When she’d burst through the back door into the parking lot, she’d glanced about for Preacher, who, no fool, was nowhere to be found. She didn’t go looking for him. She didn’t want to see or talk to him. She didn’t want to be seen, by Drayton or by anyone else, running for the shelter of a man or a superior. She checked the time on her phone. She forced herself to take deep breaths, one after the other. Approaching midnight. She dropped the patrol car into reverse. Time to get back to work.
Tonight was her turn to watch over closing time at Commander’s Palace in the Garden District, the highest of the high-end restaurants in New Orleans. The posting was a favorite gig of hers. She enjoyed keeping a watchful eye as the waitstaff in their vests and ties and long white aprons, and the valets in their dark pants and blue polo shirts, flush with cash from a night’s hard work, dispersed to their cars, talking and laughing and smoking, tiredness tugging at the corners of their eyes, bending their backs. The Commander’s gig was what she needed to get her mind right after the sordid business with Drayton—a simple, quiet task that made her feel useful and good. She turned to back the cruiser from the parking space.
Through the rear window, she spotted a dark figure standing behind her car, his face hidden in shadow, his blue uniform glowing red in her brake lights. “Where y’at, Cogs? Watch where you’re going.”
Fucking Quinn, Maureen thought.
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t see you.”
Quinn came around to her window. “Some drunk asshat got punched out by a cabbie for puking up the taxi’s front seat. Then said asshat barfed all over our backseat when we hooked him up. We came to switch out cars. Another hotshit night in fuckstick paradise.”
Maureen couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“You all right?” Quinn asked. “You look pale. I mean, even for you.”
“Long night. These twelves get to me sometimes. Sorry about your car. I gotta roll.”
“I just gotta talk to you real quick,” Quinn said, squatting beside the car, wrapping his fingers over the top of the door.
“Not right now,” Maureen said. “My turn at Commander’s tonight. They call and complain if we’re late.”
“Fuck them,” Quinn said. “Nobody’s robbed that place in a hundred years. Even the skells know better than that. That used to be a paid detail, you know. We used to get something for that, for the effort, instead of bitchy fucking complaints when we get distracted by crack and murders and shit and have to be fifteen minutes late for babysitting.”
Maureen raised her shoulders. “Yeah, well, from what I hear, not much about paid details is gonna be the same anymore, not even the name.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Quinn said. “Not everything’s gone to shit in that department, not yet anyway. You got a smoke?”
Maureen reached her pack on the dash, gave one to Quinn, lit one for herself.
“I feel bad,” Quinn said, “about doing you wrong over the traffic stop. It would’ve been no kind of thing if not for that murder, but even if that hadn’t happened, we shouldn’t have gone behind your back like that.”
The way you told it to me at the murder scene, Maureen thought, everything was on Preacher’s orders. Now it’s different? Why? She let Quinn keep talking.
“It was a disrespectful thing,” Quinn said. “And yet you kept it close around Drayton last night when you could’ve punched us in the dick. I owe you a solid. I want to make it up to you.”
“It’s nothing,” Maureen said. “Trying to be a team player. Buy me a beer.”
“For true,” Quinn said. “Players look out for each other, though. Ain’t none of us getting rich out here. You’re off duty tomorrow night, right? I got a sweet detail, a fat charity gig in one of the mansions out by Audubon Park. I usually do it with Rue, but his daughter’s in this school play or some shit and his wife has to work. He tells me this and I think I might ask around, and then I think, why hand an easy three hundred cash to some other bum when I can lay a little well-deserved payback on my boy”—he smiled at his mistake—“excuse me, on my podna, the Cog that turns the wheel?”
“Quinn, I appreciate this, I do,” Maureen said. “And I’m not judging, I swear I’m not, but with the feds around and all—these details, they’re like one of the first things the feds and the brass are going after. Probably not something I should get into.”
