Doing the Devil's Work (8 page)

“I’m here for you, actually,” Preacher said. “I need to talk to you.”

That didn’t help. “Anything fun?”

“That body from Magnolia Street,” Preacher said. “We have an ID.”

It was all she could do not to laugh out loud from relief at the change in subject. “That was quick. Do tell.”

“Turns out, he was already in the system,” Preacher said. “Edgar Cooley. Twenty-six. From out of state, originally. Last known address was a West Virginia trailer park, but that was four years ago. Let’s say there are some gaps before and after in his résumé. And I don’t think he was in the Peace Corps during his downtime.”

“Anything that points to his killer?” Maureen asked.

“That’s for Atkinson to decide. You can get more from her. You’re gonna want to talk to her, if she doesn’t come looking for you first.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“When I said this guy was in the system,” Preacher said, “I meant the
federal
system. He was a federal fugitive. The U.S. marshals are interested in him. The FBI, too. They’ll come looking for Atkinson since she caught the case. They might come looking for you since you found the body.”

“Well, damn,” Maureen said. “Our boy was a celebrity. And I had him pegged for some two-bit trick. What did he do?”

“He shot a bunch of cops.”

“Holy shit.”

“He lit up four locals in West Memphis three years ago in a traffic stop. He had some high-powered shit in his car. Military grade. Blew two units into complete junk. Left one guy in ICU for six months, another lost his left hand. Nobody died, thank the Lord. He was in a stolen car, waited until backup arrived to open fire.”

“That motherfucker,” Maureen said. “Man, who gives a fuck who killed him? You know, Atkinson said he was a Nazi. He had a Heil Hitler belt buckle. I saw it. So you got this information about him from where?”

“Around. I can remember hearing about the shit in Memphis some back then. We were worried about copycats here in New Orleans. It made national news when it happened.”

“I wasn’t up on anybody’s news three years ago,” Maureen said. “Sorry.”

“Be careful with the feds,” Preacher said. “That’s mostly what I wanted to tell you. With the consent decree being finalized, we got enough heat on this department. This loser, Cooley, there’s some other guys he ran with, at least back then. The feds are interested in them, too. They figure Cooley wasn’t alone here in Louisiana. I believe them. His kind of coward never acts alone. What he was doing in New Orleans, it might be a lead for them. He might tie into this network of hate-group loonies they’ve been looking at, some shit like that. I’m hearing it might reach back to the Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City. Point being, this shit runs long and deep. We’re gonna hear about it if the FBI or the marshals think we fouled some evidence or blew their lead. There’s no telling these days. Heads might roll, yours even, since you were first on the scene, things get bad enough.”

“You got nothing to worry about, Preach,” Maureen said. “Everything was on point. I kept the house locked down until the detective arrived. You know Atkinson runs a tight ship, and I didn’t mess with anything, didn’t let anyone else mess around. There’s not gonna be anything for anyone to complain about.”

“I don’t doubt you, Coughlin, but someone wants to jam us up, they can often find a way. We’re a fallible group. How was the canvass?”

Maureen shook her head, hands on hips. “You know, like it’s our fault the feds lost track of this asshole for three years. Oklahoma City was almost twenty years ago. Where they been since?” She hesitated, thinking of Quinn’s tantrum. He probably hadn’t done his best work. How much did that matter, though? “The canvass was fine. Typical. I mean, I did my part, I’m sure everyone else did theirs, too. It’s not like I was supervising. You know how these things go, Preach. You taught me. We never get anything at the time we’re asking questions. We’re out making nice and making friends, hoping someone calls us later.”

“Well, let’s hope somebody on Magnolia Street liked you, Coughlin.” He scratched at the rough stubble on his throat. “Much as I hate to admit it, doing the feds a solid right now would make everyone look good.” He met her eyes. “I’d especially be happy if that favor came straight out of the Sixth District, from cops under my command. What’s good for the Sixth is good for the department is good for the city. Whatever anybody needs, the feds, Atkinson, we need to provide, with smiling fucking faces.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Maureen said. “Speaking of favors, I was about to call you when I saw you here. You remember Sergeant Hardin from over the Eighth?”

“Absolutely. He helped with that thing in Jackson Square.”

“When I was done inside, he called me on my cell. He’s on the night shift tonight. He asked me to come see him, but to keep it quiet. He’s got a friend of mine, as he put it in the message, in an interrogation room. This okay with you?”

“You finally have friends in this town?” Preacher asked. “News to me. About time.”

“Low, Preach. That’s low.”

