Let the Devil Out (17 page)

“What do you need from me?”

“Give me a time and place where he can meet you,” Detillier said. “Someplace you'll be comfortable. Someplace informal.”

“You don't want him at HQ? Or maybe at the Sixth District?”

“We don't want the meeting on police property,” Detillier said. “He's paranoid. Fearful. We want him to relax if he can. Put him at ease. Again, the meeting should come across like a favor, like the NOPD is reaching out and complying with his wishes, not like an interview or an inquiry. He's coming back to HQ in the morning; we're going to send someone out to him with the details on where to meet you.”

Maureen sighed. The fucking feds. They loved to overthink things. Okay, where did she want to do it? Someplace she'd feel more comfortable than Gage would. Someplace that would give her the upper hand. If he was nervous and paranoid, she wanted to use that against him.

“Tell him Li'l Dizzy's,” she said, “corner of Esplanade and North Robertson, at one o'clock.”

Detillier paused, mulling over her idea. Maureen wasn't entirely surprised. Detillier was local. That meant he'd know Dizzy's.

She waited for his response and watched as a man wrapped one of the yelling girls, the one with the wet top, in a bear hug from behind. He lifted her off the sidewalk and walked her away from the crowd. She
did not
like it, and threw her drink in his face, over her shoulder. The other girl stormed away up Magazine Street, stopping and turning once to point her finger and yell something about “acting the ho.”

Maureen, thankful she'd been spared getting involved, closed her eyes and imagined a hot bath. She thought about how a pill and a whiskey would make that bath even better.

“He's not going to like that place,” Detillier said.

Exactly, she thought. “Hey, guess what, it's not a freakin' date. I like that place. I feel safe there. And I don't know this guy from Adam. If I get shot at again, I don't wanna be the only gun in the room. That's my offer.”

“If we thought your life was in danger,” Detillier said, “we wouldn't set it up like this. We wouldn't even ask.”

Lies, Maureen thought. She didn't hold it against him. Everyone had to play the part they were given. “My life is always in danger until we chase the Watchmen out of New Orleans.” She switched her phone to the other ear. “Listen, Dizzy's is a good place to meet him. Strategic. It's not far from HQ. He won't feel like we're trying to lead him somewhere. Maybe instead he feels special, like we're sharing our turf with him. The café closes at two, so there'll be a natural end to things if I have trouble getting rid of him.”

“Fair points,” Detillier said after a moment. “Dizzy's it is.”

“Thank you,” Maureen said. “Any tips?”

“I think you know what you're doing,” Detillier said, a laugh in his voice. “Let him talk as much as he wants. Let his thoughts wander. Wait until after he's left to make any notes. I guess the one rule is this, do not let him know the FBI is interested in him. You are a local cop doing a grieving father a favor and that is the extent of it.”

“And I'll hear from you when?” Maureen asked.

“I'll be in touch tomorrow,” Detillier said. “But if you need to get with me before you hear from me, don't hesitate to call. Thanks for doing this, Maureen.”

“You're welcome,” Maureen said. “I expect Uncle Sam will pick up the tab for lunch.”

“Save your receipt,” Detillier said. “I'll see what I can do.” He hung up.

Maureen slipped her phone back in her pocket. Behind her, Preacher got out of the cruiser. He came around to the front, handed Maureen her jacket.

“Atkinson?” he asked. “I'm sure someone has told her by now you're back on the job.”

“Detillier,” Maureen said. “We set up the meeting with Gage. Dizzy's at one.”

“Good choice.”

Maureen put her jacket on, zipped it. She blew into her hands. The temperature was plummeting, and the night air was turning damp. The moisture in the air blurred the streetlights overhead and the colored lights of the Caribbean restaurant across the street.

“You're doing the right thing,” Preacher said. “You have to know there's no traction going right at the Heaths, not unless Caleb himself starts spraying bullets at cop cars on Canal Street. I'm not one to stick up for the FBI, but Detillier is being smart. He's not being lazy.”

“Everyone says Solomon's such a stand-up guy,” Maureen said. “I think we should give him a chance to prove it. He's got Caleb by the purse strings. I don't care if he's in Dubai, Detroit, or DeRidder. If Caleb's daddy wanted him here, he'd be here.” She stabbed her finger into the hood of the car. “Tomorrow. Make everyone's life a lot easier.”

