Doing the Devil's Work (13 page)

Drayton stopped, leaving her hand hanging in the air. Behind them, the cameras flashed as the techs took photos of the body and the scene. He stood motionless for a moment, posing, Maureen thought, just in case someone was taking his picture. He sucked his teeth and gave Maureen the slow and deliberate once-over with his eyes, a smirk curling one corner of his mouth. She noticed he had fat fingers and wore a pinkie ring.

“I thought there was a body to check out around here,” Drayton said.

“Other side of the van.”

Drayton nodded. “You new?”

“Relatively,” Maureen said.

“What makes a striking young thing like you want a dirty job like this?”

“Assholes,” Maureen said after a beat. “I get to do something about them, rather than just helplessly tolerate their shit. It’s empowering.”

“The body’s behind the van, you say?” Drayton stayed where he was. “Messy?”

“I do,” Maureen said. “A bit.”

She noticed the number of kids on the corner had dwindled. She couldn’t say how many had gone back inside the bar and how many had wandered off into the night. How many potential witnesses they’d lost. The music from inside the bar was louder. She couldn’t be sure, and her knowledge of hip-hop was minimal, but she thought she’d heard the same song playing on Magnolia Street. Welcome to New Orleans. Above all else, on went the party.

“Detective,” she asked, “would you like us to secure the bar, start doing interviews? Names and numbers, at least?”

Drayton chuckled. “Collins, I doubt the murderer came out here, shot this guy, and then sauntered back in the bar for a Jägermeister.”

“The COD is a throat slash,” Maureen said, knowing as she did it that she shouldn’t correct a detective. He’d find out soon enough how his vic had died. “And as for the bar patrons, I was thinking witnesses more than a perp.”

“A slash? What did I say? Isn’t that what I said?”

“My mistake,” Maureen said. “The bar, Detective? The witnesses?”

“Eh. Sure. If you need something to do.” Hands in his pockets, he wandered around the front of the VW, checking out the van and jingling his change. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while. Classic. Damn shame, the state of it. This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Maureen watched him observe himself in the dirty windshield, acting again as if the cameras on scene were for him and not the dead man on the ground. He released a long, low whistle when he saw the body, now illuminated under the bright white light of the crime scene lamps. Maureen could more clearly see the blackish-red wound across the throat, the exposed viscera, the apron of deep red blood down the man’s front. The blood pooled around him on the street glistened on the dirt and gravel like leaked oil. Flies alighted in it, more of them on his face and chest.

“Will you look at that,” Drayton said, tucking his tie into his shirt, pulling on latex gloves, and squatting beside the body. His new leather shoes squeaked as he moved. “A dead white boy. Go figure. Haven’t seen one of those in a while, either.”

“We had one in Central City just last night,” Maureen said. She waited for a response from Drayton. “Throat cut like this guy. Dead about a week.” She waited again. He didn’t even look at her. He was humming to himself. Was that Sinatra? She felt her own throat tighten with rage. Quinn had warned her to keep it simple. This was why. What he’d meant was “lower your expectations.” “We found him in a vacant on the dead-end block of Magnolia. Detective Atkinson caught it. It was in the twenty-fours.”

She looked at Gage’s wallet, balanced right there on his hip, waiting like a book to be opened. Pressure built behind her eyes. Her ankle throbbed. She was tempted to go back to her car. She thought she might scream if Drayton didn’t pick up the wallet. Instead, as if to taunt her, Drayton picked up a stone from beside the body, studied it, put it back where he’d found it. Maureen thought she might give him one more nudge.

“There’s things about this vic that you might want to know,” Maureen said. “Like, for starters, the fact we arrested him last night.”

Drayton looked up at her, his hands draped over his knees, one eye closed. “Maybe you should secure the bar, after all, Costigan.”

“It’s Coughlin,” Maureen said. “Coughlin.”

Drayton waggled a finger at her. “Wait a minute, I know you.”

The lascivious glint had returned to his eyes. While flies buzzed over a throat wound, Maureen thought, not two feet away from him, he beamed like a college kid who’d recognized a local stripper in the grocery store.

“You’re that redhead,” Drayton said. “From the drug dealer thing, with the dead kid in the car. I heard about you. You’re Atkinson’s girl. We did that thing together on Jackson and Annunciation, that daytime shoot-out with the car crash about three months ago. Weren’t you there for that?”

