Let the Devil Out (13 page)

“And went where?” Detillier asked, his eyes moving back and forth between Preacher and Maureen. “He resigned in disgrace, not the best witness. He's a waste of resources.”

“You're the federal investigator,” Maureen said. “We're just beat cops, us.”

“These connections were cut off by the murders,” Detillier said, “in which Madison Leary is a suspect. She seems to know how to find these guys better than anyone else in New Orleans. I'd like to talk to her about that.”

Maureen shrugged. “I'm telling you, she's not your best way in. She's not the trick to shutting them down. She's her own violent offshoot of their violent offshoot.”

“I can be the judge of how important she is,” Detillier said. “Or isn't.”

“You know she's mayor of Psycho City, right?” Preacher said.

Detillier frowned at his notebook, flipping back and forth between pages. Maureen didn't know who else he had talked to about the case, but he'd made a lot of notes. She could tell from his furrowed brow that ideas were starting to lock together in his imagination.

Detiller said, “We'll come back to Ms. Leary.”

Maureen wondered if Madison had ever been called
that
before. She had a crazy idea. She decided she'd say it out loud. To see what Detillier would do.

“She's one of yours, isn't she? Madison Leary. She was some dopey bastard's drug mule, or some gunrunner's scagged-out girlfriend, and you flipped her and put her to work for you, made her an informant. You brought her to Louisiana and pointed her to the Watchmen. And now you've lost her and she's running around New Orleans killing people. She was a mole for you, into the Sovereign Citizens down here. And she's gone rogue in the worst possible way. That's why you're so interested in her.”

Detillier stared at her for a long time. “I can see you've put a lot of thought into her.”

Maureen couldn't even hear Preacher breathing.

“Let's talk about the father,” Detillier finally said. “He's of interest to us.” He paused. “I'm talking about
Clayton's
father. I'm talking about Napoleon Gage. Goes by Leon.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Maureen said. “What about him?”

“We're wondering what he knows, if anything, about
his
son's activities,” Detillier said. “He went to Homicide demanding information about his son's death. He dropped off a two-inch stack of bullshit paperwork there that he says compels the NOPD to talk to him. Apparently, he spent three days going from courthouse to courthouse trying to see judges and trying to file these legal forms he drew up himself. This is before going to Homicide. After his visit there, Detective Atkinson reached out to us, which she did because we asked the division to do so. We've been waiting to see if anyone would surface over these deaths. Now someone has.”

“And you can't question this guy yourself?” Maureen said.

“He's demanding an audience with law-enforcement personnel who worked the scene. We hear he's filed a bunch of papers with the coroner's office, too.”

Maureen turned to Preacher. “And we honor demands like these? Is that common NOPD practice?”

“Fuck, no,” Preacher said.

Maureen turned back to Detillier. “But this guy is an exception because?”

“Because his son was a member of a violent patriot militia,” Detillier said. “And because this business with the bogus paperwork filings is typical of Sovereign Citizens. It's our first real sign he may have been involved in his son's activities.”

“How does Detective Atkinson feel about the FBI stepping into her investigation?” Maureen asked. “About you bringing me into it like this? She's okay with it? The two Watchmen deaths are her case now. Leary is her suspect. Why doesn't she get a chance to talk to the father? He may know a thing or two about Leary. Put him in a room with Atkinson, she'll have him squawking in three minutes. She's the best interrogator probably in the state.”

“We asked her,” Detillier said. “She told us to come to you.”

“If you think this guy's a Citizen,” Maureen asked, “why not have one of your guys handle him?”

“As far as Napoleon Gage knows,” Detillier said, “his son is the victim of a random street crime. He expects to deal with the NOPD. The FBI suddenly appearing would change that. We don't want to scare him out of town. We don't want to make him more reluctant to talk. We want him very much to talk to someone, and we agree with Atkinson that the someone he's most likely to be comfortable with is you.”

