Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(68)

On her knees in the Walmart parking lot, Maureen wept, her mother’s voice in her ear, the sobs coming hard like kicks to the stomach.





24

Shortly after nine that night, Maureen stood outside the front gate of a two-story apartment building on Coliseum Street, across from Lafayette Cemetery.

Before lighting the cigarette between her lips, she offered the flame to the tall woman standing next to her. The woman, named Beatrice, was thin as a cocktail straw, her mahogany bob streaked with gray. She leaned down to the glow in Maureen’s cupped hands. Her long wool coat reached the tops of her tennis shoes. She wore heavy makeup, and her waxy lipstick left a crimson ring on the filter of her long white cigarette. She had wine on her breath.

She exhaled to the sky, asking Maureen, “Will it be much longer?”

“The detective is on her way,” Maureen said. “It’s been a long day.”

“Of course, of course,” Beatrice replied, looking away, resting her elbow in her palm as she held her cigarette close to her face. “I only meant, if there’s a better time…”

That afternoon Beatrice had called the Sixth District wanting to talk about something she’d seen the night before, something possibly related, she thought, to the murder in the cemetery. Her message had been lost in the chaos following the shootings, and had only been passed along to Maureen a couple of hours into her patrol shift. Beatrice, returning home after walking her dog, had been quite surprised to find Maureen waiting for her at the gate more than four hours after her original call. Maureen had conducted a brief preliminary interview, deciding the woman could have something useful to offer, and had called Atkinson to let her know they’d found a witness. They’d been waiting nearly half an hour.

Beatrice turned and looked up at her dog, a serene white shepherd mix watching from the metal staircase that led to the second-story. “A few more minutes, dear.” She looked at Maureen. “He always gets a treat after a walk. He’ll sit there and wait all night for it.”

“I know the feeling,” Maureen said. A white sedan turned the corner and headed their way down the potholed center of Coliseum Street. “Here she comes now.”

Atkinson parked close to them and climbed out of the car. She wore faded black cords that flared over her cowboy boots. Her broad shoulders stretched the limits of her bright red down jacket. Her huge hands were bare despite the cold. She carried her radio in her left hand and extended the other to Beatrice as she got closer. She offered Maureen a curt nod. “Officer.”

“Detective Sergeant,” Maureen said.

Atkinson shook with Beatrice. “I’m Detective Sergeant Christine Atkinson, Homicide.”

Beatrice released Atkinson’s hand. She glanced at Maureen then dropped her gaze. “Someone did die. There was talk in the neighborhood, I was hoping it was wrong.”

“She was alive when we found her,” Atkinson said. “Unfortunately, she’d lost so much blood from the murder wound, she died before we could get sufficient help. Really, though, the wound was so catastrophic, a terrible gash to the throat, I don’t know if there was any saving her no matter when she was found.”

Beatrice, who had turned pea-soup green, dropped her cigarette and grabbed the fence, steadying herself. Atkinson, thankfully, stopped talking. The dog trotted down the stairs and barked once at Atkinson. Then he wagged his tail while growling at her, as if simultaneously scolding, forgiving, and warning Atkinson for making his owner feel bad. Atkinson looked at Beatrice, trying and failing to raise a fake smile. “He’s a wonderful animal.”

She’s so much better with the dead, Maureen thought, than she is with the living. It’s the one hole in her game.

“The reason we found the victim when we did,” Atkinson said, “is because someone called the nonemergency number to report a dead person in the cemetery. Was that you?”

“No,” Beatrice said. “I didn’t call anyone until this afternoon.”

“Can you tell me,” Atkinson asked, “what you saw that caused you to call us today?”

“I have a studio downtown,” Beatrice said. “I’m a painter. I work odd hours, sometimes until dawn. I always take Cosmo out for a walk when I get home. Usually, he’s been alone a long time by then, and it helps me unwind. I like the Garden District best late at night. It’s rather mysterious and beautiful, especially when there’s a good heavy fog coming in off the river.”

“So you were coming out of the gate here,” Atkinson said, “when you saw? What?”

“As I told Officer Coughlin,” Beatrice said, “I was coming through my gate with Cosmo, around midnight, and I saw two people hopping the wall there by the entrance, climbing into the cemetery.”

“Two people?” Atkinson asked.

Beatrice turned, gesturing toward the cemetery gates. “I saw two people go over the wall. Maybe others went before them and they were the last two, but I saw two.”

“Why didn’t you call anyone last night?” Atkinson asked. “Neighborhood security? The police?”

Beatrice shook her head. “I didn’t think anything of it. I see people, kids mostly, sometimes tourists, climb over the wall constantly. It’s so short there.” She shrugged. “For mischief, to smoke some pot. For sex. For the creepy thrill of it. The tour guides are always going on about vampires in this neighborhood. There’s hardly trouble from it, not even vandalism, really. The neighbors know it happens. Nothing bad has ever come of it that I’d heard of. Until last night.”