The Devil's Muse

by Bill Loehfelm

  Laine frowned.

  “C’mon,” Maureen said. “Would you rather spend the rest of the night talking to Sansone or chasing homeless guys with a camera, hoping they turn into drug-crazed zombies?”

  “It’s not that. This is too good an offer. I don’t trust you.”

  “You make Albert and Malik whole over their iPad,” Maureen said, “and I’ll set you up with Sansone. He knows cops and criminals across the city. He can get you in with a lot of people you could never otherwise talk to.”

  “Those two kids?” Laine said, rolling her eyes. “A friggin’ iPad doesn’t make them journalists, or filmmakers, or whatever they’re calling themselves. I don’t want to hear about their ‘project.’ They saw something cool that they could record and throw up on YouTube for a few laughs. What’re they even doing out here with that? What kind of video are they going to get in this light? And the sound, forget it. What kind of postproduction were they planning on doing?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Maureen said. “Who put you in charge of who gets to be legit? What happened to all that DIY First Amendment and public space stuff?”

  “If I give them my contact info,” Laine said, “then I can’t get rid of them. They’ll be pestering me for jobs on my crew. They’ll want my advice on their work.”

  “I don’t think they’re that interested in working with you. Certainly not in working with Donna. I promise you that.”

  “You don’t understand how so-called new media works,” Laine said. “They’re all about disrupting everything and doing something new until they think someone on the inside of Hollywood or New York might offer them a job, then they’re reading you their résumé.”

  “Hollywood?” Maureen asked. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re standing under a highway overpass in a parking lot that smells like piss and puke with a stoner duo you found on the Internet for a crew. I don’t know how Hollywood works, but you want the real Mardi Gras, you need friends on the inside. You want friends like that, you need to take care of the locals. And not with the bullshit and pennies you’re offering Cortez and Larry.”

  “You’re an officer of the law,” Laine said. “Making me pay those kids is extortion.”

  “It’s media relations,” Maureen said. “It’s neighborly. C’mon, what’s screen repair for one of those things cost? Sansone’s got a smile that’s worth ten thousand hits on its own.”

  “You’ll vouch for me,” Laine said. “With him.” Maureen could see the hit counter turning in her head. “You’ll do more than just tell him my name.”

  “I can’t make him do anything,” Maureen said. “But I will encourage him to help you, yes. He’s a good guy. He loves the job. He loves talking about being a cop.” She borrowed one of his moves and bumped Laine with her elbow. “You can’t tell me that he and his tattooed muscle-boy buddies won’t look fantastic on camera.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Laine said. “I’m trusting you with my project. You know how important it is to me.” She dug into her shoulder bag. She found her wallet and pulled out two crisp hundreds. “This is most of my cash for the weekend.” She extended the bills to Maureen. “Give those guys this two hundred cash and tell them we’re even for the iPad.”

  “Excuse me?” Maureen said. “I look like a bagman to you? Give them the money yourself. That’s part of the point here. Acknowledge them. That’s Malik with the glasses, and his friend’s name is Albert. And bring Donna with you when you go over to them, and she apologizes for calling the cops on them. Then we have a deal.”

  “Changing the terms already,” Laine said, tucking her wallet back in her shoulder bag. “You sure you don’t know anything about Hollywood?”

  “Fuck Hollywood,” Maureen said. “Welcome to New Orleans.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not staying,” Laine said. “Enjoy yourselves.” She called Donna’s name then she walked away, her head held high, her money clutched tightly in her hand.

  32

  Maureen lit a cigarette, taking a deep satisfying drag as she watched Laine and Donna talk to Malik and Albert. The students seemed satisfied with the deal and the apology. After Malik had pocketed the cash, Donna walked away, head hung low. Maureen saw Laine straighten her shoulders and arch her back. She took a deep breath, readying herself to launch into a lesson for the boys about journalism or ethics in media or something of the sort. Albert and Malik didn’t listen. They walked away from Laine in mid-sentence and made a beeline for Cortez and Larry. The four of them set to discussing the camera Cortez was using.

