Doing the Devil's Work (32 page)

“Are there more houses like yours?” Atkinson asked. “Do the Watchmen have stashes around the city?”

Scales shrugged, getting bored now. “Fucked if I know. I don’t ask, they don’t tell.”

Maureen was sure that in Scales’s mind, no harm awaited Heath, rich and protected as he was. He thought he’d gained the upper hand by dropping that name. In his mind, he knew who and what he was to the cops—a black kid who fucked with other black kids in his run-down black New Orleans neighborhood, which made him not of much value to the NOPD. Who he was was worthless, but what he knew made him valuable. He figured feeding the white powers-that-be one of their own would stop any case, any investigation dead in its tracks, which would protect him, as well. The cops would choke on the Heath name and money, and have to spit out Heath, and Scales with him. And it would be back to business as usual for everyone in a few days, Scales, Heath, and the NOPD. Maureen swallowed hard. Heath and the NOPD would get back to business, but Scales? He’d be gifted to the cops by the Heath family like a tip slipped without a word into the valet’s hand. He’d be a consolation prize. Unless the Watchmen got to Scales first for ratting out one of their moneymen. Scales was done, Maureen thought. Done. In jail. On the street. Didn’t matter. He was done. A dead man. The finality of his fate, the certainty of his death, came so clear to her, so sure, that the idea’s arrival made a snapping sound inside her brain that she could hear, like the breaking of a bone somewhere in her body—the difference being what she felt. Not panic, not pain. Nothing.

She watched Atkinson pace the small room, hands on her hips. Atkinson rolled her shoulders, working a kink out of her back. Even after this long interview, Maureen thought, Scales didn’t know who he dealt with in her. She was a cop and a woman. He could never see her for real. He didn’t comprehend the Heaths, and he didn’t understand Atkinson. But Maureen did. She understood them both. Atkinson was another fatal flaw in Scales’s plan. With her in charge of the case, there was no chance of anything going away. Atkinson didn’t choke; she broke bones. Atkinson would never bend to political pressure, from inside or outside the department. Never. Maureen couldn’t see it.

Nobody, she thought, not Bobby Scales, not Caleb Heath, not Maureen Coughlin, would get off easy when this mess was done. She knew something else, too. Something that Atkinson didn’t know. The clock was ticking.

Word would get out that Scales was in custody, not only through his neighborhood, but through the police department, too. Word would spread around the Sixth and reach Quinn. That meant Caleb Heath would hear before long that a detective had Scales in a box and was sweating him. That a big stash of guns had been found. Forces would align to protect Heath. Who knew how deep into the department Solomon Heath could reach on behalf of his only son? Who knew who Solomon could squeeze? Maureen didn’t want to know, didn’t want to end up in the grip of those soft and spotted hands.

“Do you know if Shadow set up other meetings like the one between you and Gage?” Atkinson asked.

“Like I already said, I don’t know.”

“Where do we find Shadow?” Maureen asked.

Scales chuckled. “Don’t nobody ever know where to find Shadow. He just appear.”

“Are there men out there right now hunting New Orleans cops?” Atkinson asked. “Are there more stashes of guns?”

“I don’t know,” Scales said. “I swear on my mother. I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

Scales thought for a long moment. “I mean, if I was them, I wouldn’t have one stash house for my gear, you know? If it gets hit, you outta business.”

“
You
hook them up with anyone?” Atkinson asked.

Scales shook his head. “I don’t know no one in the game like that no more. They came to me. I wasn’t even looking. I was trying to lay low. Trouble just find me.”

“Everything,” Atkinson said. “I have to have everything you know.”

Scales nodded his head. “Everything. I don’t know what else there is, though.”

Atkinson turned an empty chair around and sat with her arms draped over the back. Intertwined with her fear, Maureen felt an admiration for the woman that bordered on worship.

“Talk,” Atkinson said. “Now. About whatever comes to mind. When I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.”

24

Maureen held out her coffee cup, which Atkinson filled. They were in the break room. Scales had been taken away. She hoped he didn’t end up on Theriot’s watch. Maureen’s right hand ached. She had filled half of her flip-top notebook with the Scales interview after it ended. Her head spun from what she’d heard. Atkinson was eager to get moving on the information. Maureen wanted her to have everything she needed. What Scales had told her was not enough. Maureen had things to say as well.