Preacher laughed out loud, trying and failing to cover by coughing into his fist. “Because of her sparkling personality.”

“You have to admit, Preach,” Maureen said, “that I'm a whole lot less scary than Atkinson.”

“You're the one the Watchmen shot at,” Detillier said. “Nobody's forgotten about that. We thought you'd like to get in on bringing them down.” He shrugged. “But if you're happy writing speeding tickets…”

“I'm going to tell Atkinson everything that I learn doing this,” Maureen said. “Anything I learn from Gage that might help her find Madison Leary and close her case, I'm going to tell her.”

“Bringing Leary in could only be good for us,” Detillier said. “If you can help Atkinson while keeping the father in play for us, I have no problem with that.

“Listen, let's not get distracted by interagency politics. I want to keep you alive, Maureen. The Watchmen present a direct physical threat to New Orleans law enforcement. They've targeted you specifically. Leon Gage may have useful information about them, and we feel that humoring him is the best way to get that information, should it exist. No matter how she feels about me and what I do, I'm sure Detective Atkinson is keen to eliminate the threat the Watchmen present. And I think she would agree that pulling apart the Watchmen is more important than her murder investigation into the deaths of two guys who, quite frankly, no one will miss.”

Maureen reached for her cigarettes. She lit one.

She wanted to believe that Detillier was telling her the truth and that the feds were on her side. That they were generous and team-oriented. That all law enforcement was created equal. That a badge was a badge to them. She knew better. They didn't want her killed, but the feds acted only in their own interests. They came to her because it was the best move for them. She exhaled a long plume of smoke.

“So you get my help with the father and the Watchmen,” Maureen said, “and Atkinson maybe gets help with finding Leary, which may also benefit you guys. What I want to know is, what's in it for me?”

“Preacher will tell you,” Detillier said, unfazed by the question, rolling into an answer that sounded like he'd prepared it, “that plainclothes work is the quickest way to a promotion in any police department. That's
especially
true of the one that you work in. Here's your chance to build that résumé, with an endorsement from the FBI to put in your file. Your coworkers may twitch at the idea of you doing a favor for the feds. They'll get over it. The brass and the suits look real favorably on that kind of thing, on anything that makes them look good. The brass are the ones who give out the gold shields. And I know one DC I figure you owe some good turns.”

Maureen turned to Preacher, who shrugged.

“Believe him,” Preacher said. “It's not like you'll be in Narcotics in two weeks, but you have to start somewhere. Sounds like a cake gig to me. This is a legit opportunity.” He glanced at Detillier then looked back at Maureen. “If they want to overpay for a small favor, fucking let them.”

“Your department is bleeding cops at a near-terminal rate,” Detillier said. “From top to bottom. You didn't hear it from me, but your SVU is about to lose five detectives. Five. Someone's getting sucked up into that empty space in the departments above you. Why not make it you? We want one hour of your time. Have coffee with the man. Tell us what he tells you. Couldn't be simpler. If it's nothing, well, we tried, and the effort looks good on you.”

He checked the time on his phone, reached into his jacket pocket, produced a business card. He placed the card on the table between them. “Take a few minutes to discuss things with your duty sergeant here. But call me soon. Later today or tonight. We don't know how long Gage is staying in the city. If we wait too long, we may all of us lose our chance to get what we can from him.” He raised his hand to Preacher. “Sergeant Boyd, a pleasure.” He shook Maureen's hand. “Officer Coughlin, we'll speak soon.”

Maureen left the card on the table until Detillier turned the corner. When he was out of sight she picked up the card, tucking it into the inside pocket of her leather jacket.

“What do you think, Preach? Straight up. Do I trust this prick?”

“You have to make that decision,” Preacher said. “I'm not seeing a downside for you right now, but they set it up that way on purpose. I will tell you this. If you get them something good for Detillier, if you put the NOPD in the middle of the FBI making a major bust, you will have gone from the shithouse to the penthouse faster than any cop in department history. We could really use a gold star around here. Believe it.”