  Maureen watched Laine watch them, and for a moment felt an empathetic pang of loneliness for Laine, who always seemed, once the drama had been resolved, to end up standing by herself off to the side of things. Sansone and Morello conferred, and after a brief conversation walked over to Donna, who cocked a hip at their arrival, threw her hair back, and tried to smile, but even at a distance she’d been drained of an essential animating energy. Maureen could tell, from yards away, that despite the selfish, uninterested pout she put on for the world, Donna felt awful about assuming the two black kids who had come running to help her coworkers were thieves instead. She’d bounce back, Maureen thought. She was too deeply selfish not to, and the attentions of Morello and Sansone made for a fine consolation prize.

  Locating Wilburn took her a minute.

  She finally spotted him, away from everyone, leaning against a concrete pillar with his phone held to one ear and his hand pressed flat against the other. A band was now marching under the overpass, and even at their distance, the blare of the brass section was prodigious. He did not look very happy. Maureen walked over to him. He finished his call and watched her approach, slipping his phone into the pocket of his coat. He seemed ready to say something to her, but then something else caught his attention. Another NOPD Explorer turned off Calliope and into the parking lot.

  Maureen stood beside Wilburn and watched the approaching vehicle. “Do we know who that is?”

  “Your phone been buzzing?” Wilburn asked.

  Maureen checked it. “Nope.”

  “When you were a teenager,” Wilburn said, “you ever go to one of those house parties your best friend threw only to have the parents come home early and walk in on a shit show?”

  “I guess,” Maureen said. The vehicle parked a few yards away from her and Wilburn. Hardin was driving. There was no mistaking that enormous form. “I’ve seen it in the movies, at least.”

  “It’s, like, you’re not the one who fucked up, technically, but you’re going to get a ration of shit anyway.”

  “Oh, for sure I know that feeling,” Maureen said. “Yes, indeed.”

  Sergeant Hardin got out of the truck. He waited for his passenger, who Maureen also knew.

  “That’s how I feel right now,” Wilburn said. “And I don’t like it any more now than I did then.”

  A short, thick-bodied man in a long, expensive fawn-colored wool coat disembarked from the passenger seat of the Explorer, stooping to comb his wavy gray hair in the car’s side mirror. He left the door open when he was done using the mirror like he was used to someone being there to close his car doors for him. Drayton. He and Hardin riding together, she thought. That can’t be good. They are not here to congratulate us on a job well done, she thought. The door alarm on the Explorer started beeping. Drayton turned and slammed it closed. Maureen could see Hardin roll his eyes from where she stood. His jaw was tight. His whole body was locked up with tension.

  She turned at the sound of a loud whistle from across the parking lot. Morello. He stood next to a confused-looking Sansone, his hands in the air. He didn’t know what Hardin was doing there, either, or why he had brought Drayton with him. Maureen half expected the two of them to bolt for Morello’s unit and make a quick escape.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Hardin said, walking up. “Worry about me.”

  Drayton stood at the front of the Explorer. He smoothed the front of his open coat with his fat hands. He had quite th
e wardrobe, Maureen thought, and one hell of a nice watch, for an NOPD homicide detective. None of the other detectives she had met wore clothes like him. He spared no expense on the cologne or the hair product, either. He had a fleshy reddish face and thick purplish lips, black eyebrows like dead caterpillars stuck above his eyes. He spread his feet and crossed his hands at his shiny belt buckle, waiting, Maureen figured, for everything in the world to come to him like it was his due. He wore a gold pinkie ring with a large black stone. Drayton was always gross and cheesy, she thought, but this meeting in a dirty, dimly lit parking lot had him turning the act up a notch. He’d struck a pose, she realized, like he was a B-movie mafioso making a late-night deal, with Hardin as his hired muscle. For real. This wasn’t even a Mardi Gras costume. This was how Drayton was in real life.

  Despite how she felt about Drayton, and despite her skepticism of Laine’s project, Maureen would not have blamed the woman for trying to capture this scene on camera. Drayton was something to behold, that was for sure.

