it?
Imogen had never really been vocal about being one of those trust your intuition types, but it had saved her too many times for her not to trust it. And as crazy as it sounded, in her heart of hearts, she didn’t think Keira was really dead either.
“Look, let’s just go to the bank tomorrow. We’ll get into the safe deposit box, and then …” Imogen took a deep breath. “And then we will figure out what’s next. Let’s not put the cart before the horse, okay?”
Jury blew out a sigh. “Okay. Next stop, the bank. We’ll be there at nine sharp. It’s on Magazine Street.”