“I hear you,” Quinn said. “But this gig ain’t like that. Me and Rue, we’ve done it six years in a row. It’s no secret. It’s on the up-and-up. No worries. It’s for charity, for chrissakes. The mayor will probably be there. The chief, too. Let him come out and send us home if he’s worried about the feds.” Quinn flipped open his notepad, scratched something down with a pen. He tore the sheet off and passed it to Maureen. “Next year, yeah, the gig goes to a couple of captains, or we get taxed on it or whatever, but this year people who need it get it.” He stood. “I’ll see you there tomorrow evening. Regular blues. Six thirty.”
Maureen folded the notepaper, tucked it into the pocket of her shirt. “Thanks, Quinn. I appreciate the hookup. Now I really gotta roll. I don’t want my night being the first night in a hundred years that shit goes wrong.”
“No doubt,” Quinn said, standing. He looked pleased with himself. He tapped his fist twice over his heart. “Roll out, soldier. Protect and serve like a motherfucker.”
17
Maureen arrived at Commander’s Palace to find Preacher waiting for her. He had parked across Washington Avenue from the restaurant, sitting in his NOPD Explorer with one arm hanging out the window, fingers drumming on the door. The truck leaned to one side, with two wheels up on the curb. Maureen parked the cruiser a few yards ahead of Preacher, beside the whitewashed walls and the piked black iron gate of Lafayette Cemetery, under the canopy of a sprawling live oak a century older than either the cemetery or the restaurant. As if to protest the intrusion, a handful of acorns panged off the roof of the cruiser.
Maureen climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind her, and walked over to Preacher. The sweet, syrupy smell of bread pudding hung in the air. Frogs chirruped in neighborhood yards. The street was covered in smashed acorns. They crunched under her feet. She wasn’t used to it yet, October acorns on the ground while warm breezes rustled the huge green and leafy branches overhead and sweat dampened the small of her back.
“I’m not that late,” she said, approaching the Explorer. “No more than five minutes. They couldn’t have called already.”
“I didn’t know how long you’d be with Drayton,” Preacher said. “Figured I’d go ahead and cover it until you got here. I wanted some air, anyways.” He put his cigar to his lips, puffed on it. “Everything went okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” Maureen said, looking away. She watched a cab go by up Washington, the driver chattering on his phone, making a rolling right turn at the red light. A stray cat, a mangy orange tabby, strolled across the street, fearless, looking right at them before slinking under a parked car nearby.
Preacher said nothing. He turned his cigar in his mouth, looking at her with narrowed eyes.
“Okay, enough already with the eyes,” Maureen said. “Our meeting went poorly.”
“I had a feeling,” Preacher said. “Tell me about it.”
Maureen knew Preacher could have sent another unit down to Commander’s to cover for her. He had concerns, naturally, and he wanted to give them a chance to talk about the meeting away from any eavesdroppers or interruptions, and away from Drayton. If the detective had it out for her, if that meeting tonight was the beginning, she needed to build her defense. She needed Preacher to stay on her side. She wondered if Drayton would push back against a group of cops, male cops. Would he have the spine for it?
She patted her uniform pockets, looking for the pack of cigarettes she’d left on the dash of the cruiser. “I don’t know what there is to tell. He and I, we don’t like each other.”
“You don’t know what you want to tell
,” Preacher said. “There’s a difference.”
“I’m not a perp in a box, Preach. Ease off.”
“I’m here to help you, Coughlin. It’s my job. You’re in my platoon. Relax.”
“He comes at me mysterious, like some stupid high school teacher with this ‘we both know why you’re here, don’t we?’ game. When that doesn’t work, he gets hostile. And then, you were right, he starts asking me where I was and what I was doing at the time of Gage’s death—like I’m a suspect. Like he expects me to wilt under that bullshit.”
Preacher pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is his blood on the walls?”
“It didn’t get that bad. Close. But he got nothing from me he can use.”
“So these crazy accusations,” Preacher said, “what was his ammunition?”
“He had an evidence bag,” Maureen said, “with bloody hairs pulled from the blood on Gage’s shirt, and from his hands. Long brown hairs that he said could be mine.”
