Let the Devil Out (22 page)

Gage rose from his chair, his face slightly pale. His preaching had taken something out of him. He was so eager to depart that, despite being sick to death of him, Maureen felt compelled to make him stay. To irritate him. He'd leave when she decided he would. She hadn't learned anything useful from him. Not for Detillier or Atkinson. She was determined to pull something worthwhile out of this meeting.

“Do you really want to know what happened to your son?” Maureen asked. “The patriot?” She gestured at his chair, making it clear she wouldn't continue until and unless he sat. Curiosity flickered in his eyes. Gage sat.

“Did you know what your son was doing here in New Orleans?” Maureen asked. “He was running guns for criminals, for gangs that deal in the murder of children and the sale of narcotics, and for organizations classified by federal law enforcement as domestic terrorists. Organizations like the Watchmen that target law enforcement for murder.”

Gage leaned over the table. “Slander. Conspiracy.” He stabbed the center of the legal pad with his bony finger. “Right here, I want you to put a piece of paper right here that proves those things are true. Something better than the cop-forced confession of a dead black drug dealer.”

“Did you know what Clayton was doing,” Maureen said, “and if those activities might be what got him killed?”

“A person is what killed him.”

“Technically, having his throat opened up with a straight razor,” Maureen said, “is what killed your son. I want to know what happened before that. During the days, the weeks before he was killed.”

“My son was his own man.” Gage's leg bounced like mad under the table.

“Did he come to New Orleans looking for a woman named Madison Leary? Did he come here because she stole from him? Did he come here to kill her?”

Did you?

“My son was a patriot,” Gage said. “Which makes him the natural enemy of people like you. That's why you're so eager to believe slanders against him.”

“Can you tell me anything useful to catching your son's killer,” Maureen asked, “or do you want to talk some more about the Constitution? Do you, Clayton's father, know
anything
about your son's life?”

“Would you believe anything I told you,” Gage said, “that didn't conform to the lies you choose to believe?”

“Mr. Gage,” Maureen said, “we're trying to figure out if your son's numerous criminal activities, trafficking in illegal weapons chief among them, led to Clayton's tough exit from this mortal world. I vote yes, but we're open to contrary opinions. We stay open to all possibilities. Do you have anything to offer either way? Any specific enemies you can point at? Names, maybe?”

“You do enjoy hearing yourself talk,” Gage said.

“Almost as much as you do,” Maureen said. “Our interests are aligned, you and the NOPD, as much as that may turn your stomach. We both want to catch the person who killed your son. If you think he had enemies, do tell, I'm all ears.”

“I doubt that we have any interests in common,” Gage said. “I doubt that very much.” He snatched his pen and legal pad off the table, stuffed them into his bag. He rose from his seat. “You know, you're the first cop I talked to who hasn't said ‘sorry for your loss' or something like that.”

“On the record,” Maureen said, rocking back in her chair, “as a representative of the New Orleans Police Department, let me express my condolences. I am sorry for your loss. Off the record, and knowing how you feel about liars, I'll do you the courtesy of the truth. Your son conspired to murder police officers. I am one of those officers. I have bullet holes in my house to prove it. Mr. Gage, the only thing I regret about your son's death is that I didn't get him first.”

Gage stared at her. Maureen expected an explosion of rage, it was the response she'd been after, but she could've sworn he stood there fighting back a smile. He said nothing before turning away and striding out the door. Maureen watched him go. Much better self-control then she'd anticipated. So much for provoking him. An amateurish strategy.

When the door closed behind him, she bowed her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. She had certainly fucked that up. She hadn't even raised the subject of Caleb Heath. The name Madison Leary had gone nowhere. Nothing helpful to Atkinson. She'd be going back to everyone empty-handed. She wondered if she could concoct an excuse for another interview. When she thought about it, Gage hadn't gotten anything out of her, either. Why had he even asked to meet her? To recruit her for the cause? A waste of everyone's time.

Maybe she'd ask Detillier for another crack at the man. Maybe when she went looking for witnesses in the Garden District that night she would actually find one. She wanted to go looking for Dice only as a last resort.

