Doing the Devil's Work (28 page)

She thought she might go down to the Eighth District and give a description of Leary to Hardin, ask him to let her know on the quiet if Leary surfaced. That was how she was most likely to turn up again, getting busted. It was how criminals lived, committing the same crimes in the same neighborhoods and getting caught at it by the same cops, until they died of their addictions or got killed by rivals or put away by police. When Leary popped up, Maureen could deliver her to Atkinson. Dice might even talk to Atkinson. Maureen thought she could persuade her.

Maureen shook her head. She kept forgetting that she was better off with Leary missing. She didn’t want things to be that way, but …

The FBI, though, in its pursuit of the Sovereign Citizens and the Watchmen Brigade, would harbor no qualms about pursuing Heath’s history with Gage. Maureen picked up her wine, swallowed half of it. She took a long drag on her cigarette. So let them, she thought. Let the FBI do what they wanted with the Gage and Cooley cases. What was it to her? The odds of the FBI finding their way back to her and her mistakes surrounding the traffic stop were infinitesimal. Neither Gage nor Leary was around to rat her out. And who knew if the feds even cared about her? She hadn’t been around long enough to get dirty. Let Quinn protect his rich-kid friend, she thought. And if Drayton tried throwing her to the feds, she liked her chances against him. She had no desire to fight Quinn, Drayton, and the Heaths for the chance to get herself in trouble over a minor glitch in the investigation. She’d be keeping the dust of her mess off Preacher’s badge, too.

Maureen drank down the last of her wine. She grabbed her cigarettes, got up from the rocking chair, and went into the kitchen. She rinsed her wineglass and set it upside down in the drying rack beside the sink. Time to get ready for bed. She reached into the cabinet over the counter and pulled out a bottle of Jameson. In a juice glass with a blue palm tree painted on the side, she poured herself a double shot. She drank it down, took a moment to catch her breath. She splayed her hands on the kitchen counter, pressed her weight into them, feeling the muscles in her arms harden, watching her knuckles whiten as the blood drained from her fingers under the pressure of her weight.

The truth of it was, Maureen thought, she didn’t care who’d killed Clayton Gage, or his buddy the white-trash Nazi. Gage was an operator for domestic terrorists and probably a rapist who preyed on the mentally ill. Cooley was shit-kicking trash, worse than trash, and Louisiana was better off without them. If they weren’t killers, they supplied the weapons to people who killed. Even if Leary had cut their throats with her granddaddy’s straight razor, and Maureen thought now she probably had, she knew she could live with letting that go.

In fact, she’d be more comfortable covering for Leary than she would for Heath. Not that she’d sacrifice herself to let Leary get away with murder, but if everyone around and above her was more concerned with protecting themselves and their important friends, Maureen thought, why not let Leary slip through the cracks? Let being invisible and forgotten play in her favor for once. Unless the phone calls kept coming, Maureen thought. As long as Leary lost interest in her, they could coexist. Maureen liked her odds. She figured homeless schizophrenics weren’t known for their attention spans. On the other hand, if Leary had killed Cooley and Gage, she’d shown focus and cunning. Maureen sniffed, savoring the lingering whiskey burn in the back of her throat. She figured she should go lock her front door. She stayed at the kitchen counter. She took the neck of the whiskey bottle in her fingertips, rotated the bottle on the counter.

She walked to the fridge, opened the freezer, and stood for a moment enjoying the cold air on her face. She broke one ice cube free from the tray, put that cube in her whiskey glass, and poured some more Jameson over it. She sat with her drink at the kitchen table, and lit up a cigarette. She recalled then decided to ignore her promise to the landlord not to smoke inside the house.

She’d left the envelope full of money on the kitchen table, trying not to look at it as she moved around the house earlier, showering and pouring her wine. She shifted her glass and laid her hand over the envelope. There was one possible way to gain some insight about the money. She could confront Solomon Heath. Knock right on his front door. Ask him what he thought he was buying. His answer would let her know how cheap he thought she was. Bribery and extortion were tough accusations to make, though, with no one around to hear them, especially against one of the richest and best-respected families in the city. Most likely, now that Solomon had made his move, she’d never get face-to-face with him again, no matter what time of night she showed up or what door she knocked on. She thought of the little girl across the street from her, with her braids and her raggedy tricycle. Her family could use that money. Marques and his grandmother could use that money. They could pay their rent with it, Maureen thought, putting the money right back into Solomon’s pocket.

