Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(50)

If you only knew, Maureen thought. “I’m trying to stay out of trouble, remember?”

Atkinson said nothing.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Maureen said. She hadn’t been able to find Dice on her own for the past few weeks, and it wasn’t like she’d suddenly get good at it.

“Tomorrow,” Atkinson said, “y’all will come back and canvass the blocks around the cemetery, right? Should you turn up a witness, if Dice could get us a description of the man asking questions, you see how that could help? Maybe the descriptions will match.”

“Detillier can give you a description of Gage,” Maureen said, “if that’s all you need. Look, Gage is meeting me at L’il Dizzy’s at one o’clock. You show up instead of me and arrest him. Easy.”

“I don’t think Agent Detillier would appreciate that plan.”

“Well, f*ck him. He put his plan in place before Leary turned up dead.”

“Look,” Atkinson said, “I don’t trust the guy, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in his case. He’s chasing guys out to kill cops, out to kill you. You want to get in the way of that?”

“Okay, I’ll talk to Gage,” Maureen said. “And after, I’ll call you, tell you what I’ve found out about him. I’ll let you fight it out with the FBI over him.” She looked away from Atkinson, stared back in the direction of where she’d found Leary. That corner of the cemetery glowed now, bright as an operating room. “I’m having lunch tomorrow with the guy who did that.”

“You do good police work tomorrow,” Atkinson said, “and if he did it, we get him for it. Maybe we get him and a bunch like him before they do worse. There’s always worse.”

“No pressure,” Maureen said. She turned back to Atkinson. “Any advice?”

“Go early,” Atkinson said. “Eat before he gets there. He sees you have no appetite you might make him nervous. He shouldn’t frighten you, or anger you. None of that. You’re not supposed to know anything about him. He’s a grieving father from LaPlace and you’re a courteous, helpful policewoman.”

“So we both show up full of shit and lie to each other. Sounds like a plan.”

“Wear your vest,” Atkinson said. “And keep one in the chamber.”





17

Li’l Dizzy’s was a small, busy café in the Tremé, famous for its fried-chicken-anchored lunch buffet. Preacher had turned her on to the place, taking her there a few times during her training days, the café being a central hub of New Orleans’s Creole power structure. On any given weekday afternoon, the café buzzed with cops, lawyers, judges, and city politicos on their way to or from the nearby courthouses and police headquarters. A lot of business, city and otherwise, Maureen was sure, got conducted at those lunch tables.

When Gage walked into the restaurant, half an hour late, Maureen knew him right away. Detillier had provided an accurate description. Looking at him, though, trying to get a first read on him as he crossed the room, Maureen realized that despite being told what Gage looked like, she had expected someone much different. She’d expected someone more backwoods, more swamp. She’d expected leathered skin, long hair, and a wild beard. She’d expected camouflage and Confederate flags. A cliché. Lazy, Officer Coughlin, very lazy. She thought of Atkinson. Stay open to the possibilities.

The man walking toward her was below average height, underfed, cubicle-pale. He kept his thinning brown hair trimmed short, wore a bushy brown mustache. A couple of days’ worth of stubble threaded with white whiskers shadowed his cheeks and throat. He wore a yellow shirt under a Carhartt jacket, brown trousers, and a hideous brown-and-gold-striped tie, discount store brown loafers with black socks. His clothes hung on him, Maureen noticed, like they would on a scarecrow. He appeared a man burdened by suffering. If he was faking his grief, she thought, he’d built a hell of a disguise.

“Detective Coughlin?” Gage asked, placing a hand on the back of the chair opposite Maureen, his scratchy voice barely audible above the din of the busy restaurant. He had the bright blue eyes of a different man, a handsome man, Maureen noticed, but not the chin or the cheekbones, and his lips were almost feminine.

Maureen rose, extending her hand across the table. “Officer Coughlin. You can call me Maureen.”

Gage hesitated a moment, as if he hadn’t shaken a hand in so long he had to remember how. But then he reached for Maureen’s hand. He had a solid grip. “Leon Gage. Thanks for meeting me.”

The waitress appeared at the table, a slip of a black girl in jeans and a Dizzy’s T-shirt, apron tied around her waist, her hair pulled back, nineteen at the most. She’d brought the coffeepot, refilled Maureen’s mug without asking. “Something for you?” she asked Gage. Again he looked confused. He looked at Maureen.

“I ate,” she said. “But, please, take advantage of the buffet. You’ll be glad you did. They’ll be putting it up soon.”

“No, no, thank you,” Gage said. “I ate earlier. A sweet tea, maybe?”

“Maybe or yes?” the waitress asked.

To Maureen’s surprise, Gage smiled. He moved one degree closer to handsome when he did so. “Yes, thank you.”

Neither spoke until the waitress delivered Gage’s tea.