Doing the Devil's Work (25 page)

She wanted to go home. She’d made a mistake accepting Quinn’s invitation to this detail. She couldn’t imagine spending a couple of hours with this version of him. The only question remaining was how bad a mistake it would prove to be.

As he met her on the sidewalk, Quinn wiped his hands on his uniform pants. “What’s the haps, Cogs? You wanna eat, now is the time. We’re not supposed to be in the house while the party’s going on. Food is good. Brennan’s is catering. And it’s free.”

“I’m good,” Maureen said. “I ate before I came. Quite a production, though. What’s the party for?”

“Fund-raiser for the musicians’ health clinic, the one they run out of Ochsner hospital. The New Orleans Musicians’ Clinic. It’s usually real quiet, this party.” He laughed. “It’s not like the musicians get invited.” He started buttoning his shirt. His breath smelled like boiled eggs and cheap rum. He hadn’t limited his indulgence to the catering trays, Maureen thought. Or maybe he’d had a taste before coming over to the party. She slipped him her pack of gum.

“For the eggs,” she said. Quinn refused the offer.

He patted his pants, found a roll of mints, ate two. “I pack my own.”

Of course you do, Maureen thought. As does everyone who drinks on the job.

“Bunch of wrinkly old rich folks stuffing their faces,” Quinn said, “swilling free booze, and writing fat checks, making them feel good about themselves for saving New Orleans cul-cha.” He shrugged, clipping on his tie. “Whatever. I’m not a cynical man. It’s a nice payday for us, too. And it does do some good. It’s not like playing the clubs comes with health insurance. That shit does cost.” He grinned. “A night like tonight everybody wins. Those kinds of scenarios are too few in this business.”

“And what is it
we
do while we’re here, exactly?”

“Stand around and look pretty,” Quinn said. “You’re off to a good start on that, by the way. I wasn’t sure you owned any makeup.”

“Then don’t make me get ugly,” Maureen said with a smile, cocking back her fist, “and lay off.”

Quinn raised his hands, chuckling. “Trying to be polite. Overreact much?”

They watched as two young men in matching polo shirts set up three folding chairs and a wooden podium by the curb.

“Nice,” Quinn said, nodding in approval.

“Valet service,” Maureen said. “Wow. They’re calling this a
cocktail party
?”

“I know, right?” Quinn said. “The valet makes our job even easier this year. Past years, our main job was walking these boozy staggering old geezers back to their cars after the party. You know, so they could drive home. Now we don’t even have to do that.”

“What is it we
are
supposed to do? Seriously.”

“Relax. This isn’t a test, Cogs. We walk around. Keep an eye on things. Make the rich folk feel protected. We’ll pass by the front a time or two, make sure no one’s trying to crash the party by coming through the park. It’s not like we’re the first line of defense against a possible armed assault. We’re ornaments, window dressing. Trust me, Coughlin. Tonight is the very definition of easy money. You’ll see.”

They both turned when a loud, deep voice called Quinn’s name from the back door of the house. Maureen watched as an older man, tanned and fit, his cream dress shirt and brown trousers better creased than her uniform, and worth more than a month’s salary, stepped out of the golden backlight of the kitchen and down the back steps. As he came down the walk, his gait was stiff, his arms swinging at his sides. Maureen recognized in his controlled stride the sufferer of perpetual back pain. She wondered what pain meds he took. His brown hair was full, though streaked with gray, and parted neatly to one side. He had small but bright and lively blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. His eyes looked familiar to her. Maybe she’d seen him on TV? In the paper? He brought with him a whiff of woodsy cologne. His diamond cufflinks, large “H”s, glinted in the porch light as he extended a welcoming hand to Quinn. Had to be the host, Maureen thought.

“Officer, always a pleasure,” the man said, smiling. “Thanks so much for helping out again this year.”

Quinn shook the man’s hand. “Anything for a good cause, sir, you know that. Happy to be of service.”

The man turned to Maureen, again offering his hand. “And you must be Officer Ruiz’s replacement.”

“I am,” Maureen said, shaking hands. “Pleased to meet you. Officer Maureen Coughlin.”

“The pleasure is mine,” the man said, looking her up and down. “You’re quite the colt. Welcome to the party. We’re always happy to have a new addition to the fold. My name is Solomon Heath.”

