Doing the Devil's Work

by Bill Loehfelm

  “We don’t know that,” Atkinson said.

  “We don’t?”

  “There’s a good chance they’ll put him away for a long time, without Marques even having to get involved. Marques will be better protected this way, so there’s that.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Maureen said. “And you don’t believe what you’re telling me, either.”

  “It’s out of our hands,” Atkinson said. “My powers are pretty limited.”

  “What we did in there with Scales,” Maureen said. “How much of that was legal?”

  “That’s for the lawyers to sort out later,” Atkinson said. “I know you’re still figuring things out, but let’s keep our eyes on the prize. Someone has been putting up guns and money to hunt and kill cops, and now we know who it is, before any of us got shot. You were in on it. You were part of it. That’s going to be real good for you. Huge, possibly. I’ll make sure you get your due.”

  “I know that,” Maureen said. “I know what’s important. I feel like I’m constantly fighting to keep my balance.”

  Atkinson peered at her. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get some air, go get your car, and find someplace we can talk. You can tell me the real reason you’re so twitchy and pale.” She poured her coffee down the sink. “Tell you what, let’s get us a drink.”

  Maureen glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nine a.m. A drink sounded like a great idea. Insubordinate. Decadent. It was exactly what she needed. She could taste it already.

  “I thought you had a chiropractor’s appointment?”

  “My chiropractor is Ms. Mae.” Atkinson unfurled a Cheshire grin. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  * * *

  Everyone inside Ms. Mae’s, a smoky twenty-four-hour dive bar, booed when Maureen and Atkinson entered the bar. They had let the daylight in. Maureen had spent time in Ms. Mae’s before, knocking back cheap and strong drinks with her platoon after particularly grueling night shifts. Once the black curtains fell back into place over the front door and the hazy, timeless half-light of the bar was restored, people returned their attention to their conversations, their drinks, and, in the center of the barroom, their pool and air hockey games.

  Leaning over the rounded backs and shoulders of two men seated at the bar, Atkinson ordered two double Bloody Marys. Maureen recalled the argument she and Atkinson had overheard at the St. Charles Tavern. No bead-wearing tourists hung out in Ms. Mae’s. Not mid-morning on a weekday.

  Maureen took her drink from Atkinson. She removed the straw, dropped it on the floor. She took several deep swallows, downing half the cocktail. Her throat burned and sweat beads popped out under her eyes, both from the heavy pour of rotgut vodka and the generous dose of hot sauce in the Bloody Mary mix. Her nose started to run. Warmth bloomed in her chest like black ink in a bowl of water. She followed Atkinson through the mostly male crowd of bikers, stevedores, and late-night service industry people just off of work, and of hard-core drunks who never saw quitting time. They walked past the Pac-Man machine and the jukebox, to a booth in the back corner of the bar.

  Maureen tossed her cigarettes on the table as they sat. Both women lit up.

  “Getting your balance back?” Atkinson asked.

  “I have to work tonight,” Maureen said. She scratched at her scalp with both hands, trying to bring some feeling back into it. The vodka was already working on her. When had she last eaten? “I’m wondering what we’re doing here. I’m confused.”

  Atkinson took a long drag on her smoke. “About what?”

  “Why are we not going after Caleb Heath? Why are we not kicking in his door right now? Or at least giving the FBI his address.”

  “Caleb Heath isn’t Bobby Scales, Maureen. He’s Solomon Heath’s son. That everyone is equal before the law is a glorious idea. It’s also a complete farce.”

  “I know that,” Maureen said. “I know who Caleb Heath is. But Bobby Scales told us that Heath is a terrorist.” She fought to keep her voice low. “He told us that Heath is providing the Watchmen Brigade with cash and guns to come after cops, to come after us. You and me.”

  “I know this,” Atkinson said, getting testy. “I was in the room. After I dropped you at your car, I made some calls. I have some things working. This situation is very fucking delicate.”

  “So you went to the FBI.”

  Atkinson looked away, her cigarette frozen on its way to her mouth.

  “You didn’t call the feds,” Maureen said. “Who did you call?”

