Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(3)

And she’d left him, the man she’d followed out of d.b.a., crumpled on a curb on Burgundy Street, on the other side of the neighborhood from where she was now, but not far from the front stoop of the woman he’d followed. She’d left him weeping hot tears onto his bloody cheeks, bleeding from the mouth, and clutching his broken wrist to his chest.

But she’d left him hours ago. She should’ve gone right home after that. The interlude had left her spent. Now here she was, too drunk to drive and too tired to deal with a cab.

Instead of going home like she should have, she had restarted that night’s intended mission. Hustling away from Burgundy Street, Maureen had worked her way deeper into the Marigny neighborhood, toward the Bywater, asking again at the neighborhood bars and corner stores if anyone had seen Madison Leary. Of course, same as always, no one had. This search had been going on for a month.

Maureen was asking the same questions of the same people in the same places every week. It was bad police work, and she knew it. Because now these people she pestered for information that they had already told her they didn’t have were starting to ask her questions. When they did, she dodged. She copped an attitude. Or she tried to charm. No matter what tack she took, she tried to hide her face as best she could. She kept her hood up. She looked at the ground. Anything not to be memorable.

She couldn’t tell the people she talked to that she was a cop. She definitely couldn’t have them figuring it out for themselves. If anyone IDed her and called the NOPD to complain, she’d be sunk. She’d never get her badge back then. She was supposed to be staying at home this month. Behaving. Waiting. Being a good girl.

Conducting her investigation while half-drunk and totally disheveled made for good-enough cover, Maureen hoped. Her wardrobe helped her blend in with the neighborhood. She hoped to come across more like a desperate ex than law enforcement. She figured she hadn’t been a cop long enough to emanate the vibe of a narc. While she hadn’t scored the information she wanted, she hadn’t gotten caught looking for it. And she hadn’t gotten caught doing anything else she shouldn’t be doing, either. But that night, she’d done something she’d never done before. Because she had gone out asking questions after dealing with the man, she had left witnesses to the fact that she was in the same neighborhood at the same time as one of her men.

And somebody had called for help for the rotten bastard. Maureen had seen the emergency lights of the cops and the ambulance flashing down Burgundy Street. Which meant there was a police record now of his beat-down.

Avoiding someone calling an ambulance, though, would’ve required hurting him less. But less pain and less injury left less of a lasting impression. She had the silver-haired man to thank for teaching her that.

So, so wise of you, Maureen. Every step of the way. You’re letting him burn you down, she thought, from beyond the grave. After everything you did to get away from him.

How stupid can you be?

“Excuse me, Officer.”

Maureen opened her eyes. Had she really heard that? Had she fallen asleep and dreamed it? That voice, she thought, feeling herself grinning, is in your head.

“Officer?”

It took Maureen a moment to recall that she wasn’t in uniform. So was someone she knew approaching? She took a deep breath, willing herself attentive. Shit. Maybe someone she’d hassled in the neighborhood had figured her out. She checked her sweatshirt pocket for the ASP.

She put up her hood and climbed out of the car. Her legs were leaden. Her butt had fallen asleep. She slipped her hand into her sweatshirt pocket and gripped the ASP.

Blinking, she watched a short, slight figure approach out of the darkness, walking, no, not walking, more like sauntering, right down the middle of the street. Puffs of breath rose into the air around the figure’s head. The night was so quiet Maureen could hear a metallic tinkling with every step the figure took, like the sound of spurs.

“I hear you’re looking for me,” the figure said.

Not spurs, Maureen thought. Metal buckles. Undone metal buckles running up the front of a pair of tattered, knee-high leather boots.

“Dice,” Maureen said. “Not you, exactly. I’ve been looking for Leary.”

Dice was a street kid, a skinny girl around twenty years old. Silver piercings adorned her nose and lips. An elaborate tattoo of Smaug the dragon wrapped around her shaved head. She and the other young homeless in New Orleans called themselves “travelers.” Cops, shop owners, bar owners, and anyone else who didn’t like them called them “gutter punks.” Dice was a panhandler, a pickpocket, and a petty thief, depending on her needs. And she was also a heroin addict who, the last time Maureen had seen her, had managed to string together a decent amount of clean time through force of will alone. She often toted around a beat-up banjo that she plucked at for tips on street corners while sitting on an overturned pickle bucket. At least that was the theory. Maureen had never seen her do more than attempt to tune the thing.

Tonight, as Dice got closer, Maureen couldn’t see the dragon. Against the cold, Dice wore a black knit watch cap, low over her eyes. The rest of her was wrapped up in a bulky wool herringbone coat many sizes too large. The coat fell below her knees. She looked to Maureen like a child in her father’s overcoat. She didn’t have her banjo, either.

“You’ve been following me,” Maureen said.

“Only since you left the Spotted Cat,” Dice said, grinning.