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

The last place I was in before coming to the car, Maureen thought. After the man on Burgundy Street. “Where have you been?”

“Here. There. Around.”

“You’ve been hiding from me,” Maureen said.

“How can I be hiding from you,” Dice said, “when you aren’t even looking for me? You said a second ago that you’ve been looking for Madison.”

Maureen closed the car door. She stepped into the street to meet Dice. “Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?”

Dice pouted, toeing the asphalt. Maureen noticed the toe cap of her boot was wrapped in duct tape. “Nothing more for me? No ‘How are ya’ or ‘How ya been’ for me?”

Maureen rubbed her eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s late and I’m tired. Of course I was hoping to find you, too, along the way.”

“I’ll forgive you for a cigarette,” Dice said.

Maureen obliged. Other than Dice, Maureen wasn’t sure there was another person in New Orleans who had spent any time with Madison Leary and lived to tell about it. As Dice had told the story, they had lived together at a hostel for a few weeks, when Leary had first arrived in New Orleans and before she had run out of the powerful medication that kept her demons at bay. Paranoia, schizophrenia, and who knew what else. Maureen had tried recruiting Dice to help find Madison when she’d first become a person of interest in a murder case.

Soon after that, though, Madison had gone from person of interest to number one suspect. Then things had gone to shit for Maureen on the NOPD, and Dice and Madison had both disappeared into the New Orleans underground. For the past six weeks, Maureen’s conscience had been gnawed raw by the idea that she had gotten Dice killed for asking her to betray Leary.

Maybe she does know where Leary is, Maureen thought. Maybe she needs a way to tell me. “I thought maybe you’d moved on. The weather is turning, it’s cold living on the streets. I thought maybe you’d headed for Florida or California.”

Dice shrugged. She held her cigarette close to her mouth. On her hand was a fingerless black-and-white-striped glove. Tough picking pockets with gloves on, Maureen guessed. The things you learned staying out late in New Orleans, she thought.

“I considered it,” Dice said. “Remember Taylor? The boy who wore the blue eye shadow over one eye, the one who wanted to f*ck me so bad it oozed out of his pores? He begged me to come back with him to Orlando.”

Maureen shrugged. “He seemed nice. Florida’s okay. Warm. My mom and her boyfriend are thinking of retiring there.”

“The Empire of the Rat? Seriously?” Dice said.

“Not Orlando,” Maureen said. “But Florida.”

Dice waved away the idea, a disgusted look on her face. “No offense to your moms, but f*ck that.” She tossed her cigarette in the street. “I like it here. New Orleans grows on you. I hear the winter doesn’t last, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Maureen said. “This is my first one, too.”

“And really, it’s only a couple of months, which is really only a few weeks, when you think about it, until Mardi Gras gets here. That I want to see.”

I’m sure you do, Maureen thought. Tourist pockets to pick as far as the eye can see.

“Actually, it starts right after Christmas,” Dice said. “So it’s practically f*cking here already.”

Maureen could hear the hope in Dice’s voice. She knew it wasn’t for the holidays, or for Carnival. It was for the end of the cold, and for the chance to steal enough money to eat hot food, take a hot shower, and maybe to live indoors at a hostel or a flophouse until the Mardi Gras money ran out and she was back on the streets again. Many of the kids who Dice ran with had homes and parents to return to; it was an ill-kept secret on the streets. Maureen knew that Dice had neither of those things.

“She’s a murder suspect, you know,” Maureen said. “You withhold information and you’re committing a felony. And she’s dangerous. You know that as well as anybody.”

Dice cocked her head, studied Maureen out of one eye. “Are you even a cop anymore?”

“Of course I am,” Maureen said. “I’ve just been on kind of a hiatus for a while.”

Dice nodded, sagely. “Because of that cop you knew who died in the river.”

“Madison doesn’t have to talk to me,” Maureen said. “She can reach out to Detective Atkinson. She’s the one working those murder cases now. I know Atkinson. She’s the best there is. She’s good people.” She stretched out her empty hands. “You could talk to Atkinson.”

“You’ve told her everything I told you?” Dice said.

“Weeks ago.”

“Then what’s the point?” Dice said. She turned in a circle on her boot heel. “This Atkinson’s already heard what I have to say. Why does she need to hear it from me in person?”

“We could help you,” Maureen said. “Quid pro quo. You help us; we help you. Atkinson has a lot more juice than I do.”

Dice laughed out loud. “The police? The city? Help me? Help me do what?”

“Sure,” Maureen said. “There are diversion programs, shelters, halfway houses, all kinds of resources.”

“Diversion programs,” Dice mocked, making air quotes with her fingers. “Because I need my face jammed into some bull dyke’s muff in the middle of the night. Or some creepy old perv slipping his cold fingers down the back of my pants. No f*cking thanks.” She laughed again. “You’re terrible at this, Officer. You’re a terrible storyteller. You don’t believe a single word coming out of your own mouth.”