She walked to the tailgate, scratched the dogs behind their ears again, one dog with each hand. “All right, ladies.” She closed the tailgate, turned, and smiled at Maureen. “I’ll wait here until he’s all the way out. Y’all stay safe. Happy Mardi Gras.”
17
Maureen walked back up the driveway and, crouched, watched the kid crawl toward them. He couldn’t get out from under that house fast enough.
“You run again,” she shouted to the kid as he got close, “and we’re not chasing you. This time, we take the leash off the dogs.”
The kid was out of breath, panting. He was filthy. “I’m coming. I’m coming. No dogs. Please, no dogs.”
Maureen saw two green eyes glinting in her flashlight beam from deep under the house, and bared white fangs. The others had vanished but the first cat had stood its ground. Good for you, old girl.
Behind her in the street, Maureen could hear Laine shouting orders to her crew. Thankfully, her instructions were mostly for them to stay out of the way of the police. Fucking up an important arrest with your dopey camera crew was not a good career move.
The porch light came back on. Ms. Cleo walked outside again, a full wineglass in her hand this time instead of a hammer. She seemed more relaxed. “Are y’all still out here?” The spotlight hit her. She pointed at Cortez. “Oh, no, don’t you point that thing at me.”
Maureen watched as the filthy kid dragged himself out from under her house. He never even got to his feet, collapsing facedown in the driveway. She could see his ribs heaving. He laced his fingers behind his head without being told, his hands and arms trembling from effort or fear or both. Maureen could see he was defeated. He wasn’t a threat to them anymore, if he ever had been. She was glad Morrison had shown him mercy.
But damn, she thought, raising the back of her hand to her nose, taking a step back, if the kid didn’t have a sour, eye-watering stink coming off him. Cat piss, Maureen guessed. The kid had crawled right through one big litter box. She hoped that was it. Please tell me this kid didn’t shit himself when those dogs went off, she thought.
“Five officers and two wild dogs for one skinny black boy,” Ms. Cleo said. “My tax dollars at work. The new New Orleans, my ass.” She waved her finger at the camera crew. “Put that in your news report.”
“Let me remind you that he shot people,” Morello said, “which was what started this whole episode, but we can leave him here with you if you want. You can feed him hot soup. He can tell you his troubles. Maybe you can help him get a scholarship.”
“That’s gonna sound so great on TV,” Cordts said.
“Fuck you, beanpole.”
“That, too,” Cordts said. He stepped toward the kid, toed his shoulder. He folded a fresh stick of gum into his mouth, mashed it in his teeth. “You shoot those people, you shoot that precious little girl?”
“I didn’t shoot nobody,” the kid said into the pavement. “What little girl? Why is this on TV? I can’t see nothing down here.”
“You shut the fuck up,” Morello said. “Nobody’s gonna be on TV. Especially not your sorry ass.” He touched the kid with the toe of his shoe. “Those dogs make you dump in your drawers? I hope so. It’s Mardi Gras, you gonna jail in those drawers till Ash Wednesday.” He turned and stalked toward the camera crew. “None of this is being recorded. Right? Right? Because that would be stupid.”
Cortez, terrified, lowered the camera and backed away from Morello. Maureen thought Larry might throw the mic down in the street and take off running. He and Cortez looked to Laine for direction. Laine, to her credit, stood her physical ground, but she didn’t argue with or contradict Morello either. She didn’t say anything.
Maureen felt resentment and envy rising inside her as she watched the same fake television crew that had sassed her earlier outside the bar acquiesce to Morello’s threatening attitude and imposing physical presence. What I wouldn’t give, she thought, oh, the damage I could do, with another foot of height and another hundred pounds of muscle.
To Maureen’s surprise, while Cortez, Larry, and Laine hung fire, Donna decided to act up. She puffed out her chest and cocked a hip, an exaggerated version of the “Hey, big boy, buy me a drink” stance. Yet her attitude radiated more defiance, Maureen saw, than seduction.
“Maybe we can do an interview,” Donna said to Morello, craning her neck to look him in the face. “You know. Later. Just you and me. Off camera. When things have calmed down. I want your side of the story.”
