“If I was having any doubts about where I want to be and what I want to be doing,” Maureen said, kicking aside dead magnolia leaves, “I’m cured. The time did that much for me.”
“I was pulling for you,” Atkinson said. “Still am. Like I said when the shit started going down, you can be an exceptional cop if we can keep you out of jail.”
Maureen hung her head and grinned. “Skinner said something similar. I’m looking to steer clear of any more trouble in the department. I’m content with the DC forgetting who I am for a year or so, until I’ve earned a promotion.”
“You know why we haven’t spoken before now,” Atkinson said.
“No one was supposed to be talking to me,” Maureen said. “And you’re Homicide, over at HQ. I know Skinner wanted to keep things as much in the district as possible.”
“I can’t even give the impression,” Atkinson said, “that I’m reaching into his shop for my own ends. I can’t disrespect him like that.”
“I wasn’t waiting for it,” Maureen said. “For you to swoop in and save me. You, Preacher, anybody. I knew what I had to do. I did it. And here I am. Case closed.”
“You’ve probably heard it already,” Atkinson said, “but you haven’t heard it from me, and I was there at the river, at the end. And I know my opinion matters to you. Quinn didn’t become who he was because you showed up. The rot got inside him years ago. Ruiz, too. Everyone who dealt with Quinn knew what he was, who he was. Some approved, some didn’t, some changed their minds about what side they were on after things turned bad for him, but we knew the truth about him. It’s not on you. It’s not your fault things went so hard for him. And you’re not stained with what he did or how he ended up. Not as a cop, and not as a person. Anybody worth anything in this department knows that. You should, too.”
“You know how it goes,” Maureen said. “You can understand things intellectually, but the rest of you can be slow to catch up. It’s human nature to look back on bad shit and wonder what you could’ve done different. I’m getting there. About a lot of things.” She unzipped her jacket, reached inside for her cigarettes. She offered one to Atkinson, who accepted. “And maybe guilt-wise I’m not stained with Quinn’s bad decisions, but in other ways I am. I’m that girl who that bad thing happened to. That girl cop who was mixed up in that thing with Quinn. I don’t want to be that girl that bad thing happened to that one time. I don’t want that name.”
She paused, weighing what to say next. “I’ve already been that person. It sucks. It’s part of the reason I left New York.”
“Make a new name for yourself,” Atkinson said. “That’s your answer.”
“You say it like it’s easy.”
“No, it’s not easy,” Atkinson said. “And you, you’re always in such a hurry. That’s what upsets you, that you can’t make that new name in a week. I’ve never met anyone less afraid of hard work and who works with so little patience at the same time.”
Patience. Atkinson’s favorite word. There was a reason they called her the Spider. She used time as a weapon, wielding silence like a hammer, like no one Maureen had ever seen. Maureen thought of Preacher’s comments at the PJ’s about going from the shithouse to the penthouse in record time. If there was ever a way to sell her on something, Maureen knew, the promise of a quick trip was it. She remembered that Preacher had said it was Atkinson who’d sent Detillier the FBI agent looking for her. A move that made bringing Maureen back on the job that much more appealing to DC Skinner. Atkinson hadn’t saved her, Maureen thought, but she had helped her.
“The FBI guy, Detillier,” Maureen said. “He’s going to be interested in this. He asked about Leary when I talked to him the other morning. He wanted to meet her.”
“You think he knows she’s dead yet?”
“I doubt it,” Maureen said. “Nobody here knows the FBI cared about her except for me and you and Preacher. He thinks she was the FBI’s best bet for information on the Watchmen. So much for that.”
Atkinson shook her head. “All those resources and chasing the same homeless schizophrenic we were chasing is the best they can do?”
“That’s what I said,” Maureen said. “Though to hear Detillier tell it, their resources aren’t any more plentiful than ours. I told him he was wasting his time with her. That they should be bearing down on the Heaths.”
“Ah. A nonstarter, I’m guessing?”
