Page 94 of Buried Too Deep

Ending the call, he pulled away from the curb and headed back to his condo. He wasn’t going to call attention to himself by waiting around with so many cops on the scene. The bodyguards would be even more vigilant from now on. Everyone would be considered a threat, every parked car suspect.

He wished he knew exactly what Broussard’s people had been looking for in the attic. He knew that Cora had been looking for clues into her father’s death before she’d brought Broussard in. Sage had gleaned that much from the conversations she’d had with the Terrebonne Parish sheriff, with the NOPD, and with Broussard’s people before they’d discovered his bugs.

That they’d been searching the attic for information relating to Jack Elliot made sense. But he might not ever find out exactly what that was.

He’d have to come at this from his grandfather’s angle, whatever that was.

He’d just pulled into his parking place in his condo’s garage when his phone beeped.

Yes. That was the camera he’d planted earlier that day.

He held his breath, watching as his grandfather twisted the dial forward, backward, and forward again before pulling the handle. He used the numbers he could see from his side view to extrapolate the exact numbers Alan had chosen.

One-zero-fifteen.

Huh. That date wasn’t on the list of any that he’d considered.

He wondered at the significance of the date, then exhaled on a rush when it hit him.

He’d seen that date recently. Or a date close to it.

If the combination was a date, that would be October 15—one day before law enforcement believed Jack Elliot had been stuffed into the foundation of the Damper Building, because the concrete had been poured on October 16.

His grandfather’s secret safe with secret guns had a combination one day earlier than the day that Jack Elliot had been murdered.

Hands visibly shaking on the camera feed, Alan put a single piece of paper back into the safe. He started to close the safe, but after a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out what appeared to be a photograph.

The angle was wrong, dammit. Sage couldn’t see what—or who—the photo was of.

Alan stared at the photo for a long, long minute, expression weary and full of regret. Which was a big deal because Alan didn’t seem to regret anything.

Alan put the photo back into the safe, closed the door, and twisted the handle. He leaned into the safe, resting his forehead on the metal for several seconds before straightening and closing the bookshelf.

Sage switched to one of the first cameras he’d planted.

His grandfather returned to his desk, immediately dropping his head into his hands.

Sage stared at the image of his grandfather. The old man had always been strength and self-control personified. Now? Alan was broken.

What have you done, old man?

13

Uptown, New Orleans, Louisiana

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 11:48 P.M.

ALAN LAID HIS PHONE ON his desk, trembling.

This was so much worse than he’d thought.

Sage had disobeyed a direct order. He’d continued to surveil Cora Winslow after Alan had told him to stay away from the woman.

His grandson tried to make it seem like he was being helpful, that he was trying to atone for his failure to get Cora’s letters from Broussard. But Alan knew Sage. He’d raised him, after all. Sage had smelled Alan’s blood in the water and was circling like a shark.

Alan had feared the day that his grandson would try to overthrow him. Would try to take everything that Alan had spent his lifetime building. Everything that Alan had sacrificed to achieve.

It was time to deal with Sage before Alan completely lost control of the situation.

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