Morello turned his back on the camera crew without a word, walking toward the stoop. Maureen couldn’t be sure if Donna’s attitude had thrown him off his game, or if he had lost interest in the video camera.
“Goddamn,” he said, covering his nose. “You got bodies under this house, lady?”
Ms. Cleo, one eyebrow arched, stared at Morello a long time before going back into the house without a word.
“She’s got more than one cat under there,” Maureen said. “I know that much.”
“I think she likes me,” Morello said. He turned to Maureen. “It’s my natural charm. You need someone to do follow-up with her, you let me know.”
“I’m in charge now?” Maureen said. “When did that happen? Can I count on you for help here, Cordts?”
“I suppose.” He sighed.
“What?” Maureen asked. “You bored?”
“Somebody needs to search this motherfucker,” Morello said, trying not to laugh. “I know we got his gun, but he’s got something down the back of his pants.”
“I didn’t shit myself,” the kid said. “It’s them cats. They killed things. I think there’s dead things under there.”
“Maybe this nice lady will let us hose you down,” Morello said.
“Has anyone called Drayton?” Maureen asked, growing exasperated. “Or Hardin?” She hated bringing the detective into this, but that was her job. They’d caught the suspect, now the detective would talk to him.
“He said call him back,” Morello said. “I called him when we were waiting for the kid to come out from under the house. Right after the dogs. Sounded like he was at a party. I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him to get here. ’Specially when he finds out the kid shit himself.”
“I didn’t shit myself,” the kid said. “There’s something dead under there. I told you.”
“Sure you didn’t,” Morello said. “I ain’t putting him in my car, I know that.”
He walked away, laughing.
Maureen felt someone creeping up behind her. She turned. “Hey, Wilburn. Look who showed up. Thanks for nothing. Why you sneaking up on me, for chrissakes, like a fucking specter?”
“I have some bad news,” Wilburn said, mumbling.
Maureen nodded at the camera crew. “I saw. Cordts told me they were coming.”
“No,” Wilburn said. “Not them. Worse than that.”
“I already know,” Maureen said, “that Drayton caught the shooting. We’re gonna be here all night and we’ll get fuck-all done. I already know these things.” She brushed her nose with the back of her wrist. She looked at the camera crew. “Does he know about them? Drayton’s such a fucking peacock. He’s gonna love them. Shit. It could be a real problem.”
“You know what, though?” she said. “Maybe we could use them to get him out here. We could get Laine to play it up, like he’s the star. She’ll get good footage. He gets a look at Donna, he’ll come running.” She shook her head. “Drayton is such a pig. That lounge-singer haircut. Maybe we should send him a photo of Donna.”
She could tell Wilburn wasn’t interested in this latest turn of events, or her opinions about Drayton’s haircut. Whatever news he carried had him distracted and distraught.
“Drayton is terrible news for everyone, as usual,” Wilburn said. “Well, except for the shooter. But it’s not what I came here to tell you.”
“Well?” Maureen asked, pulling her gloves tight, grabbing her cuffs from her belt. They couldn’t leave this kid lying in the driveway
for the night. They had to conduct as much of an investigation as they could manage. They needed to know the story behind the shooting to know how much danger the parade route was in that night. “Out with it,” she said to Wilburn. “I got work to do.”
“You know what?” he said. “I can wait until after you’re done with the arrest. Maybe that’s better.”
“Now. Now is better. You’re miserable.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
Maureen had an awful thought. She looked around for Cordts, spotted him standing by his car, texting on his phone. She didn’t want to speak too loudly and draw his attention. She whispered, “The little girl died. Holy shit. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No, no,” Wilburn said, matching her whisper. “This has nothing to do with her.”
Maureen sighed with relief. “See? Suddenly this bad news is good news. It’s all in how you look at it.”
“If you say so,” Wilburn said. “Well, remember that kid in the pink pants?”
“How can I not?” Maureen said.
“Yeah, well.” Wilburn looked over one shoulder then the other, before telling Maureen, in another sinister, conspiratorial whisper, “He’s dead.”