 

12

That evening Maureen arrived an hour early for roll call. She'd always been prompt, but an entire hour set a personal record.

She sat alone in the room at one of the two-person desks, a cup of terrible station-house coffee steaming in front of her. She sniffed it. She added a fourth packet of sugar. Okay, maybe the horrible coffee was one thing about her job she hadn't missed. She rubbed stray sugar crystals between her fingers and thumb, waiting for the other night-shift cops, trying to enjoy the quiet. She savored silence on the job. How she hated the quiet, she thought, when it filled her own house. Because when her house was quiet, she thought, that was when her brain ran at its loudest.

The day shift was still on the streets when she'd parked out back and headed into the building. She'd taken her time getting dressed in the locker room, having the place to herself. No other women were on duty that night.

She'd remained on the bench in front of her locker for a long time, stripped to her underwear and a white T-shirt, her hair down and loose on her shoulders, the lacquered wood of the bench cool on the backs of her thighs though the heat was on. The locker-room air had that dry, close feel she remembered from New York City school buildings. She breathed in the institutional antiseptic smell of the room. She listened to the occasional squeak of boots on the hallway tile as other cops passed by. She heard their muffled voices as they talked on their phones, or to one another. Overhead, water surged through the old pipes. The elevator thumped to a stop in the front of the building. The fluorescent lights hummed.

She'd had a boyfriend once who'd been a swimmer. She hadn't quite believed him when he'd talked about the sedative effects the sounds and smells of the pool, any pool, had on him and how they eased his mind, the sharp tang of chlorine in the air, the thumping splash of a flip turn, the whistle of a swim coach. Sitting in the Sixth District locker room, she now knew exactly what that boy had meant.

She studied her blue uniform hanging on her locker door, cleaned and pressed, the plastic covering from the dry cleaner's now torn off and crumpled on the floor like a shed skin. Her gun belt rested at her side on the bench. She stood, rubbed her thumb over the yellow police department patch with the blue crescent sewn onto one sleeve of her uniform shirt. She touched the plastic name tag that read
M. COUGHLIN
pinned onto the pocket.

Her plan had been to return to work recharged and ready for anything. She'd wanted to rest while she didn't have to work. That was why she'd rented a cottage on the beach those first two weeks of her suspension. She wanted to come back to the job and the city strong and clearheaded. Calm. Instead, standing there, the day she'd longed for finally arrived, she felt raw and hollowed out inside. The free time had revealed a pit at her core that was bottomless and lightless, smooth and cold to the touch. It was more than sleepless nights and whiskey that ate at her. She felt like a parasite had burrowed through her. She feared that maybe it remained inside her, chewing. Was that the noise she heard when the house was quiet? The gnawing away of her insides? She couldn't figure out who or what she was afraid of anymore. The past? The future?

She folded her hands over her badge and closed her eyes. She promised herself again she was safe now. She was being ridiculous. Her life was different now than it had been a year ago.
She
was different now. The evidence was everywhere around her. Ironclad evidence. Be a good cop, a smart cop, she told herself. Trust the evidence. The silver-haired man was not coming to get her. There had been nothing supernatural about Frank Sebastian. Nothing.

Maureen knew that the power to haunt her was power she gave him. His specter was her creation. She was being silly, a child who missed her night-light. Frank Sebastian wasn't under her bed. He wasn't out there on the streets. He wasn't in a big house on the park. He was dead. He was staying dead, and she had run so far and changed so much that his ghost, should it ever manage to sneak out of hell, could never find her. Would never recognize her. She would stop going out at night looking for him. She wouldn't take so much into her own hands anymore. That would be a start. She'd let the devil out, like Preacher had said. Now leave him out there, she thought. Leave him out there in the dark. He didn't need her help with his work. And she didn't need his help with hers.

She touched her shoulder. With her fingertips, under the collar of her T-shirt, she could feel the lingering bruised and tender indentations Patrick's teeth had left in her skin.