But she wouldn’t do it, give up the money. She might return it, if she thought that could hurt Solomon Heath, or if he could hurt her with keeping it, but she wouldn’t give the money away. She knew that. She wasn’t that generous. She never had been and didn’t aspire to be. She was a cop, a city employee saving to buy a house of her own. She was not a charity worker. A thousand dollars was a thousand dollars. She had the nerve to keep Solomon’s money and give him nothing in return for it. That wasn’t even a hard question. She looked forward to it, actually. She knew the power of saying no, of defying expectations. And she’d been broke so many years of her life that her conscience laughed at the moral quandary.

Outside on the porch, her phone rang. She hesitated to get up and answer it. A call coming after midnight was probably important. And probably bad news. She trotted through the house, answered the call right before it went to voice mail. “Coughlin.”

“How was your detail?” Atkinson asked.

Maureen sat in her rocking chair. “It was fine.”

“Our paper came through,” Atkinson said. “We’re taking Scales’s door at dawn. You want in, right?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“Good to hear,” Atkinson said. “We’re meeting at oh five thirty, in the Jazzy Wings parking lot, on South Galvez and Felicity, to strategize and go over the details. Find us there. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” Maureen said. Her heart was pounding. She could feel it in her throat.

“Any questions?”

“What do I wear?”

“Civvies,” Atkinson said. “Something you can run in, if need be. Bring your cap, and your weapon, of course. I’ll have a windbreaker and a vest for you. Anything else?”

“I’m good,” Maureen said. “See you there.”

“Indeed.” Atkinson paused. “I’m glad, that after what he put you through, and after what he did to those kids, and to Marques especially, that you’re gonna get to see him stuffed in the back of a cruiser.”

“I am, too,” Maureen said.

“Now get some sleep. I’ll see you in a few.” Atkinson hung up.

Maureen stared at her phone, her hand shaking from the adrenaline rush. Sleep, she thought. Good luck with that. She’d need a little help. She got up to top off her whiskey.

22

Maureen showed up at the Jazzy Wings ten minutes early, the low buzz of a hangover in her head, spearmint gum in her mouth, a travel mug of coffee in one hand and a thermos in the car. She wore a tight black T-shirt under her leather jacket, better to fit under the vest, and soft, old jeans and her running shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that spilled out through the back of her NOPD cap. Her department-issued Glock was holstered on her hip. She wore her badge on a chain around her neck. She’d left the house hoping she looked at least halfway like a badass. Those hopes withered and died as she crossed the parking lot. Despite being ten minutes early, she was the last cop to arrive.

Atkinson, all six feet of her, leaned on the hood of her dark sedan, several large photos spread out in front of her. She was talking to half a dozen other cops surrounding her in a loose circle, five men who looked like the linebacker corps for the Saints and a redheaded woman built like a power lifter, broad shouldered with heavy arms and thick across the rump and thighs, her color significantly more flaming than Maureen’s and her face more densely freckled. Every one of the officers looked like they could roll up Maureen like a magazine and tuck her in their back pocket. Instead of the regular uniforms, they wore combat boots, dark blue cargo pants, and matching shirts, NEW ORLEANS POLICE in big white block letters across a heavy cloth patch on the backs. Military utilities, basically, Maureen thought, in one color: midnight blue. The other officers were part of the Sixth District’s special task force. Each of the city’s police districts had a unit dedicated to serving warrants on violent offenders and making arrests on hard targets in dangerous neighborhoods. These cops were the big guns, the badasses, the department hammer. They dealt in violence and mayhem, an exclusive unit and a closed circle that rarely socialized with other cops. Maureen wanted to be promoted to that unit, to be in their club, with an almost sexual intensity.

Atkinson looked up from her photos as Maureen approached the circle. “This is Platoon Officer Maureen Coughlin. She works here with y’all in the Sixth. She’ll be assisting with the raid this morning. She has some experience with the target.”

Atkinson made no other introductions.

Maureen nodded, unexpectedly embarrassed, and mumbled a greeting. The other cops said nothing, not even looking at her, but the circle loosened enough to admit her and allow her a view of the photo array on the hood of the car. The photos showed front, side, and rear shots of a run-down shotgun house, painted dull gray, the unpainted shutters pulled closed, dark green vines growing up the back and sides of the house. That house, she thought, could fit five times over inside the mansion where she’d worked the party the previous night.