18
“What do you mean he’s dead?” Maureen asked.
“What, they didn’t cover that at the academy?” Wilburn hissed. “And keep your voice down. You know they have a microphone to go with that camera. He’s dead. Expired. Morte.”
“Y’all killed somebody,” the kid said, panic in his voice. “I hear y’all talking. Y’all killed somebody and are coverin’ it up. Hey! TV people!”
“Who’s dead?” Cordts asked, walking over, dropping his phone in his pocket, the corner of his left eye twitching. “I thought there were no fatalities.”
“Now you wanna talk,” Maureen said to the kid at her feet. “Well, now you can shut up. The only one around here tryin’ to kill people is you.”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” the kid said. “I ain’t killed nobody.”
“We’ll see about that,” Maureen said.
“Who’s dead?” Cordts asked again, raising his voice. He spat his gum into the street. “Wilburn? Who’s fucking dead?”
“I’ll tell you who’s dead,” the kid shouted. “The person you cops killed, that’s who. They gonna kill me next.”
“You might not be wrong,” Cordts said, raising his foot like he was going to step on the kid’s neck.
“Cordts, don’t worry about it,” Wilburn said sharply, raising a cautioning hand. He reminded Maureen of Morrison and her dogs. “Listen to me, Cordts. It’s not the girl; it’s something else. Keep cool. Don’t listen to this jerk-off.”
Maureen turned to see the camera crew inching closer. She pointed at them. “And the TV people need to stay right where they are. Far away.”
“We’re on the Internet,” Donna shouted, stamping her foot. “Get it right.” But they stayed put. Maureen was sure the camera was rolling. She wasn’t sure there was anything she could do about it.
“Can we get a move on here?” Wilburn asked. “We really need to get back to, you know, that other thing.”
“The parade route,” Cordts said. “You know. The parade.”
Letting loose a big sigh, holding her breath against the stench, Maureen got down on one knee beside the kid. One at a time, she cuffed his hands behind his back. His pants were filthy from crawling around under the house, as was the rest of him, but as far as she could tell, he wasn’t lying about not shitting his pants. Thank the Lord for small favors, she thought. Didn’t make him stink any less.
Using the cuffs, she brought him up onto his knees then onto his feet. She moved him forward, braced him up against the house, her hand pressing hard on the space between his shoulder blades. She turned out the kid’s pockets and patted him down, Cordts positioned himself right behind her, keeping careful watch.
“He’s clean,” Maureen said. “Well, he’s unarmed. He’s a long way from clean.”
“Roger that,” Cordts said.
“He’s got absolutely nothing on him,” Maureen said. “No wallet, no cash. Not even a phone.” She poked the kid in the back, hard. “Why is that? Where you going, what are you doing that you don’t need a phone, cash, cards, keys?”
“I got robbed,” the kid said, his head lowered. “Early tonight. I did. That’s why I was where I was when that other cop started chasing me. I figured whoever took me off might’ve tossed my shit in the street.”
“What shit? Like your library card?” Cordts asked. “You’re not carrying anything on you because you knew you might get picked up tonight. Because you went out to shoot somebody in a neighborhood filled with innocent bystanders. Because you know you have a record and figured you’d stick us with some fake name when we nailed you.”
“Whatever,” the kid said. “Fuck you, man. You got an active imagination.”
“You got that right,” Cordts said. “You don’t even know.”
“Yeah, you got robbed,” Maureen said, moving between Cordts and the suspect. She didn’t like being as close as she was to either of them. “Right. So that’s why you took off running as soon as you saw a cop? Because you’re the victim. Nice try.”
“What? You got to be playin’,” the kid said. “What makes you think I’d come to y’all ’bout anything?” He tossed his head at Cordts, then in the general direction of Morello. “This one here, the big one over there, look how they doin’ me. With no proof that I done anything.”
“You should’ve stayed home tonight,” Cordts said. “You really should’ve just stayed fucking home.”
Maureen turned the kid around, studied his dirty, angry face. There was something familiar about him. “Tell me about this robbery, then.”