The waitress appeared at the table, coffeepot in her hand. Maureen covered her mug. She looked up at the girl. “No thanks. Just the check, please.”

The girl pulled a check presenter from her apron and laid it on the table. “I didn't charge you for his sweet tea.” She looked at the door. “I didn't like that man.”

Maureen opened her purse on her lap, digging for her wallet, her bulletproof vest digging into the small of her back. “Me, either, girlfriend. Me, either.”

 

18

Outside the café, Maureen put a cigarette between her lips and buttoned her coat against the cold afternoon. She lit up and sat at one of the empty outside tables to call Atkinson. The detective's phone went right to voice mail. Maureen couldn't decide what to say, so she left no message. No harm, she figured, in calling Detillier right away. She'd tell him everything Gage had said to her. Maybe that mumbo jumbo the man had spouted would mean something to the FBI. Maybe they'd hear a code in his language, something over her head that the FBI would find useful. Maybe something would surface that helped Atkinson. She wasn't optimistic. She found Detillier's number in her phone, punched it, and put the phone to her ear.

That was when she saw him across Esplanade Avenue, waving at her. His unbuttoned suit jacket and his tie fluttered in the wind. It was awful chilly, she thought, to be out in the street without an overcoat. Detillier stood in the street, on the edge of the traffic, on the balls of his feet, waiting for a chance to cross. The call connected as she watched him, but he made no move to answer. He seemed to be in a big, big hurry. Borderline frantic, she thought, judging by his body language. His head snapped back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome. He was clocking more than the traffic. What now?

She stood and looked up and down Esplanade Avenue. Gage was gone. Was that the problem? she wondered. Letting him walk away had been part of the plan. If the plan had changed while she was in the café, no one had thought to tell her. Fucking typical, she thought. Fucking bureaucrats. Detillier's voice mail started speaking to her. She disconnected the call. Detillier had made it to the grassy neutral ground. He waited for another break in the traffic. He looked behind him. Went back to watching the street. He was calling her name, like she should rush over there to him.

Maureen's phone buzzed in her hand. Atkinson. Fantastic, Maureen thought. How was that for timing? She answered. “Coughlin.”

“Jesus Christ, Maureen,” Atkinson said, out of breath. “Oh, thank God. Where are you?”

Maureen's heart had dropped into a hole. “I'm outside Dizzy's, in the Tremé. Right where I told you I'd be. Why do you sound like that? What's happened?”

Detillier was running across the street. He had his gun drawn.

Maureen lowered the phone. She could hear Atkinson ask, no, demand that Maureen talk to her. Maureen had never heard her sound anything like this. Shouting, yelling. Panic was something Atkinson didn't do. Hearing it terrified Maureen. A commotion arose inside the café. Maureen turned and looked in the window. Employees and customers alike had gathered, standing under the television. Even the cooks and dishwashers had come out of the kitchen. Maureen couldn't tell exactly what they were watching, but several people had their hands on their heads, or covered their mouths in clear horror. On the screen was an aerial shot of somewhere in the city. Sirens in the streets. Lots of sirens. She half-expected to see an overhead shot of her standing on the corner.

She looked up into the sky for the helicopters. Nothing but clouds. Gray and static. And in the distance, she could hear sirens.

Detillier jumped up onto the sidewalk. “Gage! Where is Gage?”

“He left not five minutes ago. He might still be in the neighborhood. I don't know where he parked. I didn't know I was supposed to follow him.” She could hear Atkinson calling her name, asking what was happening. “That wasn't the plan. What the fuck is going on? Why is your gun out?”

“Who is that on the phone?”

Maureen felt the air go out of her chest. “It's Detective Atkinson.” She felt like a fist was squeezing her heart. A wave of dizziness washed over her, threatened to melt her knees. Like it had a year ago on Amboy Road. She wasn't Atkinson. Panic was something she did often. No. Not now. Not now. “She's calling to see if I'm okay?” Her vision blurred. She could hear the quaver in her voice. “Why is she doing that? Why is she doing that?”

“You can talk to her on the way,” Detillier said. He took her by the arm.