In a couple of the shots, Maureen saw Bobby Scales entering and exiting the front door. Much thinner than the last time she’d seen him, he looked haunted, tired. He looked more like prey than predator. Her heart jumped at the sight of him. Her embarrassment before the bigger, tougher cops dissipated. She liked seeing Scales this way. Vulnerable. Alone. Fearful. She liked thinking she’d had a hand in his dissipation. She licked her lips. She enjoyed the thought of him dead asleep, oblivious to the forces aligning against him at that very moment, her among them.

Atkinson caught Maureen’s eye before she resumed her briefing. “As I was saying, we’ve been running surveillance on the house since we got the statutory complaint. Scales always rolls in by three or four in the morning, always alone. We never see a sign of him, or anyone else, before noon. We know he’s in there now. We will surprise the shit out of him when we crash through, which as you know could make things easier, could make things worse. We won’t know till we’re in it.”

“He’s always seemed like a runner to me,” Maureen said.

Now the other officers looked at her, their heads slowly turning in her direction, their eyes hooded, like a pride of lions hearing a faint sound in the distance, deciding if whatever had made it was worth killing.

Maureen’s throat dried up.

For a moment she was a high school freshman again at the first day of track practice: the bony, awkward, and stumbling new girl who smelled like cigarettes and coffee, mixing with a pack of sleek and feline upperclassmen who smelled like vanilla and strawberries, their bodies strong and curved, supple and grown-up, their eyes narrow and their claws at the ready. Tough days followed after that one, a couple of tough years, actually. But they couldn’t make her quit, and by her junior year, they couldn’t catch her, either. The pride chased
her
now, runners from her school, from other schools watching the soles of her shoes, her ponytail bouncing yards ahead of them like an uncatchable cat toy. It was the reason she wore it. A built-in taunt.

“I’m just saying,” she said, “the three run-ins I’ve had with him, he’s bolted every time, including him and me one-on-one in Jackson Square. He’s never stood his ground and fought.”

“I heard about that,” one of the cops said, an olive-skinned dark-haired guy with veins bulging in his biceps.
Sansone
was stitched in white thread over his heart. “Heard you got put down pretty hard.”

“I got suckered,” Maureen said. “I got set up. He had help.”

“That don’t make it better,” Sansone said, glancing at his comrades, “that makes it worse. He got over on you and got away.” A chuckle rumbled through the group. “Lived to shoot at you, another cop, your training officer to be exact, and some civilians to boot, from what I heard.”

“And he hasn’t been heard from since, by the way,” Maureen said.

“Exactly how many doors is it,” Sansone said, “that you’ve kicked in at first light? On a multiple homicide suspect considered armed and dangerous?”

Maureen opened her mouth to speak.

“Dark house,” Sansone went on. “Lots of blind corners and hiding spaces. Trouble spots for you, I’ve heard.”

“None,” Maureen said. “I’m looking to learn what I can. This is my first time doing something like this.”

The redheaded woman smiled at her. “You’ll be fine, Cherry. Just try not to bleed on the sheets.”

“Now that we’re friends here,” Atkinson said, “can we get on with our work? I have the chiropractor at nine and I want to shower first.” She lined up the photos on the car. “Pretty standard procedure: three busting in the front, two coming in back, one each by the windows in case of a jump out, and a freelancer on the street. We’re on the corner, which is good, there’s no alleyway crammed with junk or dogs or whatever between houses. No dogs on the block, so no barking. No fence around the backyard. The house is a double, but it looks like the other side is vacant, so no next-door neighbors. However.”

Atkinson paused, looking over the group.

“However. There are neighbors up and down the block. None of them seem to have anything to do with our target, but most of the other houses are occupied. Our activities will draw attention. People will be leaving for work, maybe even coming home from the night shift. We should be early enough to avoid the schoolkids, but be heads-up, anyway. If this thing pops off, we cannot, I repeat, we cannot, have civilian casualties. No pets, no cars, no potted plants, either. Bullets go places. In windows, through walls. Remember that. No bullets in anything but the target. And only then under the most extreme circumstances. If it gets that far, we’ve failed.”