  Hardin waved for Morello and Sansone to join them at the car. Heads lowered, the two men hurried over. Maureen watched from the corner of her eye as Cortez discreetly raised the camera to his shoulder and started filming. Malik tilted the tablet back and forth, trying to see through the cracks and swiping at the broken screen with his finger. Albert was texting away on his phone. Cortez, Albert, Malik, and Larry had the look of a team. Laine had not moved a muscle; she simply watched. Donna kept her distance from everyone.

  “What’re y’all doing here, Sarge?” Maureen asked. “That press conference has got to be starting soon.”

  “It most certainly is,” Hardin said. “It most certainly is.”

  Wilburn’s phone started ringing. He pulled it from his pocket, frowned at the number.

  “Is that Officer Cordts?” Hardin asked.

  Wilburn looked up, licking his lips. “What? No. No, it’s not.”

  “Then you’re free to not answer that,” Hardin said. “We’re having a very important meeting right now. For you, especially.”

  Morello and Sansone arrived.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Sansone said, no smile. Morello said nothing.

  “Officer Sansone,” Hardin said. “I want you to take this camera crew far away from here. Take them back to the route. Let them shoot whatever they want, keep them entertained, just get them the hell away from here. You’re a charming motherfucker. Think you can handle that? I think you can.”

  “Ten-four, Sarge,” Sansone said, raising his eyebrows at Maureen and mouthing “good luck” at her, clearly happy to be excluded from future proceedings. He headed in Laine’s direction to relay Hardin’s message. If the woman had any sense of how to read other people, Maureen thought, she would know this was not the time to raise a stink with Hardin.

  “You want me to help him with that?” Morello asked, already turning to make his escape.

  “I want you to stay here and tell me,” Hardin said, “why you left Officer Cordts alone with our suspect?”

  Oh, fuck, Maureen thought. Cordts, what did you do? She turned to Wilburn, who she saw had turned as ashen as death. “What happened to Cordts?” she asked.

  A loud banging startled them. Drayton was beating his thick fist on the hood of the Explorer. “What the fuck happened to my fucking suspect?”

  His face approached the color of an eggplant, the flush brought on by the effort of the histrionics, Maureen figured, and not from rage or frustration. Maureen watched his gray eyes flick for an instant in the direction of the film crew. She turned and saw they were walking away now, a smiling, spotlit, gesticulating Sansone leading them back to the parade route like the Pied Piper. If the Pied Piper had been a gorgeous Navy SEAL.

  “Fuck Cordts,” Drayton said, his disappointment audible as he, too, watched the camera crew leave the scene. “I don’t care about that loser.”

  “You should,” Wilburn said.

  “Where is my suspect?” demanded Drayton.

  “What happened?” Maureen asked. “Me and Wils, we’re missing crucial info here.”

  “Coughlin, you told me,” Hardin said, “that I could send Drayton to arrest Goody Curtis?”

  “I did.”

  “I trusted you, so I did what you said.”

  “And?” Maureen asked.

  “And no one was there when Drayton arrived,” Hardin said.

  “What do you mean, no one?”

  “Fucking no one,” Drayton said. “What part of ‘no one’ is hard to understand, Coughlin? No. Body. Nobody but that bitchy hotel maid who owns the house that you supposedly caught this kid hiding under.”

  “She supervises housekeeping for the Canal Street Marriott,” Morello said with a shrug. “It’s a big staff.” Maureen looked at him. “We got to talking. There was nothing else to do.”

  “I give a fuck?” Drayton said. “About any of this? A boss maid is still a maid, that’s not the point.”

  “Supposedly caught?” Maureen asked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Drayton wagged his finger at her. “I don’t know about you, Officer. Who’s to say you caught anybody? This is not the first time one of your”—he made air quotes with his fat fingers—“suspects went missing.”

  “She caught him, Drayton,” Wilburn said. “I was there when he came out from under the house.”