“Is there some place private we can talk?” Maureen asked. She wanted to be away from the interview room. The thought of Atkinson bearing down on her like the detective had on Scales terrified her.

She wished Atkinson hadn’t seen her face when Scales dropped the name Caleb Heath. She was grateful no one had been watching behind the glass, either, which she had known going into the interrogation. Atkinson had used the statutory rape accusation to get the warrant cut by the judge, glossing over the fact that Scales’s accusers had only come in to give up his location and didn’t intend to file charges. A good job of putting opportunity to use, Atkinson had declared. A gifted bit of gaming the system, Maureen had thought, with admiration for the idea, and gratitude for what they’d learned after the bust.

Maureen thought again of the thousand in cash sitting on her kitchen table. It had been meant for a moment like this one. She’d be expected to intercede on Heath’s behalf. Maybe let it slip to the right ears that there’d been some sleight of hand behind the Scales warrant. Well, Solomon Heath was going to be pissed. Maureen planned on being the worst investment he had ever made. She wasn’t concerned for him, or for his terrorist of a son. But she did worry for Preacher, and for herself. She loved being a New Orleans cop.

“You don’t look very good,” Atkinson said. “You all right? It takes a lot out of you, this stuff.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Maureen said. She sipped her coffee. “I was excited about this morning. I dreamed about it last night. I’m really grateful to you for including me.”

“You did a great job at the house, and especially in there, with the good cop, bad cop stuff about the jail rumors,” Atkinson said. “You played it perfect, better than we talked about.” She sipped her coffee. “You may have a future as the good cop.”

Maureen gazed into her coffee. It was lukewarm and weak, hardly darker than tea. Her hands shook. Exhaustion, she figured. Residual adrenaline. Fear. She had to come clean about Gage to Atkinson. She would. Today. In the next few minutes. The question was how best to do it.

“Was I really the good cop?” she asked. “I threatened him with jailhouse rape. Seems like it was more like bad cop, worse cop.”

“You did what was necessary,” Atkinson said. “A lot of these guys, the ones who crack, they get pathetic. They’re soft on the inside. They get needy and desperate and they want their mommies. Don’t let that fool you. That man in there is a murderer. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. If he thought he could get away with it, right this minute he’d stick a screwdriver in your ribs first chance he got. He’d do the same to me, and to your buddy Marques. He tried.

“We were playing a role in there, and so was he, and we played ours better than he played his. Forgive yourself for being smarter than him.”

“What happens to him now? Will we ever put Mike-Mike’s murder on him?”

“I’ll lock him up on the guns.” Atkinson scratched at her scalp. “May as well. There’s no hiding him from the feds. We have to give him up, for the greater good. Besides, they’re gonna take him from us. This whole case is going to go federal. It has to. He’s got info on domestic terror, on gunrunning by federal fugitives.”

“He won’t even do any time, will he?” Maureen said. “The feds will cut him a deal.”

“It’ll take a while,” Atkinson said. “Who knows what can happen while they work everything out.”

“But, ultimately,” Maureen said, “he’ll walk. He’ll be hanging on a Central City street corner in no time. I’ll be arresting him for the rest of my life.”

“We don’t know that,” Atkinson said.

“We don’t?”

“There’s a good chance they’ll put him away for a
long
time, without Marques even having to get involved. Marques will be better protected this way, so there’s that.”

“I don’t believe you,” Maureen said. “And you don’t believe what you’re telling me, either.”

“It’s out of our hands,” Atkinson said. “My powers are pretty limited.”

“What we did in there with Scales,” Maureen said. “How much of that was legal?”

“That’s for the lawyers to sort out later,” Atkinson said. “I know you’re still figuring things out, but let’s keep our eyes on the prize. Someone has been putting up guns and money to hunt and kill cops, and now we know who it is, before any of us got shot. You were in on it. You were part of it. That’s going to be real good for you. Huge, possibly. I’ll make sure you get your due.”

“I know that,” Maureen said. “I know what’s important. I feel like I’m constantly fighting to keep my balance.”

