Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(12)
“I don’t have specifics on that,” Preacher said. “But as near as I can figure, while Atkinson is lead on the murder, you’ve had more direct contact with the players.” Preacher ticked off Maureen’s connections to the case on his fingers. “You pulled over the truck with Gage and Leary in it. You took her to jail. You worked the Gage murder scene. Before that, you discovered the Nazi guy’s body, the first victim, what was his name, Cooley.” He raised his hands as if to fend off blame for the FBI’s choices. “Anyways, looks like as far as the FBI’s concerned, you, Coughlin, are the resident NOPD authority on these psycho patriot derelicts.”
Maureen sat up straight on the bench. Livid, she didn’t know which way to look. “Man, f*ck the FBI. Those terrorist motherf*ckers in the Watchmen are already pointed in my direction. With guns blazing. Where was the FBI when these guys were stashing guns all over Central City? Where were they when these guys used their guns to try and kill me? They gotta be kidding me. Papa Gage is their problem. I don’t get paid enough for this shit. I’m doing federal work, I want federal pay, and federal benefits.”
She stood, her legs feeling thick and heavy. She needed to get moving again. She shook her head, turning to Preacher. “The feds knew I’d react like this, didn’t they? They knew I wouldn’t like this idea. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“You got it wrong,” Preacher said. “You’re way ahead of yourself, as usual.” He threw a glance at the little girl’s parents, who had started eavesdropping. “And lower your voice.”
“They sent you out here to soften me up to the idea.” Her tone was derisive. She should’ve known, Maureen thought. She should’ve known there’d be more dues to pay, even after her suspension ended, to get out from under what had happened with Quinn a month and a half ago. She and Preacher, they were the only ones left around and they’d never stop paying. But, wow, she thought, Preacher tasked with the FBI’s foreplay? It stung that he would go along. That he would deceive her on their behalf.
“Look at you,” she said, giving him the up-and-down now, “a f*cking butter man for the federales. Who’d a thunk it?”
Preacher rubbed his palms on his wide thighs. Maureen knew as soon as the last words left her mouth that she’d overstepped, even for her. She thought for a moment he might get up and walk away without another word to her. She took a deep breath. She forced herself to forget they were talking in the park, wearing their civilian clothes. Preacher was her direct superior. She had to stop abusing his patience.
“That’s not the case,” he said. “I’m not applying grease on anybody’s behalf. This comes on the QT from my sources in the department. Our department. Like maybe somebody in Homicide, a tall blond Detective Somebody who you already owe a world of favors, is tipping me some info. I’m not supposed to know this shit, and you sure as hell aren’t supposed to know it. We’re not even supposed to be talking, remember? But here I am anyway, like I’ve been the past six weeks. I’m here for you, Coughlin. For your sake. Not for anyone else’s. You should do this favor for the FBI. It could be good for you. It could be good for the department, which you owe a few favors. Most important, lest you forget the point of what we do, helping the FBI might help us catch some bad guys. Serious bad guys out to hurt cops. Learn how to accept a favor.”
Maureen felt a hot wave of shame. She raised her hands, puffed out her cheeks. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
Preacher had protected her from the moment she had climbed into the police cruiser as his trainee. He had protected her from the bad guys, from bad cops, from herself. And not just her. He watched over everyone in the Sixth District. Here was the one guy in New Orleans she could trust, and she was shit-talking to his face. She’d stop, right then.
Tomorrow, she thought, she would be a real cop again. No more pretending, no more running the streets in an oversized sweatshirt, hiding her face. She should feel nothing but relief. Instead, though, she felt the oily stain of compromise.
Do us one more favor, the men in charge said. It’s right here in my hand, what you want. All I have to do is slide it across the table. Shake that ass for tips one more time. Then we’ll stop asking. Except they never did. Not today. Not tomorrow. She thought of her plans for later that night. She could let them go. She could stay home. Tomorrow, she would be a cop again. Right, she thought. Tomorrow. Which meant not tonight. Tonight she remained whatever it was she had become, what she had made herself into, over the past six weeks. She’d refused to put a name on it. If she named that other self, she thought, it might stay.
One more night, she thought. One more time. On my terms.
Because you’ve never told yourself those words before. Not ever. Not a million times.
“Tell me one thing,” Maureen said. “Tell me they’re not making me a rat. Promise me that they’re not gonna sell me to the DOJ when they’re done with me. Tell me that’s not the price tag. That Justice wants someone of their own undercover in the department. Someone easy to use, who they can hurt. Did they come to me because they don’t have the nerve to ask this of Atkinson? Because she’s clean. Because they got nothing on her.”
“I’ve heard nothing,” Preacher said, “about the Department of Justice. Or about this being some kind of permanent snitching gig for the feds. It should be the one favor.”