Maureen snatched her arm back. The adrenaline surge that came at his touch steadied her, brought her back to earth. “On the way where?”

“We have to move you, we have to do it now.”

“What is going on? You said I'd be safe.” Maureen looked at her phone. Atkinson had disconnected.

“A bunch of cops have been shot,” Detillier said. His eyes moved to the television inside the café. He couldn't help himself.

“A bunch?” Maureen asked, almost laughing at the word. “A bunch?”

“They were ambushed, in different places around the city,” Detillier said. “Four of them, so far.”

“So far?”

“I'll explain later. We have to get you out of here.”

Maureen heard more sirens in the distance now. The screaming seemed to come from every direction. “Are they dead?”

“We have to
go
.”

“Are. They. Dead?”

“Maybe,” Detillier said, his face dropping. He looked for a moment like he himself might collapse. “Maybe some. I don't know. I don't want to say.” He looked over her shoulder. “It's a mess. It's a fucking mess. We can't talk here.”

Maureen saw his eyes lock on to something behind her. Whatever he saw rallied his focus. “What kind of car was it the Watchmen used to shoot up your house?”

“A white van,” Maureen said. “A commercial van. One with a door on the side that slides open.” She turned around and saw what Detillier had spotted. “Just like that one coming up the street. Motherfucker.”

A dingy white van idled at a stop sign three blocks back toward Rampart. The afternoon haze threw the shadows of the trees across the windshield. She couldn't see the driver. Maureen ran her tongue over her front teeth. Okay, then. She drew her Glock. She checked the safety. She'd already racked a bullet into the chamber. She spoke to Detillier with her eyes locked on the van. “I didn't see it myself, I was away from the house, but that's what the report said.”

The van sat at the sign, a blue-gray plume of exhaust billowing behind it. Traffic had died on Esplanade, the afternoon after-lunch lull setting in. Or was the city on lockdown? Maureen could hear Detillier breathing over her shoulder. Might be an ordinary van, she thought. City was full of them. Every fly-by-night contractor and his brother drove an old, beat-up white van. But the timing, she thought. The timing. The right front headlight was busted. A fender bender? she wondered. Or shot out in the getaway?

“The reports from the shootings,” she asked, “they say anything about a van? Any of our guys get any shots off?”

“Not that I heard about,” Detillier said. “The shooters walked into restaurants where the officers were eating and opened fire. One guy was killed at the scene, the other pair fled in the panic. That's what we know. This is an ongoing situation. We haven't found anyone yet who saw what they drove.”

Maureen swallowed hard. Time to focus. “Okay. We need to get away from the restaurant right now.” Or I do, she thought. Since I'm the target. The guys who'd shot up her house, they'd fired hundreds of rounds from some pretty heavy weapons. She had to draw fire away from the café. That was priority one.

“Get everyone inside Dizzy's into the back,” she said. “Get them into the kitchen and away from the windows.”

The van started rolling again in their direction. She walked quickly toward it, her gun hanging at her side, loose in her hand. She could get to the van before it reached the restaurant. The crepe myrtles on the neutral ground, the parked cars and trees and garbage cans along her side of Esplanade gave her cover. She didn't care if people in the van saw her coming. She
wanted
them to see her coming. She wanted their full attention. She sped up to a trot.

A car came up behind her, the engine revving. She nearly screamed at the sound of it. She drew her weapon. This was no cat in the graveyard. She ducked behind a big plastic trash bin, landing hard on her knees. Stupid, she thought, stupid, stupid fucking girl. She waited for the bullets to fly. She'd have no shot at them. Stupid girl, the van was a decoy and you fell for it. She'd left her back completely exposed, and let herself be drawn out into the open. Two fatal mistakes at the same time. Never let them get behind you, one of the first things Preacher had ever taught her. She could hardly believe there weren't bullets in her back already.

From her knees, her armpits soaked with sweat, looking from behind the trash bin she peeked around the back bumper of a parked VW bug. She watched a noisy old Buick rattle by, an old woman at the wheel barely tall enough to drive. That was her assassin. She emptied her lungs. “Jesus fucking Christ, Maureen. Get a grip.”