Maureen didn’t flinch. Quinn, you motherfucker, she thought. You set me up. “Of Heath Design and Construction?”

“The very same,” Solomon said.

Heath’s hand was soft and smooth, the knuckles hard and pronounced. It was a hand Maureen could tell that maybe decades ago had done day labor. For years now, though, that hand had clutched a highball glass while the mouth full of white teeth gave orders, or that hand had steadied the smooth stock of a shotgun or the handle of a golf club while the blue eyes tracked ducks scattering across the sky or the lay of the green. She got the feeling Heath hadn’t gotten construction site dust on his fancy leather shoes in some time. She recalled his son’s comment about not having the time for the minutiae. What was the point of being the boss, she thought, if it didn’t keep you clean? Maureen tightened her grip on the man’s hand, sparking a twitch at the corner of his right eye when he sensed the additional pressure.

“So you and Officer Quinn,” she said, “y’all have known each other awhile, it seems.”

“My entire life,” Quinn said.

“That’s true,” Solomon said. “Officer Quinn and my son, Caleb, even went to high school together. St. Ignatius over in Bay St. Louis. They’ve known each other more than half their lives.” He beamed at Quinn the way a man would a notably loyal dog. “The first year I had this party, I asked for Quinn by name when I asked for a detail. He’s a good man. I knew his father, too. Another good man.”

“That’s wonderful. New Orleans really is a small town, in its way. And full of good men.” Maureen released Solomon’s hand. “Well, I hope it’s a wonderful party. Certainly a great cause. I’m thrilled to meet you. Anything we can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask.” She turned to Quinn. “A boarding school boy. I’d never have guessed. You hide it well.”

Heath slipped his hands in his pockets, as if to hide something in his palm. Maureen wasn’t sure if it was the age spots or the manicure. Or maybe his wedding ring. And where was Mrs. Heath? she wondered. He looked Maureen up and down, again, his appraisal no longer only physical. She could tell he was unsure what to make of her. He sensed her hostility, had no idea what had touched it off. He was savvy enough to see through her fake cheer. He didn’t like her, and so mistrusted her, that was obvious, and not, Maureen thought, unexpected. But Solomon did expect people to want him to like them. The expectation came with having money, she knew, and power, and was an advantage he was used to exploiting. Not having it made him uneasy, a feeling she was sure he did not enjoy. Maureen suspected Solomon Heath spent little time around people he couldn’t predict, if not outright control.

Heath turned back to Quinn, his smile reigniting as if he’d flipped it back on with a switch. “If y’all need anything, pop into the kitchen and ask one of the servers. They’ll be happy to help. You should recognize some of them. We have the same crew every year. They count on it.” He shrugged, embarrassed at the burden of his benevolence. “The guests should start arriving at any minute. Give my regards to Officer Ruiz when you see him again. I look forward to having him back next year.”

With a nod, Heath turned and headed back into the house, pulling the kitchen door closed behind him.

Maureen grabbed Quinn hard by the arm. She dragged him a few yards down the sidewalk, away from the back of the house and from the valet stand, out of earshot of the help. She squeezed his arm twice as hard as she had Solomon Heath’s hand. “You mother
fucker
. Trying to help me out, my ass. How many more times are you gonna bullshit me?”

“About what? What are you talking about?”

“I’m supposed to be scared of him?” Maureen said. “I’m supposed to be intimidated because your high school buddy’s daddy has a big house and a pile of money? Why would you play it this way? What is wrong with you?”

Quinn yanked his arm free from her grip, rubbing at where she’d grabbed him, pouting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve told you from the beginning, I’m trying to do you a solid. I’m trying to show you why we massaged the situation the other night. Why we should continue to do so.” He pointed back over his shoulder at the house. “I’m hooking you up with a serious player.”

“You could’ve told me about your connection to this family at the murder scene,” Maureen said. “That would’ve been fine. You could’ve asked
me
for a favor instead of stealing that note from me. Do I seem like such a bitch that you can’t ask me for a professional courtesy?”

“If I’d asked for the favor,” Quinn said, “which was squashing a potential clue to the murder, would you have done it?”

Maureen hesitated.

“No, you wouldn’t have agreed,” Quinn said, “and then we’re arguing in front of everybody. I look bad, you look bad. Maybe I did
you
a favor by not putting you on the spot like that. C’mon, you see what this guy’s worth, you think Drayton is involving Solomon Heath’s son in a homicide investigation over a fucking Post-it note?”