Preacher tapped his temple. “And you corrected him? About your business up here?”
“I don’t think he’ll ever forget I’m a redhead.”
“I swear to Christ, Coughlin, you’re the only reason I come to work sometimes.”
Preacher shifted in his seat as if pain had crawled through his gut. He looked at his cigar as if it had been the thing to pain him, stuck it in his mouth for a few puffs, removed it.
“You know what? I think we’re okay for now.” He stuck his cigar in his mouth. “Anyway, keep me posted on this.”
“One more thing,” Maureen said. “Speaking of the feds, Quinn asked me to work this detail with him tomorrow night. This charity party out by the park.”
“You off duty tomorrow?”
“I am.”
“Knock yourself out,” Preacher said. “It was me that told him to give it to you when Rue bailed, anyway. He owes you.” He hung his elbow out the window. “How tight are you with Ruiz?”
“I can’t say I am,” Maureen said. “I like the guy well enough. He’s a good cop. He makes me nervous, though. You want to know about Ruiz, Quinn is the guy to ask. You know that.”
“Do you have any idea,” Preacher said, “why Ruiz would want out of the Sixth? He talk to you about it?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it. He asked for a transfer?”
Preacher nodded. “Out of the Sixth, and off the night shift until the transfer goes through. And he wants it kept quiet.”
“Quinn told me it was his idea for me to work that detail. He told me Ruiz had a family thing and that’s why he couldn’t do it. That prick.”
“Calm down,” Preacher said. “Quinn’s repeating the excuse that Ruiz gave him. Ruiz asked especially that Quinn be kept in the dark till the transfer goes through.” He shook his head. “Quinn was gonna give the detail to Hollander. He asked me about her schedule.”
“She’s got bigger boobs than me,” Maureen said.
“Some people’s motivations remain elusive,” Preacher said. “Quinn, not so much. Though I have to say he didn’t fight me when I told him to give it to you. As for working details, you’ll hear when the serious changes come. The cries of the aggrieved will echo in the halls, believe me. Don’t worry about it till then. You’re covered.”
“In the midst of this symphony of ass covering,” Maureen said, “are we giving any thought to who might’ve killed Gage and Cooley? That seems to have gotten lost.”
“Not our problem,” Preacher said. “We’ve done our part. It’s Atkinson and Drayton’s problem now.”
“Preach, we both know who that brown hair probably came from.”
“Anybody find any trace of her at the Cooley murder?” Preacher asked.
“No.”
“You think that woman’s a killer?”
“No.”
“Me neither.” Preacher started the truck. “Forget about Leary. She’s the only woman in New Orleans with long brown hair? Even if it is hers, by the time Drayton gets the lab work on that hair sample I’ll be dead and you’ll be long retired. Cops who the lab techs actually like pay off mortgages before they get lab work back, forget about cocksuckers everyone hates.”
Preacher shook his head. “Let it go. We’re not private investigators. We’re not social services. We’ve been through this. Not your problem.” He tapped his badge. “Not our problem. Don’t make it so. Mark my words, someone will end up suing you for something. That’ll be the thanks you get. Don’t you have enough problems?” He dropped the truck into reverse. “You hearing me?”
Maureen stepped away from the truck, her hand in the air. “See you back at the district.”
Preacher backed up. He pulled out into the street. Instead of driving away, he stepped on the brakes and waved Maureen over to him. “One thing I want you to remember.” He held up two fingers. “This is twice now.”
“Twice what?”
“Twice that you’ve been around Drayton, discussing this murder he’s working, and twice you’ve failed to mention your knowledge of people of interest to the case. One of whom actually has long brown hair. If it’s not a cover-up, it’ll do till the cover-up gets here.”
Maureen froze inside. “Are you kidding me? You told me to stonewall him. You shot down my idea about Madison Leary thirty seconds ago.”