“Not happening,” Preacher said. Maureen felt him looking hard at the side of her face. “It's not happening. No one is talking to Solomon Heath, not in uniform, especially not even if someone runs into him accidentally jogging through Audubon Park. Were that to threaten to occur”—he made a running figure with his fingers—“that running person would run her skinny little ass right on by. We understand each other?”

Maureen saluted. “Ten-four, Sarge. I hear you. I'm fresh out of the doghouse, I'm not looking to get back in.”

Preacher settled his rump against the hood of the car. Maureen felt the cruiser dip under his weight. “Besides, someone in New Orleans is killing the Watchmen, and we can't catch whoever it is. Even if Solomon agrees that his kid is a criminal, he'll never bring him back here while the killer's at large.”

He bummed a cigarette from her. “I'm trying to cut back on the cigars. Shit'll kill you.” He lit up. “So you haven't heard from Atkinson since you got reinstated?”

“No, I haven't,” Maureen said.

“I thought maybe with you getting your badge back, she'd reach out.”

“I thought she might call, too. You know, maybe, now that I've been
officially
forgiven. I thought maybe that was what she was waiting for. We haven't talked since I got back to town.”

“Aw, give it time,” Preacher said. “She's Homicide. They keep their own clock. And it's not like there was a department-wide memo that you're back. Maybe she hasn't heard. Your reinstatement is supposed to be quiet.”

“I guess,” Maureen said. “I may have blown it with her. I did some things.” She found herself getting choked up. Fucking pills. “I don't make it easy.”

“Dial it back on the martyrdom,” Preacher said. “Your Irish is showing. If squeaky clean was the only kind of cop Atkinson had time for, she would've flamed out around here a long time ago. A long, long time ago. She's known, and knows, much worse than you. Believe.”

“Anyway,” Maureen said, “if I'm talking to her vic's father, I guess she'll come looking for me regardless. She'll want to know what he tells me as much as Detillier does.”

“See, there you go,” Preacher said. “You two are meant to be together. Like Batman and Robin, the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Fried shrimp and brown gravy.”

Maureen lit a cigarette. “So, this meeting I'm having, with the father of a murder victim, on behalf on the FBI. Am I making a mistake?”

“I hope not,” Preacher said. “I encouraged you to do it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“This Sovereign Citizens business,” Preacher said, “it's a new thing. I think Detillier meant what he said at PJ's. I think the feds are really behind on this thing. I think they're desperate for information. And I understand his wanting to use you.” He paused, grinning. “You figured out the real reason they picked you for the meeting, right?”

“Because I'm being groomed for intelligence work,” Maureen said. “The FBI is obviously recruiting me.”

“Uh, well, that could be true,” Preacher said. “It could be that, sure.”

Maureen laughed. “Gotcha. C'mon. We both know Detillier looks at me and he sees a short, skinny
girl
. What he said about my experience dealing with the Watchmen, my connections to the case, about them wanting to help me get even—the entirety of that was bullshit. We both know it. Detillier picked me because Gage will think he can intimidate me. He'll be a lot less cautious with his talk than he would be around a man, or even blond bombshell Detective Sergeant Atkinson, all broad-shouldered six feet of her, and because of that—he'll talk to me. Once he gets over the insult of me being what he gets, he'll run his mouth because he's not afraid of a little girl like me.”

Preacher looked at her a long time, like he was seeing her from across the street instead of a couple of feet away.

“What?” Maureen asked. “You're making me nervous.”

“This thing happens with your voice sometimes,” he said. “Since you came back from the beach. You ever seen a scorpion curl its tail over its back? The poison kind of shining on the stinger? That. You sound like that shine looks.”

Maureen looked away. “Whatever. That doesn't make
any
sense.”

“Yeah, it does,” Preacher said. “You know exactly what I mean.”

From inside the car, Maureen could hear the dispatcher raising their car over the radio. Preacher rose off the hood, went to the driver's door. “Like you said, whatever. Let's get back in the car. It's cold out here. Somebody's looking for us, anyway.”