“You’re right. But I’m not wrong, am I? He say a name?”

“He did not,” Maureen said.

“A blind date,” Preacher said. “Fuck it. I’ve known Hardin forever. I trust him. If I wouldn’t be cool with it, he wouldn’t have called you in the first place. Go see him, and whoever he’s got over there, be grateful and do what he says. I’ll bet anything it’s payback for getting that shrieking flock of spoiled co-eds out of his face last night.”

“Heard that,” Maureen said. Preacher’s approval eased her nerves. And there was the compliment of a veteran officer like Hardin doing her a solid. A mark in her favor in front of Preacher. Maybe she wasn’t making friends in the city yet, but she was making the right connections on the job. That mattered more to her, excited her more than lunch and coffee dates. She gestured at the cruiser. “I should get over there. He’s already been waiting and we’re one short in the district with me out here.”

Preacher eased out of her way. He raised his chin at the intake office. “Before you go, what happened with that Leary woman?”

The guy was psychic, Maureen thought. She’d swear to it in court.

“Who knows about her?” Maureen answered. “She’s kind of a casualty.”

“Aren’t we all,” Preacher said. “But she’s why you’re here.”

Maureen said nothing.

“She’s why you’re here,” Preacher repeated, again telling and not asking. “You’re not a social worker, Coughlin. Remember that. The city pays other people for that. They have degrees and shit. The one job you have is hard enough. Just try to do it right.”

“That guy she was with,” Maureen said. “He was no good. There’s more to that story. You know I’m right. It’s like when I first saw Marques Greer. I knew he was in trouble, I knew there was more to it than we were seeing.”

“As I recall,” Preacher said, “mistakes were made in the matter of Marques Greer. And you needed some considerable help.”

“I know, I know. I’m a new cop, Preach, but I’ve been a woman my whole life.
Believe
me, I know a predator when I see one.”

“And so you sprung the rabbit from the trap,” Preacher said. “You did a good thing. But when the rabbit goes back down the hole, as rabbits do, we don’t follow. It’s the natural order of things. The wild animals stay wild. We don’t bring them home and make them pets. Understand?”

“We might need her,” Maureen said. “We want her feeling good about us if anything important comes up on Clayton Gage. And, trust me, something will. We might need a witness or something. Look at how handy a witness would be in the Cooley case. I thought looking out for her might get us on her good side. I’m trying to make friends, like on Magnolia Street. I’m trying to think ahead.”

“Nice try, Coughlin. You’re so full of shit. You let me know how it goes with Hardin.”

“Ten-four,” Maureen said, chastened. Even if she’d lied about her original motivations for pursuing Madison Leary, what she’d said to Preacher was true.

“Ten-four, good buddy,” Preacher said, chuckling.

“One more thing,” Maureen said. “I have to ask, how did you know to find me here?”

“You called in your twenty to dispatch like the good soldier you are,” Preacher said. “I wish everyone left a trail like you do. You’re so by the book sometimes, Coughlin, you kill me. You chose the right side of the law. You’d make a lousy criminal. When you come back to the Sixth, bring me a Hubig’s. Sweet potato flavor.”

7

After double-parking on Royal Street among a pack of other units, Maureen found Sergeant Hardin standing on the marble steps in front of the classy Colonial structure that housed the Eighth District. The Eighth, in the heart of the French Quarter, with wide white columns bracketing the beveled-glass and brass-handled front doors, outclassed in appearance the modest, scuffed, and utilitarian Sixth District home base Maureen was used to. Hardin came down the slate walkway to meet Maureen on the sidewalk.

Hardin was dark-skinned, with a smooth shaved head. He stood well over six feet tall, with a thick muscled frame. She’d dealt with him before, a real professional, calm as a glassy lake. She liked him a lot. He was high on her list of people to emulate as she learned the job. Considering the size of him, she wondered why he’d never unnerved her the way Ruiz did. Maybe because Hardin reminded her of an old friend from New York, a bouncer she had worked with at her last cocktailing job. Seemed like yesterday sometimes, her Staten Island life, the good and the ghosts. Other times it seemed a lifetime ago, or, on her best days, like someone else’s life entirely.

Hardin held an unlit cigar in his left hand. He extended his right. Maureen shook it, her own hand disappearing into his palm. She squeezed extra hard.

“Saint Coughlin of the Sixth,” Hardin said. “It’s been a minute. How you been?”

“Staying busy,” Maureen said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Heard you got the piss-bottle treatment from some of the neighborhood fellas. Preacher told me.”