“What do you think?” Maureen said. “Even Preacher’s telling me to drop the subject. Tomorrow afternoon, I’m having that meeting with Leon Gage, the one that Detillier requested. I’m sure I’ll be talking to Detillier after that. What do you want me to tell him? How do you want me to handle what happened tonight?”
“Don’t worry about me and the FBI,” Atkinson said. “I can handle them. If Leary was nothing but a lead on the Watchmen to Detillier, he’ll lose interest in her. It’s not like she had friends for him to talk to. I’ll have the case to myself, which is how I like it.”
“The case?”
“Let me ask you,” Atkinson said, “what do you think happened here tonight?”
“Suicide, obviously,” Maureen said. “She was mentally unstable and off her meds. At least, she was six weeks ago. I can’t imagine things had improved for her since then, when she’d been killing people. The Watchmen are hunting her. We’re hunting her. God only knows what demons she had chasing her all her life. She had no allies, no family, no money. The razor was right there by her hand.” She paused. “But somebody called it in. We came to the cemetery because somebody reported a body inside. You think someone else was here while she was still alive?”
Atkinson shrugged. “Maybe, probably. People sneak in here three, four nights a week. Somebody unrelated to the incident could’ve seen her, thought she was already dead, called it in. That’s not what bothers me.”
“Why do it up here in the Garden District?” Maureen asked.
Atkinson looked around. “Pretty glorious cemetery. Probably not many paranoid schizophrenics in here.”
“Trust me,” Maureen said, “there’s plenty. They were just rich.”
“Fair point,” Atkinson said. “But think about this. True, from what we know of her, Leary lived downtown, but the killing she did, at least the ones that we know about, she did uptown. Cooley was killed in Central City. And then Gage was killed, what, a mile and a half from here? So she stole in the Quarter, lived in the Bywater and the Marigny, but she did her murder up here. It’s pretty consistent to find her here when you think about it.”
“Except for the fact that this time she was her own victim.”
Atkinson shook her head. “Nope.”
“What is it, then?”
Atkinson raised her hand and touched her cold fingertip to the artery in Maureen’s throat. “That right there? With a blade like Leary carried? That’s a flick of the wrist. Less effort than it takes to toss a bottle cap across the room. The wound she had? It’s vicious. That’s a murder wound if I ever saw one.”
Maureen touched her throat, put her finger where Atkinson’s had been. She could feel her pulse throbbing underneath her skin, still warm where Atkinson had touched it. The detective was right, of course. Seemed obvious now. No matter how much she hated herself, no matter how crazy she was, Leary couldn’t cut herself deep and wide like that, couldn’t open herself up like that without flinching, without collapsing or dropping the razor.
“So who killed her?”
“That question, Officer Coughlin, is why I get out of bed every afternoon.” Atkinson tilted her head back and touched her own jugular. “This. I keep coming back to this. Had to be someone who knew her. Someone who knew how she worked. Someone whose purpose would be served by killing her just this way, the way she killed the others.”
“Revenge,” Maureen said.
“Who’s in town raising hell over his dead son?” Atkinson asked.
Maureen thought again of Dice, of her warnings. She’d have to be careful about what she told Atkin
son. But she did have to tell. “Listen, I saw Dice the other night. I was downtown, on Frenchmen, for a show. She appeared out of nowhere, must have followed me to my car.”
“I should’ve heard about this sooner.”
“I was suspended,” Maureen says. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone on the job.”
Atkinson frowned at her. “You pick that night to follow the rules.”
“Okay, you’re right, I could’ve made it work,” Maureen said. “Anyway, I’m telling you now. She told me there were rumors in the streets about someone looking for Leary. Somebody had been working the downtown neighborhoods at night, asking questions about her to the street kids. A man. Dice thought he might be NOPD.”
“She give you a description?”
“She hadn’t seen the man herself,” Maureen said. “She’d just heard that he was looking.”
“I thought she was your snitch,” Atkinson said. “She didn’t bring you anything else?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. She’s not my snitch.”