Maureen caught her breath, stunned. Girl? She wasn’t anybody’s fucking girl. And she sure as shit could not see Atkinson, who outranked Drayton not just on the NOPD, but also in every discernible human quality, tolerating Drayton’s condescending lounge singer clown show for one second. He wouldn’t have the balls to talk to Atkinson, or to look at her, or to not look at her, the way he did those things with Maureen.

“Listen, Detective,” Maureen began, “maybe there are some things, some information that you’re missing, things that happened last night that I should—”

She felt a strong hand grip her elbow. Quinn. “Hey, Cogs. Great work here. Fantastic. Just who I was looking for. Now that everyone’s up to speed, let’s leave the hard work to the high pay grades. All right then. Nice seeing you, Detective, thanks for coming out. Cogs, let’s do something else, way over there away from here.”

Maureen allowed Quinn to lead her away.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Quinn said. “I forget he’s a whole ’nother level of intolerable with female cops. We think of you as one of the guys, sometimes it gets in the way. It’s a compliment, in a weird way.”

“Oh, I get the feeling he’s intolerable with females in general,” Maureen said.

“So we gotta canvass the bar?” Quinn asked. “What did Drayton say?”

Maureen blew out a long sigh. She needed to be smart. She was swimming against the current here. On Magnolia Street they’d talked to every person they could find willing to stand still in front of them. But now? Nothing. No interest. True, they’d been shut out for leads on Magnolia Street, but, at least, unlike this time, it wasn’t the cops doing the stonewalling. Why should she nag and beg to make more work for herself? She was tired. Her ankle ached. She’d get no help here from Quinn or Ruiz. The detective was on scene. Useless asshole or not, he was in charge now. He was responsible. When she was a detective, she could run things her way. Until then, maybe there were some benefits to being an injun and not a chief. “He was noncommittal.”

“Then that’s a negative, Ghost Rider,” Quinn said. “I promise you, we ain’t missing anything. Nothing those kids say is gonna be worth shit.”

“I have noticed,” Maureen said, “that no one’s come running outside to offer us their assistance.”

“Astute,” Quinn said. “You feel me?” He looked around, shaking his head. “Man, it sucks to be here for this. I used to hang at this joint, back when I was younger. High school and after. Now and then I’ll work a detail out here for some private party in the back barroom. Nothing’s changed. Place doesn’t get going until after midnight. Lots of drunk girls, not one of ’em over twenty-five. A pool table used strictly for dancing on. Killer cheese fries.”

“I hadn’t heard,” Maureen said. “I can’t believe I missed this place.”

They watched as workers from the coroner’s office loaded the corpse onto a stretcher, zipping closed the body bag after tucking in the head.

“Yeah, I’m surprised Preacher let you get through training without sampling those fries,” Quinn said.

“I guess he left me some local treasures to discover for myself.”

The stretcher went into the back of the van with as much care as an old couch headed for Goodwill.

“Where
do
you hang, Cogs?” Quinn asked. “What’s your thing? Me and Rue were trying to figure that out the other night.”

“I don’t get out much,” Maureen said.

“I got that impression,” Quinn said. “Rue thinks you have secrets.”

“I mean, I do some stuff,” Maureen said. If she wanted Quinn to warm up to her, to trust her more, she had to give something. And in the back of her mind, despite her recently formed suspicions about his agenda and his loyalties, she didn’t want Quinn seeing her as a friendless loser. Even if it was true, she didn’t need him knowing it. “I go to Parasol’s for the games. I’ve been to Bon Temps, seen the Soul Rebels there a couple of times. I’ve been down to Frenchmen, to DBA and the Blue Nile. Brass bands are cool. Nothing like that where I come from. I like the Spotted Cat. I like watching the jazz dancers through the window.”

“Funny,” Quinn said. “I never figured you for a dancer. Who do you go with?”

Maureen shrugged as an answer. She went out alone, though she sometimes didn’t go home alone. She wasn’t telling Quinn any of that; she’d already told him too much. That thing about the Spotted Cat was stupid. Maureen’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She grabbed it, grateful for the distraction. She checked the number. Atkinson. No doubt she’d heard about the similar murder. Maureen knew she was that on point. Bit of a difference, Maureen thought, between her and that tool Drayton. She let the call go to voice mail. She didn’t want to talk to Atkinson around Quinn and Ruiz. She didn’t like feeling that way, but there it was, a strong signal from her gut.

