Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(41)

She waited for his response and watched as a man wrapped one of the yelling girls, the one with the wet top, in a bear hug from behind. He lifted her off the sidewalk and walked her away from the crowd. She did not like it, and threw her drink in his face, over her shoulder. The other girl stormed away up Magazine Street, stopping and turning once to point her finger and yell something about “acting the ho.”

Maureen, thankful she’d been spared getting involved, closed her eyes and imagined a hot bath. She thought about how a pill and a whiskey would make that bath even better.

“He’s not going to like that place,” Detillier said.

Exactly, she thought. “Hey, guess what, it’s not a freakin’ date. I like that place. I feel safe there. And I don’t know this guy from Adam. If I get shot at again, I don’t wanna be the only gun in the room. That’s my offer.”

“If we thought your life was in danger,” Detillier said, “we wouldn’t set it up like this. We wouldn’t even ask.”

Lies, Maureen thought. She didn’t hold it against him. Everyone had to play the part they were given. “My life is always in danger until we chase the Watchmen out of New Orleans.” She switched her phone to the other ear. “Listen, Dizzy’s is a good place to meet him. Strategic. It’s not far from HQ. He won’t feel like we’re trying to lead him somewhere. Maybe instead he feels special, like we’re sharing our turf with him. The café closes at two, so there’ll be a natural end to things if I have trouble getting rid of him.”

“Fair points,” Detillier said after a moment. “Dizzy’s it is.”

“Thank you,” Maureen said. “Any tips?”

“I think you know what you’re doing,” Detillier said, a laugh in his voice. “Let him talk as much as he wants. Let his thoughts wander. Wait until after he’s left to make any notes. I guess the one rule is this, do not let him know the FBI is interested in him. You are a local cop doing a grieving father a favor and that is the extent of it.”

“And I’ll hear from you when?” Maureen asked.

“I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” Detillier said. “But if you need to get with me before you hear from me, don’t hesitate to call. Thanks for doing this, Maureen.”

“You’re welcome,” Maureen said. “I expect Uncle Sam will pick up the tab for lunch.”

“Save your receipt,” Detillier said. “I’ll see what I can do.” He hung up.

Maureen slipped her phone back in her pocket. Behind her, Preacher got out of the cruiser. He came around to the front, handed Maureen her jacket.

“Atkinson?” he asked. “I’m sure someone has told her by now you’re back on the job.”

“Detillier,” Maureen said. “We set up the meeting with Gage. Dizzy’s at one.”

“Good choice.”

Maureen put her jacket on, zipped it. She blew into her hands. The temperature was plummeting, and the night air was turning damp. The moisture in the air blurred the streetlights overhead and the colored lights of the Caribbean restaurant across the street.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Preacher said. “You have to know there’s no traction going right at the Heaths, not unless Caleb himself starts spraying bullets at cop cars on Canal Street. I’m not one to stick up for the FBI, but Detillier is being smart. He’s not being lazy.”

“Everyone says Solomon’s such a stand-up guy,” Maureen said. “I think we should give him a chance to prove it. He’s got Caleb by the purse strings. I don’t care if he’s in Dubai, Detroit, or DeRidder. If Caleb’s daddy wanted him here, he’d be here.” She stabbed her finger into the hood of the car. “Tomorrow. Make everyone’s life a lot easier.”

“Not happening,” Preacher said. Maureen felt him looking hard at the side of her face. “It’s not happening. No one is talking to Solomon Heath, not in uniform, especially not even if someone runs into him accidentally jogging through Audubon Park. Were that to threaten to occur”—he made a running figure with his fingers—“that running person would run her skinny little ass right on by. We understand each other?”

Maureen saluted. “Ten-four, Sarge. I hear you. I’m fresh out of the doghouse, I’m not looking to get back in.”

Preacher settled his rump against the hood of the car. Maureen felt the cruiser dip under his weight. “Besides, someone in New Orleans is killing the Watchmen, and we can’t catch whoever it is. Even if Solomon agrees that his kid is a criminal, he’ll never bring him back here while the killer’s at large.”

He bummed a cigarette from her. “I’m trying to cut back on the cigars. Shit’ll kill you.” He lit up. “So you haven’t heard from Atkinson since you got reinstated?”

“No, I haven’t,” Maureen said.

“I thought maybe with you getting your badge back, she’d reach out.”

“I thought she might call, too. You know, maybe, now that I’ve been officially forgiven. I thought maybe that was what she was waiting for. We haven’t talked since I got back to town.”

“Aw, give it time,” Preacher said. “She’s Homicide. They keep their own clock. And it’s not like there was a department-wide memo that you’re back. Maybe she hasn’t heard. Your reinstatement is supposed to be quiet.”