Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(69)

“And these two people,” Atkinson asked. “What did they look like?”

“One was a woman. Thin, long hair. Baggy clothes but definitely a woman. She climbed over second. Her friend stood atop the wall and helped her over. A boy, it looked like, if I had to guess. A young man, maybe. I couldn’t see his face. He was short, slender, wearing a long coat with the collar turned up. He seemed to have short hair.”

“Would you know the male,” Atkinson asked, “if you saw him again?”

“That might be difficult,” Beatrice said. “I didn’t see his face, the woman’s, either.” She slid another cigarette from her pack. Cosmo let loose a short howl. “I swear he knows these mean we’re staying outside.”

Maureen offered her lighter again and Beatrice lit up. She said, “Do you think the boy was the one who killed her?”

“That’s where we’ll start things,” Atkinson said. “Did you hear voices? Did either of them seem frightened or angry? Like maybe they didn’t want to go over the wall.”

“They didn’t speak that I could hear,” Beatrice said. “Although, once they were over the wall, the woman started singing.”

“Definitely a woman?” Atkinson asked.

“Absolutely,” Beatrice said, nodding, proud of her certainty. “More than anything, that voice told me one of them was female. I was walking away with Cosmo by then, and I don’t remember the song, none of the words or anything. But I stopped to listen, just for a few seconds.” She pressed one hand to her heart, her eyes getting wet. “He cut her throat? Excuse me.” She coughed into her fist. “The woman had the most extraordinary voice. Mesmerizing. It’s such a shame. Such a terrible shame. Horrible.”

“It is,” Maureen said.

“Do you think you’ll catch the man who killed her?”

“I like our chances,” Atkinson said. “Thank you for calling us. You’ve been very helpful.”

Beatrice seemed startled the interview was over. Maureen could tell her mind was lingering on the singing she’d heard coming over the cemetery walls. “All right, then. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more. Officer Coughlin has my information if you need to speak with me again. I keep my phone off when I’m at the studio—I can’t be disturbed while I’m working—but, as I said, I keep odd hours, so call anytime.”

Atkinson handed Beatrice a business card. “Same goes for you. You remember anything else, if you see that man again, please call me. Day or night.”

“Of course,” Beatrice said. She pulled open her gate. “Well then, good night, ladies. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Atkinson said. She waved at the dog. “Good night, Cosmo.” He growled at her before trotting up the stairs to wait for his owner at their apartment door, his tail wagging.

“Oh, Beatrice,” Maureen called, “I forgot one thing. Please tell the detective about the object.”

“The object?” Atkinson asked. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m so sorry, of course,” Beatrice said. “Before she climbed the wall, the woman passed something up to the boy, for him to hold so she could climb. I saw him bend down and take it from her.”

“Any thoughts on what it was?” Atkinson asked.

“I couldn’t really see it,” Beatrice said, “but there was this musical tinkling. I swear it sounded like wind chimes. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. People often leave gifts for the dead in there. Helps with the guilt of going on living, I suppose.”





25

Three hours later, Maureen sat in her patrol car, chain-smoking.

She was parked under a big magnolia tree and between two streetlights, having positioned the car in a convenient pool of shadow. Her location, unknown to her fellow cops, put her not far from Audubon Park and not anywhere near where she was supposed to be at that hour. In addition to the cruiser’s engine, Maureen had turned off the lights and the radio. She needed to concentrate. An hour ago, word had gone out that Preacher had survived his surgery. He had been moved into recovery. He certainly wasn’t well, but he wasn’t dying. Wasn’t close to it. Earlier reports, Maureen had learned, had exaggerated the direness of his condition. With the news about Preacher, the emotional scaffolding inside her had collapsed, leaving her physically wobbly and mentally zombified.

To resharpen her focus, she’d rolled down the car window, inviting in the damp nighttime chill. She turned her face to the wet cold, breathing it deep into her lungs. Between drags on her cigarette she blew into her cupped hands. Running the engine so she could use the heater tempted her, but the steady warmth would put her right to sleep. She needed to be cold. Also, she needed to remain inconspicuous. Better if no one saw her sitting there. She wasn’t on a street, or in a neighborhood, that the common street cop often visited, not without an invitation.

This particular short, narrow, smoothly paved dead-end street existed to access the two enormous homes on it. Homes that faced the park. One of them, the brick behemoth in Maureen’s rearview, belonged to a retired federal prosecutor. The other home, the one she watched, was the regal antebellum mansion belonging to Solomon Heath.

The house was dark, and had been since Maureen had arrived. If Heath was home, he either slept or was sequestered deep inside the house. A lone gas lamp burned beside the back door, the reflected flame igniting glowing crystals in the door’s cut-glass window. That was the same door Solomon had made Maureen use the night she’d met him, when she’d worked a security detail at this very house. That was the night he’d bribed her, or had tried to, depending on how she interpreted things. She’d done nothing for the man, but she’d kept his money.