“Listen to me,” Quinn said. “Maybe you and I should talk about last night.”

“Oh, no.”

Quinn raised his hands. “It’s no big thing, it’s not. It’s just that after you left, Preacher kind of squashed taking Gage to jail.”

“Squashed?” Maureen asked. “What do you mean squashed?”

“We had the woman. We had the stolen goods. You did good work.”

“The guy was a witness,” Maureen said. “At the very least. At worst he was dangerous. I didn’t like him. I told Preacher that at the time. You never even ran his record, did you? I could’ve been right about him. We could’ve put a real threat back out on the street.”

“He ain’t dangerous no more,” Quinn said.

“Really? That’s what you have to say.”

“We didn’t have anything serious on him. He was useless baggage, Cogs. Best possible outcome, you ask me. Look forward, think ahead. You fill a case file with a bunch of random drunken white-trash bullshit, you think anybody important appreciates it? You think the DA’s office wants a case like that? There aren’t enough PDs for the killers and dealers already locked up. Think about it. People remember, Cogs. Lawyers, judges, brass, they remember people who make their jobs more difficult. People who muck up the works.”

“So that fairy tale about him bonding out so quick?”

“Don’t get mad at Rue,” Quinn said. “He didn’t think we should bring you into it. He was covering for me. He was being a good partner.”

“I can’t believe you let me stand there and tell Drayton stuff that wasn’t true.”

“Good thing he ignored you,” Quinn said. “And I pulled you out before it got worse.”

“Fuck you, Quinn. And the pickup truck?”

“Gage drove away in it, far as I can tell.”

“We never got a decent look around inside it,” Maureen said.

“Looking for what?” Quinn asked. “What are we gonna find? You pulled him over because he was a dirty white boy. What we got on him was dirty white boy bullshit. Who knew some crazy other shit like this would fucking happen? I could see this coming, I’d be down in Jackson Square with a bunch of pretty rocks conning the fucking tourists. And this murder would’ve happened anyway. What Rue said about the bond is true, you know that. You know the rules if anyone does. Gage would’ve been out by tonight. No doubt. He’d be dead anyway, even if we had arrested him. It was out of our hands the whole time.”

“I have to tell Drayton about Leary,” Maureen said.

“Do you?”

“Christ, Quinn, they were together the night before Gage was murdered. According to her they had sex. You don’t think that’s relevant? Worth looking into?”

“You dealt with her,” Quinn said. “You really think she’s relevant to this? Did Gage express any real concern or interest in her? You think she’s anyone’s
lover
? That she’d be helpful or credible in any way? She’s the one who got locked up. She’s in jail. She’s got a better alibi than
us
, for chrissakes. C’mon.”

“I’m not saying she’s the killer,” Maureen said. She didn’t see the point of correcting Quinn concerning Leary’s whereabouts. “But she’s a person of interest.”

“Only to you. Save yourself the trouble. And think about if you wanna waste Drayton’s time with that dirtbag Leary. Use that busy brain of yours to make
less
trouble for once. That broad was some local hustler skank he talked into the truck for a five-dollar blow job. We both seen worse.”

“I’m not having it come back on me,” Maureen said, “that I had info a detective could have used and I held it back. I’m not taking that weight.”

Quinn lit a cigarette. “Preacher was rank on scene. He said squash the thing, so we did. No paperwork, no nothing, you know what I mean? You can’t bring Leary into it without putting Preacher in, too. We can all be in this mess, or we can all be clear of it. How is this even a hard decision for you? Why is this conversation ongoing?”

“Why would Preacher do that? What’s he care about Clayton Gage?”

“You got me,” Quinn said. “We were following orders. Me and Rue, we’re covered. You, too, I’m sure. Talk to Preacher if you got a problem with the way it played out.”

“I will,” Maureen said.

“Good luck with that. Don’t forget that he agreed to send you here tonight. You don’t think it was ’cause he knew we should have this exact conversation? Maybe he wanted you on board with us when this case, and Gage’s name, started making the rounds? You got a good rep going around the district. Here’s some free advice: don’t blow it over low-rent dirtbags.”

“Is that a threat, Quinn?”