“I’m not criticizing or accusing,” Preacher said. “I’m reminding you of the facts at hand. We’re not out of the woods, is what I’m saying. Don’t relax, and don’t tell Quinn or Ruiz about your meeting with Drayton. They might think he was asking about them. We don’t need the suspicious vibes going around. That’s exactly the kind of thing Drayton finds useful.”
Maureen felt light-headed. She couldn’t keep up. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think Drayton’s gonna keep trying to drag us into his problems?”
“It means,” Preacher said, “that if Drayton wants to step on his dick on this case, you need to let him. Stay clear of it. Stay clear of Leary and anything else connected to the Gage and Cooley murders. Breach of duty and moral conduct are terminable offenses. Remember what the chief said, ‘Lying is dying on the NOPD.’ Remember that you’re on probation until next August. We’re not even required to give you a termination hearing.”
He swung the truck around Maureen and headed down Washington toward the river, finishing the block on the wrong side of the road and leaving Maureen standing in the street, marveling and terrified at how effortlessly she was losing control of her life.
The mangy tabby she’d seen earlier sat on the hood of a parked car, looking at her, its tail twitching, its eyes aglow with reflected light.
18
The next morning, Maureen tumbled out of bed five minutes before noon. She’d gotten four hours of sleep. As she walked out of the bathroom, she realized she’d swallowed a couple of painkillers before checking to see how her ankle felt. Wearing satin pajama bottoms and a loose-fitting NOPD tank top, she brought her phone and her coffee onto her porch, where she drank sitting in her rocking chair. Across the street, today dressed in baby blue, the little girl worked her pink tricycle up and down the broken sidewalk.
A group of sparrows wet their wings in a rainwater puddle on her walk, one bird keeping a single eye trained on her while the others washed and preened. The ornaments in the miniature jungle that was her neglected garden reminded Maureen of a bizarre set of ruins hidden in a colorful rain forest. The plants buzzed with bees, butterflies, and dragonflies. Lizards of every shade of brown and green hunted insect prey among the leaves. Maureen enjoyed imagining the lizards as tiny dinosaurs stalking the tropical wilds of her front yard.
She glanced through the newspaper, skipping the headlines and checking the forecast for signs of the October cool. There was none, but no rain was expected for her detail that night. The Gulf remained blessedly clear of late-season storms. She’d almost survived her first hurricane season. She folded her paper, set down her coffee mug, and rubbed her eyes. At some point in the afternoon, she’d cat
ch another two hours of sleep. No matter how late into the night she’d worked, sleeping into the afternoon left Maureen depressed. Waking up even at five to twelve made a world of difference in how she felt. She stretched and yawned, rocking in her chair, breathing in the humid air. The streets washed with rain, her garden aglow in the light of another hot and sunny day, made the events of the previous night feel less sinister.
She pulled one of her own red hairs from the front of her tank top.
She thought of Drayton’s evidence bag.
Leary had claimed a sexual encounter with Gage in the pickup. The hairs had been left behind then, or if there’d been a struggle getting Leary into the truck. Made perfect sense. She didn’t need lab work and DNA for that. And it wasn’t outlandish to think Gage hadn’t showered since the traffic stop. She was pretty sure he hadn’t changed his shirt. She wouldn’t ask Quinn or Ruiz or Preacher if they remembered what he’d worn at the traffic stop. She didn’t need to remember. She needed to stop thinking about it, to follow Preacher’s advice—no, she corrected herself, his orders—and leave the matter be.
She understood Preacher’s warning about her sins, about her lies of omission. His admonishments about duty and moral conduct were not jokes. They were not hyperbole.
As big a dick as Drayton was, Maureen thought, she was the one obscuring by omission the murder victim’s recent history. Hell, she’d stood by while Quinn had destroyed physical evidence of the victim’s possible associates and activities. She was guilty of multiple fireable offenses. She was quite possibly a felon. A criminal. She’d fucking handed him that piece of paper. She couldn’t be more complicit had she tried to be, had she meant to be. She needed to remember that she was only as clean as the cops around her. By protecting them she was protecting herself. She sipped her coffee. And she’d had such high hopes for her new career, her new life.
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