“What does this person want with Leary?” Atkinson asked.
“Dice didn’t say. She didn’t know. She just asked me to back off.”
Atkinson raised her eyebrows. “Why would she ask you that?”
“You know what I mean,” Maureen said, recovering. “She asked me to maybe get this other cop to back off. She seemed concerned for Leary’s safety. Like maybe the search was more personal than professional.”
Atkinson walked over to a marble bench in front of one of the larger tombs. She sat, leaned her elbows on her knees. That marble has to be ice cold, Maureen thought.
“You think Gage did this?” she asked. “You think he knows Leary killed his son?”
“I’m assuming he knows how his son died,” Atkinson said. “What kind of wound he suffered. If she has a history, he might recognize the method. I don’t know who she is to him. I don’t know what he knows about her, or even about his son.”
“Revenge would explain why he’s in New Orleans,” Maureen said. “Revenge and to shut Leary up if he’s involved with the Watchmen himself. He had to figure she’d fall into our hands eventually, by way of a shelter, jail, or the emergency room. There weren’t really any other options for her. Asking about the death of his son would be good cover for being in the city.” She paused. “But then why tell the cops you’re here in the first place if you’re in town to commit a murder? Why not do the deed and slip back out of town?”
“Unless he figures there’s no way for him to hide being in New Orleans,” Atkinson said. “Like, say for example, he knows the feds are interested in him.”
“Fuck me,” Maureen said. “Detillier told me the FBI was in the dark on this guy. That’s why I’m meeting him tomorrow.”
“Detillier told you that?” Atkinson asked. “That they’d never heard of Leon Gage before he came to New Orleans?”
“Not that exactly,” Maureen said. “He made it sound like Clayton was the one they were interested in, that Leon had just popped up because of Clayton’s death.”
Atkinson raised her shoulders, turned up her empty palms. “Making one thing sound like another. Sure sounds like the feds to me.”
“That motherfucker.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Atkinson said. “That’s how they do. I think sometimes it’s unconscious. He might not even know he was playing you.” She stood. “And maybe I’m completely wrong about Detillier. Maybe Gage is here for the reasons he gave and didn’t think he’d find her and he took advantage of an opportunity. Maybe she set it up, the meeting in the cemetery, like she did the other two killings, maybe that’s what really brought Gage to New Orleans, and it just went wrong for her.”
“You believe all that?” Maureen asked.
“I have to be open to every possibility,” Atkinson said.
“But do you believe any of what you said?”
“About as much as I believe Leary’s death was a suicide.” Atkinson shivered and zippered her coat. Finally, Maureen thought, the cold is getting to her. She’s human. Atkinson said, “Can you find that girl again? Dice. I want to talk to her. She’s the only person we know in the city who knows a thing about Leary.”
“I didn’t find her,” Maureen said. “She found me.”
“I know you’ve tried to help Dice,” Atkinson said. “To build trust, a rapport. That’s good police work. If you can produce her, I don’t have to send other cops who don’t know her like you do looking for her. If you can find her, things’ll go easier for her.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is what it is,” Atkinson said. “It’s not news that the Eighth District and the gutter punks are not real collegial with each other.”
“It’s not my district. Won’t I be stepping on toes?”
“Since when has that stopped you?”
If you only knew, Maureen thought. “I’m trying to stay out of trouble, remember?”
Atkinson said nothing.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Maureen said. She hadn’t been able to find Dice on her own for the past few weeks, and it wasn’t like she’d suddenly get good at it.
“Tomorrow,” Atkinson said, “y’all will come back and canvass the blocks around the cemetery, right? Should you turn up a witness, if Dice could get us a description of the man asking questions, you see how that could help? Maybe the descriptions will match.”
“Detillier can give you a description of Gage,” Maureen said, “if that’s all you need. Look, Gage is meeting me at L’il Dizzy’s at one o’clock. You show up instead of me and arrest him. Easy.”