Maureen went to her side. She paused after opening the door. “Preach, listen—”

“You make me nervous,” Preacher said across the top of the car. He had that faraway look again. The radio kept calling. “I sit next to you, I can hear you ticking. Like a bomb.”

“Well, I don't know what you're talking about,” Maureen lied. “I don't hear it.”

“That right there,” Preacher said, “is the problem. I know you don't hear it.
That
is what makes me nervous.” He dropped into the driver's seat, reaching for the radio mic.

Maureen climbed into the car, the door creaking as she pulled it closed.

“You got your wish,” Preacher said. “We're done sitting here for the night.”

“Do tell.”

“Anonymous tip. Seems there's a body in Lafayette Cemetery.”

“I'd think there'd be plenty of—”

“Don't,” Preacher said, slamming the car into drive, hitting the lights and sirens. He was trying not to laugh. “Just fucking don't.”

 

14

Lafayette Cemetery was a box in the middle of the Garden District. Eight-foot-high walls of whitewashed, fern-and-lichen-crusted brick formed the sides of the box, and each wall had a spiked iron gate in its middle that was chained and padlocked at night. With the resident bodies being interred aboveground, the crypts and tombs formed rows of short buildings, their curved concrete and marble roofs peeking over the wall. Maureen had no trouble understanding why New Orleans cemeteries were called “Cities of the Dead.” Sections of the cemetery were even named as if they were city neighborhoods, the pathways running through them signed like streets.

She'd been in Lafayette before. She liked it there. She had walked among the tombs on more than one afternoon, nursing a double espresso from the nearby coffee shop. The place was even a popular tourist attraction. But her visits had been during the day, when there were other people, living people, around her. Tonight, she stood with Preacher outside the walls, trying to find a way in. Apparently, there was one dead body inside that didn't belong there.

They had checked each gate, Maureen jumping out of the patrol car at each one to inspect the locks, and the four of them remained secure. However the unaccounted-for dead person had gained entrance, it hadn't been through one of the gates.

“Has anyone called the, uh, custodian,” Maureen asked, “or whatever he's called?”

She really wanted to say “cryptkeeper.” The guy looked the part. She'd seen him around the neighborhood. A pale, pink-faced older white guy about her height, with long, stringy white hair streaming out from under an endless variety of old mesh-backed baseball caps. He dressed in ratty jeans and stained T-shirts and rode a rickety old bike with a radio and a rusty bell tied to the handlebars. Maureen couldn't think of a job where dress code could be less important.

“That's what I was told,” Preacher said. “I guess he's on his way. We have to wait for him to ride over here.”

“We couldn't send a car for him?” Maureen asked.

“You're hilarious, Coughlin, you really are. We're a chauffeur service?”

Maureen looked around, hands on her hips. The streets were quiet. She could hear the traffic light change from red to green, one light going out, the other coming on, at the nearby intersection. “Anybody else coming?”

“Beats me,” Preacher said. “I bought the call, so maybe it's us until crime scene and the coroner's office gets here. I didn't sense incredible urgency.”

“So we went from babysitting live bodies on Magazine Street,” Maureen said, “to babysitting a dead one in there.”

“It would appear so,” Preacher said. “You're wondering now how you could have missed it so much, aren't you?”

Maureen took out her cigarettes, studied the pack, jammed it back in her pocket. She looked at the top of the wall. Wasn't really that high. “Gimme a boost.”

“Coughlin.”

“C'mon, Sarge. Gimme a boost. I think I hear something inside the cemetery. Voices, I think. We should get in there.”

“You think I'm going to fall for that?” Preacher asked. “We wait for the man with the key.”

“How'd the dead body get in there?” Maureen asked. “Somebody tossed it over the wall? How'd anyone know about it if the place is locked up tight? Maybe someone is inside.” She bounced on her toes. Maureen noticed the security guard in front of Commander's Palace across the street watching them. Here's his excitement for the night, she thought. Mine, too, probably. She made a mental note to make sure she talked to the guard later. He could be the kind of witness who might actually talk to the police. “Who knows how long it'll take anyone to get here? Gimme a boost, help me get over the wall. I can clear the scene at least, make sure it's safe.”