  “I do declare,” Atkinson said, “are you questioning how I do my job, Officer Coughlin?”

  “No, Detective, I am not. I wouldn’t presume. I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  “I took you along on the Scales raid as a courtesy,” Atkinson said. “Because you have drive and talent and the postacademy training in this department, where it exists, is fucking atrocious. I don’t want to see you go to waste. I don’t want to see you dragged down. I let you stay for the interview with Scales for the same reasons, and because I needed a foil and I thought I could trust you.”

  “Of course you can trust me,” Maureen said. “Why does everyone always ask me that? I’ve never given anyone in this department reason not to trust me. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born in New Orleans, or that no one recognizes where I went to high school. It’s not my fault I haven’t been a cop for ten years, or that I wasn’t here for Katrina.”

  Atkinson got up from the table, walking away from the booth. Maureen thought she was leaving, and nearly jumped from her seat and cried out for Atkinson not to go. When Atkinson shouldered her way to the bar, Maureen slumped in her seat, grateful she had restrained herself.

  She lit her next cigarette off the end of her current one. She was dying for that next drink. Butting heads with Atkinson shook her. She felt short of breath, struggling for control of herself. She needed to be bigger than this, more grown-up.

  Atkinson returned to the booth, two more Bloody Marys in hand. Maureen drank down the rest of her first, gasping again at the jolt of the hot sauce, even watered down as it was now with melted ice. That burn went so well with a fresh cigarette, she thought. She set that cup aside and slid her new drink in front of her. A sadness tingled inside her as she thought of her impending night shift. She’d have preferred sitting in that booth for the entire day, drinking Bloodys and chain-smoking. With what she was about to tell Atkinson, she might soon have plenty of time for exactly those activities.

  “I have information,” Maureen said. “I have information that you are going to need going after Caleb Heath. That’s why I wanted to talk to you in private. It wasn’t to question your decisions about how you handle him and what we found out.”

  Atkinson, Maureen could tell, had no interest in the apology. “What kind of information?”

  “For one thing,” Maureen said, “I have further proof that he and Gage knew each other.”

  “What is this proof?”

  “I made a traffic stop the other night. A white pickup on Claiborne Avenue. There were two people in the truck. One of them was Gage.”

  “And the other?”

  “A woman named Madison Leary. A petty thief. She’d stolen a bunch of handbags in the French Quarter. I learned later that she and Gage knew each other before that night. It looks like they knew each other in LaPlace, where the Sovereign Citizens and the Watchmen Brigade are based. I think she’s the woman who stole the money Scales was talking about.”

  “That’s why you pulled the truck over? Because of her?”

  “No, I found the bags when I did the search, and the woman confessed. I pulled the truck over because it looked hinky. Wrong people, wrong place, wrong time, that sort of thing.”

  “Where is the woman? Can we talk to her about Heath and Gage? Does she know anything about the Watchmen Brigade?”

  Maureen took a long sip of her fresh drink. She half-hoped she could drink enough during this conversation that she’d forget it ever happened. M
aybe she could forget she’d ever even been a cop. “I have no idea where she is.”

  “But you arrested her.”

  “She’s got psychological problems. Severe, I think. Violence. Delusions. Schizophrenia, maybe. She had some kind of episode at the jail, before they could process her, so they moved her to the hospital. But she never made it to a bed. The sheriff’s deputies left her in the emergency room and she walked out after they left. I’ve been looking for her, and I found someone who knows her somewhat, but I haven’t been able to find her.”

  Atkinson dropped her head into her hand, massaging her forehead with her fingers. “So you arrested two people involved in a conspiracy to murder police officers, and lost track of them.”

  “That’s not fair,” Maureen said. “I’m not blameless here, but when I pulled the truck over they were two drunk rednecks in the wrong neighborhood. I only found out about this conspiracy when you did, this morning, in that room with Scales.