  “Me, too,” Morello said. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Hey, you know what,” Drayton said. “Three guys go out fishing in the Gulf. Boat comes back, all three guys says one of them caught a big-ass shark. So let me see it, I say. But when I look in the boat, no fucking shark.” He paused, letting the story’s wisdom soak over them. “You know what I think when that happens? I think the buddies are a bunch of liars looking out for themselves and fuck everybody else.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Maureen asked.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Wilburn said.

  “Sweetheart, you say you caught him,” Drayton said, his ire still focused on Maureen, “but I ain’t got him, so as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t catch jack shit. If he’s not in the boat, he’s not caught.”

  “What’s this have to do with Cordts?” Wilburn asked.

  “When the detective arrived at the scene to effect the arrest,” Hardin said, “both Officer Cordts and the suspect were gone.”

  “They were there when I left on the fifty-five,” Morello said. “Everything was copacetic. I made sure.” He glanced from Wilburn to Hardin and back. “I know how Cordts is.”

  “He’s worse tonight,” Wilburn said. “Bad as I’ve seen him.”

  “I know,” Morello said. “That’s why I checked him before I left him. I swear. Goody was hooked up in the backseat, and Cordts was sitting on the hood of the unit, chain-smoking cigarettes, looking at a little red sneaker. He had those black wings open on the dashboard.”

  “Jesus, Morello,” Wilburn said, “and that’s ‘okay’ to you? That’s copacetic?”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who called in a bullshit fifty-five,” Morello said. “You handle your shit and I don’t have to leave Cordts alone with the suspect.”

  “Do you have any idea, any of you,” Hardin asked, raising his voice to kill the argument, “where Cordts could have taken Goody?”

  “Maybe Cordts got tired of standing around waiting for the detective,” Maureen said. “Maybe he made the arrest himself, like we should have from the get-go.”

  “We checked the jail wagon,” Drayton said. “No dice. They’re both in the wind, and I am pissed.”

  “If Cordts was driving around doing police work,” Hardin asked, “why would he not be on the radio about it? Why would he not answer his phone? Why would he go dark?”

  “No reason that I can think of,” Maureen said. “None at all. I’m sorry. I wish I had something to offer.”

  “So do I,” Drayton said. “I’m unimpressed with the lot of you so far.”

  “Wilburn?” Hard
in asked, ignoring Drayton’s derision. “You need to talk to me. You’re covering for him. I appreciate that, but now is not that time.”

  Wilburn didn’t seem to hear. His phone was buzzing again. He held it in his hand and stared at the screen.

  “I swear to Christ, Officer,” Hardin said, “if you don’t silence that phone and get your priorities in order, there are going to be consequences.”

  Wilburn looked up from the screen, blinking at Hardin.

  “Where is Officer Cordts?” asked Hardin.

  Wilburn turned the phone so that the screen faced Hardin. “He’s here.”

  “Ed Gallagher,” Hardin said, squinting at the screen. “That name means nothing to me. Get serious, Wilburn.”

  “Shit,” Wilburn said, thumbing the screen. “I meant to show you the text, not the phone call. Ed runs the Dublin House, over on St. Charles and Melpomene. He’s the one who keeps calling me. He’s an old friend of me and Cordts, from back in the day. We march in the St. Pat’s parade together. He got sick of me not answering his calls, and sent me a text. Cordts is at the Dublin House; he’s got Goody with him. And they are not there for the fish and chips. Cordts asked Eddie to keep the dining room clear. To lock them in.” Wilburn reread the message, unleashed a long sigh. He swallowed hard. “Fuck. Eddie says Cordts looks ready to paint the walls with this kid.”

  “So Cordts has locked himself in the Dublin House with Goody and this guy Eddie?” Maureen said. “We’re now dealing with a hostage situation, during the night’s big parade.”

  “We keep fucking around here,” Wilburn said, “and I’m worried we’re gonna be dealing with a homicide situation.”

  “I cannot believe how y’all have fucked this up,” Drayton said. “Unreal.”

  “The only thing I want to hear anybody talking about,” Hardin said, “is how we’re getting Cordts and Goody out of the Dublin House in one piece.” He turned his full size on Drayton. “That includes you, Detective. Everyone in the car. We’re rolling.”