“I did,” Maureen said. “The car got the worst of it. Nothing a hose can’t fix. Just some people fooling around. Nothing to it.”

“You’re all right, though?”

“Never better.”

Hardin tapped his watch. “Good, good. Hate to be rude, but I’m up against it here. Busy night. They started tearing down the Iberville projects last week. A few people been out looking to get even. Let’s get inside and get this done.” He turned and headed up the walkway. Maureen followed.

“You been back to the block yet?” Hardin asked over his shoulder. “Crack some heads, get some names?”

“Doesn’t seem worth it,” Maureen said. “I know boys. I keep reacting to it, they’re only gonna keep doing it, right? Why encourage them? All part of the rookie experience. I get worse shit from other cops.”

Hardin was grinning at her, holding open the door. “That is the truth,” he said, nodding as Maureen passed through the district entrance.

He led her through the lobby, through the sets of desks, and down a narrow side hallway. They stopped outside a door with one small high window. The plastic plaque on the wall read
INTERROGATION 2
. When Maureen reached for the doorknob, Hardin stopped her.

“That was a nice catch on those purse snatchings,” he said, checking his watch again.

“Having answers to give those girls, not to mention their belongings, made life much easier around here. In gratitude, we’re prepared to kick your friend loose. The arresting officer, though, he’s been a cop for as many years as you have weeks on the job, so there’s an etiquette to observe.”

“I got you,” Maureen said.

“If I’m telling you things you already know, listen to me anyway. Don’t walk another officer’s collar out the front door. Go out the side. And it’s not a story to share with the fellas. No need to brag around the Sixth about the pull you got in the Eighth. Let’s keep this close.”

“You can trust me,” Maureen said.

“Good to know.” Hardin opened the door to the interrogation room. “You remember Mr. Marques Greer, right? Famed teenaged snare drummer and failed city homicide witness.”

“Speak of the devil,” Maureen said. “Preacher and I were just talking about you, Marques.”

Seated at a long table on the other side of the room, slouching in a cheap folding chair, one arm cuffed to the table, was a reedy middle-school-aged boy, all arms and legs, his wrist barely thick enough to fill the cuff around it. The boy was seething, breathing hard like he’d sprinted a hundred-yard dash. He said nothing at the sight of Maureen, glancing at her before turning his eyes to a corner of the ceiling. He acted more like he was mad at her for taking so long to get to him than he looked happy or grateful she’d arrived.

“Mr. Greer tells me he’s an essential part of an ongoing police investigation,” Hardin said. “Any truth to this?”

“It’s not
entirely
false,” Maureen said.

“Perhaps he’s ready to come clean,” Hardin said.

Marques said nothing.

Hardin fished out his handcuff keys.

“Hang on,” Maureen said. “Let me have a few minutes with him in here.”

“Your call,” Hardin said. “But not too long. Wherever he goes next, he’s got to be out of here sooner rather than later. And make sure he understands he got there as a favor to you, not to him. He’s got nothing coming to him in the Eighth District.”

“Ten-four,” Maureen said.

Marques rattled his chains. “Seriously?”

Maureen turned to Hardin. “What’s the charge?”

“Curfew violation.”

“I was working,” Marques said. “We allowed to work at night. It’s in the law. This is racist bullshit.”

“You two have fun,” Hardin said. “Holler when you’re ready. Don’t take too long.”

He left the room, closing the door behind him. Maureen sat opposite Marques, who slumped in his chair, legs splayed under the table.

“For real, OC?” Marques said. “You the bad cop now?”

Maureen raised her hands. “What’s up with this? We talked about this. Low-profile, we said. This is not low-profile.”

Marques shrugged, continuing to pout. She hadn’t seen him in almost two months. He’d been busy growing, Maureen noticed, both his body and his hair. His body at an almost freakish rate. He’d grown several inches, put on at least a dozen pounds. Whatever Marques had been eating, she thought, Quinn needed to get the recipe for his son. She noticed that the beginnings of braids dotted his head. Long braids were the style on the street now. She saw a lot of them. Though Marques’s were in the sprout stages, Maureen didn’t like the look on him. Marques had already been in and out of both the Game and the System, as a reluctant soldier for a drug dealer named Bobby Scales, as a witness to a homicide, then as a target in a drive-by. Being a young black male made him a target of the NOPD, even at his tender age. His history made him a target of other young black men, especially any looking to make good with Scales, who remained on the loose. The braids on top of his precocious résumé sure wouldn’t help him avoid trouble.