  “I wanted Gage arrested. I asked for it. It wasn’t my idea to let him walk. When my shift ended that morning, I thought Gage and Leary were in jail. Gage should have been in jail the night he was murdered. He’s on the federal terrorism watch list because of his involvement with the Sovereign Citizens, before this new shit in Louisiana. Somebody would’ve seen. We might have been able to use him against Heath. But fucking Quinn had to let Gage go because he’s high school buddies with Heath, and he knew they were connected. Even went behind my back to do it. And like an asshole I let him talk me into covering the whole thing up in front of Drayton, as a professional favor, to keep the sacred Heath name out of a murder investigation.” She threw her hands in the air. “And now that’s for fucking nothing because the FBI’s coming for Heath, anyway. Big fucking waste.”

  Maureen lifted her smoke from the plastic ashtray. She tapped the ash from the end and set it back in its place. “I was gonna drop Madison’s name on Drayton, somehow, maybe, as soon as I could figure out where to tell him to find her. But Drayton kept pissing me off and I haven’t been able to track her down, anyway.” She poked with her finger at the olive floating in her cocktail. “Christ, I stood not three feet from that fucker Caleb last night.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I worked a detail at their house by Audubon Park,” Maureen said. “I met wise old Solomon himself. It was a peace offering from Quinn, ’cause he knows he fucked me with Drayton. He usually works it with his regular partner. He said he felt bad for tanking my arrest and then things going bad with Gage. I mean, it was a couple of simple favors, one cop to another. And now this fucking mess.”

  “This was a legit detail?” Atkinson asked.

  Maureen thought about the extra money, tucked in its envelope. “It was legit. I got the okay from Preacher. He encouraged me to work it.”

  “Fair enough.” Atkinson sat back in the booth. Maureen could see the long, stressful morning starting to show on her face. “Tell me about Quinn.”

  “He’s in my platoon. He—” Maureen wanted to keep talking, but couldn’t, her words heavy and dead in her throat. Shocking her, tears welled up in her eyes. She told herself it was the booze, and the smoky air. Her scroll of complaints against Quinn echoed in her head. Why couldn’t, why wouldn’t she ever shut up? She gulped a breath. “I did it, didn’t I? I turned rat on my own platoon. Holy shit. Marques does better keeping quiet over people that are trying to kill him. Look at me.”

  “Maureen, we’re dealing with people now who are trying to kill you, and me, and maybe Quinn, and any other cop they can get in their crosshairs. We have to act. We worry about the fallout later.”

  “Quinn’s one of the main reasons,” Maureen said, “that I was so hot for us to get after Heath this morning. Quinn will hear, sooner rather than later, that we have Scales in custody. The bust was in the Sixth, after all. I know he’ll tell Heath. When we inspected Gage’s body, there was a note, a note that showed a planned meeting between Heath and Gage at Pat O’Brien’s. Quinn took it from me. He told Heath about it.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Heath told me himself,” Maureen said.

  “What happened in that interrogation room,” Atkinson said, “it has to stay between us. You can’t discuss it with anyone. Quinn can’t know what we know. When we’re done here, I’ll reach out to the task force, tell them to keep it close. Hopefully, they haven’t spilled too much.”

  “I won’t talk to anyone,” Maureen said.

  “Not even Preacher.”

  “Not even Preacher,” Maureen said. She was happy to leave him out of this mess. Preacher she would gladly protect. “Agreed.”

  “How well do you know Quinn?” Atkinson asked.

  “Not as well as I thought I did a couple of days ago. Obviously.”

  “Do you really think he’d cover for someone involved in hunting cops over some old high school connections and a couple of lucrative details?”

  “I can’t see that,” Maureen said.

  “Can’t see it,” Atkinson said, “or won’t.”

  “I can’t,” Maureen said. “Quinn is crooked. I see now he’s probably dirty. Maybe he’s even corrupt. Maybe he got carried away. He’s got problems with his ex, with his son. Maybe it’s all fucked him up, made him make bad compromises. But covering for cop killers? That’s evil. I don’t think Quinn is evil.”

  Atkinson waited a long time to speak. “How is it you think low-rent hood rats like Shadow and Scales get business connected to an Uptown sociopath like Heath?”

  “A third party puts them together,” Maureen said.