“You were looking out for me. I’m supposed to believe that?”

“I was looking out for everyone,” Quinn said, his voice rising. “Christ, you talk the talk about wanting to be a team player, Cogs, but you really suck at walkin’ it sometimes.”

“Solomon knows, doesn’t he?” Maureen asked. “He knows you got Caleb off the hook, and whose hook it was. You brought me here to show me off. Like a fucking trophy. You’re serving me up to him. He calls me a colt, whatever the fuck that means, so I guess you’re supposed to be the cowboy who broke me. Fuck you, Quinn.”

“I brought you here,” Quinn said, “to introduce you to Solomon. Yeah, he knows you could’ve connected his son to Gage, and didn’t. You better believe I made sure of it. He said he’d take care of it. He’s a good friend to have, and now
he
owes
you
a favor. Where else you gonna get a deal like that? It’s how the city works. You did
good
that night when we found Gage. I keep trying to tell you that, but you won’t hear me. You did the Heath family a solid, got them on your side. You made yourself look good, made the department look good. Nobody’s trying to make you look broken. Let yourself reap the rewards for a job well done, for chrissakes. And lower your voice.”

“No offense, but Caleb’s not the first trust-fund douche bag I ever met in my life,” Maureen said. “His type are no good, they use people, they never stop at one favor, and their parents are usually worse. It’s their parents who teach them other people exist for their benefit. Ask the folks on Magnolia Street what good people Caleb Heath is.”

“Fuck them. Why don’t I ask them what they think about you, or anybody in a police uniform while I’m at it? Mr. Heath has been a good friend of the department. Of the city, too. Those new uniforms Roots of Music and your boy Marques marched in last Mardi Gras? Who you think bought that shit for them? You think Solomon needs to throw parties like this, for poor-ass saxophone and piano players? He kept generators going twenty-four seven after Katrina. This house was one of the only places in town cops could get AC and a cold drink. Hot food. A shower. It was more than the fucking city or the state or motherfuckers shooting at us from the Magnolia projects rooftops or the fucking
feds
who now, suddenly, want to be in charge of shit, had for us. Those of us who were here, we remember who stood with us. There’s no expiration date on that. You just got here. Why don’t you try to learn something instead of telling everybody how it oughtta be?”

Quinn pointed at the house. “There are going to be half a dozen kings of Rex in there tonight. They throw charity parties like this all year long. They’re the society big shots. The fucking
mayor
will be here tonight. Come Mardi Gras, you wanna be out on the fucking parade route every night, your back hurting, your feet hurting, dealing with drunk college kids and middle-schoolers from the ’hood with guns? Or do you want gigs like this, where people bring you hot coffee and jambalaya all night? I’m trying to be your
friend
here, Coughlin, and plug you into the circuit. No bullshit. No joke. That academy rigamarole ain’t the job. You should know that by now.
This
is the job.”

“I talked to Preacher,” Maureen said. “He told me Hollander was the one you were looking to plug into.”

“She’s got four years on the job,” Quinn said, “and you got four months. How’s it look if I go right to you? There’s a protocol. Yeah, I suggested Hollander first, but I knew Preacher would suggest you. That’s why I went to him and not straight to Hollander. He knows the deal.”

“You don’t know Preacher’s deal as well as you think.”

“What’d I ever do to you,” Quinn asked, “that you gotta talk to me like I’m a shithead?”

“The consent decree is going to change everything,” Maureen said. “That old-boy-network stuff, that who-you-knew-in-high-school shit is going out the window. We’ll have the same shot at these good details as everyone else on the job. And they’ll have to take their turn on the parade route. And your big-shot friends will forget they know you when they have to start filing paperwork on hiring cops for their personal business.”

Quinn laughed out loud. “Nothing’s going out the window. Nothing’s gonna change. Fuck the feds. Fuck them. You know who worries about the feds? The high brass that’s gotta answer to their faces and the newbies like you that don’t know any better. The rest of us? Goddamn, woman. This is New Orleans. Can’t nobody change this place. This place is its own animal, learn to ride it or get eaten. Man, sometimes I forget you’re not from here. This right here is not one of those times. You don’t want a piece of some perfectly legal, perfectly legit good fortune, fine, don’t take one. But word gets around, Coughlin, about who’s in and who’s out. In a hurry.”