“I don’t think Agent Detillier would appreciate that plan.”
“Well, fuck him. He put his plan in place before Leary turned up dead.”
“Look,” Atkinson said, “I don’t trust the guy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in his case. He’s chasing guys out to kill cops, out to kill you. You want to get in the way of that?”
“Okay, I’ll talk to Gage,” Maureen said. “And after, I’ll call you, tell you what I’ve found out about him. I’ll let you fight it out with the FBI over him.” She looked away from Atkinson, stared back in the direction of where she’d found Leary. That corner of the cemetery glowed now, bright as an operating room. “I’m having lunch tomorrow with the guy who did that.”
“You do good police work tomorrow,” Atkinson said, “and if he did it, we get him for it. Maybe we get him and a bunch like him before they do worse. There’s always worse.”
“No pressure,” Maureen said. She turned back to Atkinson. “Any advice?”
“Go early,” Atkinson said. “Eat before he gets there. He sees you have no appetite you might make him nervous. He shouldn’t frighten you, or anger you. None of that. You’re not supposed to know anything about him. He’s a grieving father from LaPlace and you’re a courteous, helpful policewoman.”
“So we both show up full of shit and lie to each other. Sounds like a plan.”
“Wear your vest,” Atkinson said. “And keep one in the chamber.”
17
Li’l Dizzy’s was a small, busy café in the Tremé, famous for its fried-chicken-anchored lunch buffet. Preacher had turned her on to the place, taking her there a few times during her training days, the café being a central hub of New Orleans’s Creole power structure. On any given weekday afternoon, the café buzzed with cops, lawyers, judges, and city politicos on their way to or from the nearby courthouses and police headquarters. A lot of business, city and otherwise, Maureen was sure, got conducted at those lunch tables.
When Gage walked into the restaurant, half an hour late, Maureen knew him right away. Detillier had provided an accurate description. Looking at him, though, trying to get a first read on him as he crossed the room, Maureen realized that despite being told what Gage looked like, she had expected someone much different. She’d expected someone more backwoods, more swamp. She’d expected leathered skin, long hair, and a wild beard. She’d expected camo
uflage and Confederate flags. A cliché. Lazy, Officer Coughlin, very lazy. She thought of Atkinson. Stay open to the possibilities.
The man walking toward her was below average height, underfed, cubicle-pale. He kept his thinning brown hair trimmed short, wore a bushy brown mustache. A couple of days’ worth of stubble threaded with white whiskers shadowed his cheeks and throat. He wore a yellow shirt under a Carhartt jacket, brown trousers, and a hideous brown-and-gold-striped tie, discount store brown loafers with black socks. His clothes hung on him, Maureen noticed, like they would on a scarecrow. He appeared a man burdened by suffering. If he was faking his grief, she thought, he’d built a hell of a disguise.
“Detective Coughlin?” Gage asked, placing a hand on the back of the chair opposite Maureen, his scratchy voice barely audible above the din of the busy restaurant. He had the bright blue eyes of a different man, a handsome man, Maureen noticed, but not the chin or the cheekbones, and his lips were almost feminine.
Maureen rose, extending her hand across the table. “Officer Coughlin. You can call me Maureen.”
Gage hesitated a moment, as if he hadn’t shaken a hand in so long he had to remember how. But then he reached for Maureen’s hand. He had a solid grip. “Leon Gage. Thanks for meeting me.”
The waitress appeared at the table, a slip of a black girl in jeans and a Dizzy’s T-shirt, apron tied around her waist, her hair pulled back, nineteen at the most. She’d brought the coffeepot, refilled Maureen’s mug without asking. “Something for you?” she asked Gage. Again he looked confused. He looked at Maureen.
“I ate,” she said. “But, please, take advantage of the buffet. You’ll be glad you did. They’ll be putting it up soon.”
“No, no, thank you,” Gage said. “I ate earlier. A sweet tea, maybe?”
Let the Devil Out Page 15