  “You think Gage just happened to know Shadow? From where? You want to guess my leading theory on who that third-party connection could be?”

  “Shit.”

  “Heath paid Quinn well for the connection to Scales, I’m sure.”

  “And for keeping Scales apprised of our efforts to find him and catch him,” Maureen said. “Heath has houses all over the city. They could’ve moved Scales and the guns around indefinitely.”

  “That, too,” Atkinson said. “And I’m sure Quinn passed by Scales’s place every now and then to make sure he was keeping his head down and behaving himself. He couldn’t let Scales do anything that might threaten the larger operation.”

  “Good Lord, Scales has been living under police protection,” Maureen said.

  “Quinn knew about the guns,” Atkinson said. “He at least had to suspect. I’m guessing that at first he tried to know as little as possible about what Heath, Gage, and Scales were really up to, but did Quinn ask any questions? He knew of a pipeline running heavy weapons into the city, and he did nothing about it. He said nothing to no one. He pocketed his cut and let it continue. You wondered if he was evil. Sometimes evil is inaction as much as action.”

  “So now we go after Quinn,” Maureen said.

  “No,” Atkinson said, stubbing out her cigarette.

  “No?” Maureen asked. “In addition to everything else, Quinn’s been helping to hide the number one suspect in two of your open murder cases. We have to go after him. What about what you said about inaction and action?”

  “Any move on Quinn flushes Heath,” Atkinson said, “probably right out of the country. With his daddy’s money, he can be on a jet to Dubai in an hour. You run into Quinn tonight, you have to play it cool.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I hope so,” Atkinson said. “You’ve done a bang-up job so far.”

  “I cannot believe this shit,” Maureen said. “Right under my fucking nose.”

  “Look at the upside,” Atkinson said, pushing up from her seat, sliding out of the booth, “by keeping Scales under wraps, Quinn and Heath have protected Marques. No way Scales goes after him while under their supervision.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” Maureen said. She felt anchored to her seat, frustration and vodka weighing her down like liquid lead in her veins. “Quinn and Ruiz have been doing it for him.

  “They were down at the Eight
h the same night I was, running some mysterious errand they didn’t want to talk about. We ran into them coming out a side door. Marques was terrified of them. Nobody’s been protecting Marques. Not Quinn, not Heath. They’ve been harassing and bullying him, because he’s the only person on the street who can really hurt Scales. He was safe at school and at home, and at Roots of Music. Now he’s playing gigs out in the streets, exposed and unsupervised, where any cop can pluck him off the street for whatever reason he wants to concoct.” She finally rallied the energy to push up from the bench. “I’ll go get Marques. I’ll find him at Roots or out on Frenchmen and let him know to lie low. I’ll tell his grandmother to keep him indoors.”

  “Still feeling generous about Quinn?” Atkinson asked.

  “I don’t know what I’m feeling, to tell you the truth.” Maureen took a deep breath. “And I don’t much care what I’m supposed to feel. All I care about right now is figuring out what to do.”

  “For now,” Atkinson said, “follow me outside.”

  The bright morning sunshine pained Maureen.

  Cursing, she fumbled for her sunglasses, slid them on. Taking a moment to get her bearings, she tightened her ponytail, overcome with the urge to wash her hair. Traffic backed up at the Napoleon and Magazine intersection. Across the street, laughing middle school kids in uniform ran in circles at the corner playground, watched over by chatting teachers. On the corner where Maureen stood, middle-aged black ladies, overweight and weighed down with white plastic grocery bags, waited for the bus. Lord only knew, Maureen thought, what those women made of her and Atkinson stepping out of the bar at a few minutes before eleven, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. She had a feeling that if they used that bus stop with regularity, these ladies were used to the variety of flotsam that washed up outside Ms. Mae’s. The situation, to Maureen, felt both comfortingly and disturbingly familiar. She’d staggered out of bars into the daylight many times in the past, usually with a pocketful of tips, sometimes with a head buzzing with cocaine. Never before, though, had she made that daylight stagger with a badge in her pocket. She decided to not decide what this ignominious first said about her.