He turned away from her, suddenly reticent, averting his eyes. And, looking him in the face for the first time that night, she knew why he wouldn’t look at her. She knew him. He was young, maybe even younger than Susan and Hardin had suggested he would be. He was in his mid-teens at best. That didn’t mean she hadn’t run into him before. Or even arrested him. She had a face in mind, one that used to be more fleshed out, with lingering baby fat. One she hadn’t seen since the fall.
“You ran,” Maureen said, “because you know Officer Morello. You recognized him and you were afraid he’d recognize you.”
The kid hesitated, his mouth half-open as he struggled to decide what to say next. “Look, he started chasing me before I started running, you see what I’m sayin’? Like, he saw me standing there doin’ nothin’ and jumped outta the car and started running at me, yelling, so I ran, ’cause he was chasing me.” He would not look at Maureen, no matter how hard she tried to catch his eyes. “You see what I’m saying? I wasn’t doing nothin’. He started it. He’s a big dude, and, yeah, he’s got a rep. People in the streets know him. I was scared, all right? It was just me and him on that street. Everyone else was at the parade. Who knows what he was gonna do? That don’t mean I did nothin’.”
“But what about me?” Maureen asked. “Maybe I buy that you’re scared of Morello, maybe, but then why run from me? I’m not nearly his size. I don’t have his rep.”
“You still a cop, though,” the kid said. “And, honestly, you getting a rep, too.”
“That’s not it. That’s not why you ran from me.”
“Yeah it is,” the kid said. “I mean, c’mon, you’re asking why I ran from the cops? Y’all are cops.”
“I know you,” Maureen said. “That’s why you ran.”
“The fuck you do,” the kid said.
“You’re Todd Curtis. Todd Goodwin Curtis,” she said, feeling surer with each passing moment. She knew this kid. He was fifteen years old. And he was a hard-core criminal. Maybe even a killer. “You used to run with Marques and Mike-Mike. They called you Goody.”
“Whatever,” the kid said. “I don’t know no Goody. Punk-ass name like that. Fuck you.”
“I thought you blew town,” Maureen said, �
�right after Mike-Mike turned up dead in the trunk of that car.” She felt silly now for any sympathy she’d felt for him. The detective in charge of Mike-Mike’s case had pondered Goody’s role in putting Mike-Mike in that trunk, and in dumping the body. Maureen felt a surge of confidence that they had the right person for the shooting. “Came back for the holidays, did you? No good parades in Baton Rouge?”
“Fuck Baton Rouge and fuck you. You making shit up now.”
“No, fuck you,” Maureen said. She could feel the kid shutting down; that reaction, and the virulent, ramped-up hostility he showed, told her she was right about his identity. “You know what, Goody? You’re going back in the system. You’re gonna be somebody else’s problem for the next week. Welcome home and happy Mardi Gras. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you—”
Morello came hobbling over, stopping her. “Whoa, whoa, hold up.”
She looked over her shoulder at Morello. “And what’s your problem? I’m making the arrest here.”
“Don’t bother with that yet,” Morello said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Hang tight for a minute.”
“Excuse me?” Maureen said, turning to glare at Morello’s hand. To her surprise, he removed it. “We got a witness from the scene of the shooting who’ll say he did it. Wilburn has the contact info. He matches the description. The witness can make an ID tonight. We have the gun. An eyewitness and the weapon is a pretty damn good starting point. It’s certainly enough for an arrest. I know this kid. He’s got a sheet. A long and nasty juvie sheet. Assaults, armed robbery.”
“She don’t know nothin’,” Goody said. “She lies.”
“It’s not about that,” Morello said. “I believe you that this kid’s a punk. Let’s not rush things. He goes in a car until we figure out what to do with him.”
“There’s nothing to do with him,” Maureen said, “other than arrest him. You hear me? The only thing to do with him is arrest him.”
“I think you’re misunderstanding what I’m trying to tell you,” Morello said. “We’re going to detain him on suspicion for Drayton to question. That’s what we’re going to do. That means your job here is done.”
The Devil's Muse Page 11