Atkinson peered at her. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get some air, go get your car, and find someplace we can talk. You can tell me the real reason you’re so twitchy and pale.” She poured her coffee down the sink. “Tell you what, let’s get us a drink.”

Maureen glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nine a.m. A drink sounded like a great idea. Insubordinate. Decadent. It was exactly what she needed. She could taste it already.

“I thought you had a chiropractor’s appointment?”

“My chiropractor is Ms. Mae.” Atkinson unfurled a Cheshire grin. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

* * *

Everyone inside Ms. Mae’s, a smoky twenty-four-hour dive bar, booed when Maureen and Atkinson entered the bar. They had let the daylight in. Maureen had spent time in Ms. Mae’s before, knocking back cheap and strong drinks with her platoon after particularly grueling night shifts. Once the black curtains fell back into place over the front door and the hazy, timeless half-light of the bar was restored, people returned their attention to their conversations, their drinks, and, in the center of the barroom, their pool and air hockey games.

Leaning over the rounded backs and shoulders of two men seated at the bar, Atkinson ordered two double Bloody Marys. Maureen recalled the argument she and Atkinson had overheard at the St. Charles Tavern. No bead-wearing tourists hung out in Ms. Mae’s. Not mid-morning on a weekday.

Maureen took her drink from Atkinson. She removed the straw, dropped it on the floor. She took several deep swallows, downing half the cocktail. Her throat burned and sweat beads popped out under her eyes, both from the heavy pour of rotgut vodka and the generous dose of hot sauce in the Bloody Mary mix. Her nose started to run. Warmth bloomed in her chest like black ink in a bowl of water. She followed Atkinson through the mostly male crowd of bikers, stevedores, and late-night service industry people just off of work, and of hard-core drunks who never saw quitting time. They walked past the Pac-Man machine and the jukebox, to a booth in the back corner of the bar.

Maureen tossed her cigarettes on the table as they sat. Both women lit up.

“Getting your balance back?” Atkinson asked.

“I have to work tonight,” Maureen said. She scratched at her scalp with both hands, trying to bring some feeling back into it. The vodka was already working on her. When had she last eaten? “I’m wondering what we’re doing here. I’m confused.”

Atkinson took a long drag on her smoke. “About what?”

“Why are we not going after Caleb Heath? Why are we not kicking in his door right now? Or at least giving the FBI his address.”

“Caleb Heath isn’t Bobby Scales, Maureen. He’s Solomon Heath’s son. That everyone is equal before the law is a glorious idea. It’s also a complete farce.”

“I know that,” Maureen said. “I know who Caleb Heath is. But Bobby Scales told us that Heath is a terrorist.” She fought to keep her voice low. “He told us that Heath is providing the Watchmen Brigade with cash and guns to come after cops, to come after us. You and me.”

“I know this,” Atkinson said, getting testy. “I was in the room. After I dropped you at your car, I made some calls. I have some things working. This situation is very fucking delicate.”

“So you went to the FBI.”

Atkinson looked away, her cigarette frozen on its way to her mouth.

“You didn’t call the feds,” Maureen said. “Who did you call?”

“I do declare,” Atkinson said, “are you questioning how I do my job, Officer Coughlin?”

“No, Detective, I am not. I wouldn’t presume. I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

“I took you along on the Scales raid as a courtesy,” Atkinson said. “Because you have drive and talent and the postacademy training in this department, where it exists, is fucking atrocious. I don’t want to see you go to waste. I don’t want to see you dragged down. I let you stay for the interview with Scales for the same reasons, and because I needed a foil and I thought I could trust you.”

“Of course you can trust me,” Maureen said. “Why does everyone always ask me that? I’ve never given anyone in this department reason not to trust me. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born in New Orleans, or that no one recognizes where I went to high school. It’s not my fault I haven’t been a cop for ten years, or that I wasn’t here for Katrina.”

Atkinson got up from the table, walking away from the booth. Maureen thought she was leaving, and nearly jumped from her seat and cried out for Atkinson not to go. When Atkinson shouldered her way to the bar, Maureen slumped in her seat, grateful she had restrained herself.

She lit her next cigarette off the end of her current one. She was dying for that next drink. Butting heads with Atkinson shook her. She felt short of breath, struggling for control of herself. She needed to be bigger than this, more grown-up.