Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(21)

She struggled to stand up straight, her stomach muscles sore and cramping from the morning’s efforts. At the sink, she blew her nose, brushed her teeth again, and rinsed her mouth with cold water and mouthwash. She rinsed her eyes with Visine, blinking at the bathroom ceiling as the saline ran down her cheeks. She checked her nails one more time. Her fingers were raw from the scrubbing she’d given them, but no blood remained, no dirt. Relax, Lady Macbeth, she thought. That was the beauty of the ASP. Using the weapon saved her hands. Sticking to body shots minimized the blood. Externally, anyway, which was Maureen’s main concern.

In front of the mirror, leaning over the sink for a closer look, she touched on modest makeup, mostly around the eyes. She let her hair down, brushed it.

Returning to the bedroom, she dressed again.

She searched the jewelry box on top of her dresser for her favorite earrings, a pair of sterling silver fleurs-de-lis. She should show loyalty to the cause. They were a gift she’d given herself on her thirtieth birthday. For twenty-nine she’d gotten a nose ring. Her nose had gotten infected and she’d hardly worn it. A dumb idea, anyway. She checked her nostril in the mirror, touched the side of it with her fingertip. The tiny hole was gone. As if it had never been there. As if she had never made that bad decision. She touched the space under her nose, the indentation in her top lip. She thought of Dice, who had a stud punched through her own top lip, right there in the middle.

She tossed the earrings back in the jewelry box. Whatever. Fuck it, she thought. She’s not my problem. I’m not a goddamn social worker. She slammed the box closed.

She realized, taking one final look in the mirror, that she had picked out, with the exception of having switched out a blue top for white, the same outfit she’d worn to her hearings with the Public Integrity Bureau. That wasn’t bad luck, right? No. It was good luck, she thought. She’d survived and was on her way to get her job back. Things had worked out for her.

She had a horrible thought.

Things had worked out provided the DC wasn’t putting her on a desk in the motor pool or the evidence room. What if that’s what waited for her after this favor for the feds?

She put her hand over her eyes, as if hiding from the sight of her foolish self in the mirror. Oh God, she hadn’t considered that option until that very moment. Her stomach dropped through the floor. The brass and administrators knew how badly she wanted to stay in New Orleans. She hadn’t exactly kept it a secret. They knew she wanted to buy the house she was renting. That she had bills in the present and plans for her future.

For the first time in her life, she had plans beyond surviving the next shift. She needed her paycheck. She needed her benefits. Why? Why had she let them see, let them know what she wanted, what she hoped for? They’d use it against her. Especially if she bungled this thing with the FBI. Then the brass would really screw her. Royally.

Calm down, she told herself. Preacher would know if the DC planned on backstabbing her. He would have warned her. He wouldn’t let her get her hopes up if he knew she was getting shafted. Preacher wouldn’t let her go blind and unaware to her own demise. She had faith in that, in him.

She checked her phone. Twenty minutes to get to the DC’s office. These questions, she’d have answers to them soon enough.





8

Maureen arrived at DC Skinner’s office with three minutes to spare. He came out into the lobby, met her with a smile and a handshake. Skinner told her he was sorry but she’d have to wait another fifteen minutes or so. She didn’t care. She’d survived six weeks in exile. She could wait another fifteen minutes. Hell, she could wait twenty. He made her wait twenty-five. She did the last minutes of her penance with a smile on her face. She drank three cups of ice-cold water from the cooler. She practiced her deep breathing.

She was checking her hands one more time when Skinner opened the door. He smiled at her, beckoned her into his office. Maureen brushed her hair off her shoulders and followed him in. As she entered and eased closed the door, Skinner returned to his seat behind his desk.

Deep breaths, she told herself. A steady voice and eye contact. Show him, she thought. Prove to this man that he can trust you.

Skinner’s office reminded Maureen of what she imagined a small-town politician’s might look like. Big desk. Shelves heavy with books that had probably never been read. Framed awards and photos on the wall. A clean window with dusty blinds overlooking the police parking lot and Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. Local politician, she supposed, was part of the district commander’s job. Skinner looked the part. He was a tall, amiable, white-haired white guy with red cheeks and a jowly neck spotted red with shaving nicks. Bright, bright blue eyes.

“Have a seat, Coughlin,” he said, his voice scratchy, as if maybe he’d had a few too many drinks himself the night before. Maureen noticed the office, or more likely the man, carried a whiff of expensive cigars. Definitely better quality than the shit Preacher smoked. “Certainly no need to drag this out any longer than we have to.”

Maureen sat in the office chair before his desk. She crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap. She uncrossed her legs, settled her arms on the arms of the chair. She had to pee. She cursed herself for the agitated fidgeting. She hated herself for wearing her hair down, for playing at being a girl. Skinner moved papers around on his desk. She’d been so much calmer following a strange man down a dark street. A man, she thought, who didn’t know she was there, who wasn’t looking right at her. A man with no power over her.