Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(91)

“I didn’t get that impression,” Maureen said. “Though Detillier told me he was dispatching agents to watch the building. We don’t know exactly which apartment it is, but we know which building. He’s getting a warrant and a team to search the place in the morning. And of course, they’ll pick him up if he tries to get there, or if he’s in there and tries to leave.”

“Did you tell Detillier about Caleb Heath being at the apartment?”

“I did not.”

“Keep it that way,” Atkinson said. “As an extra precaution. I’m sure you asked him to let you in on the raid?”

“I did. He said he’d keep me in the loop.”

“Listen, I may need a favor from you,” Atkinson said. “As a professional courtesy, early tomorrow morning, Detillier should let me know that he’s found this apartment, since I have a murder victim with a history there. He should invite me over for a look around. If he doesn’t do that, I’m going to need you to let me know what’s happening so I can be there. I want a look at that apartment whether the FBI has their manners or not.”

“You got it,” Maureen said. “I’ll keep you posted on everything.”

“I have to ask,” Atkinson said. “How did you make this happen?”

Maureen tried to suppress the pride she knew would flood her voice. “We got to Shadow.”

“Really?” Atkinson said, astonished. “You have Shadow? You flipped Shadow?”

“I had Shadow,” Maureen said. “I had to do some dealing to get the information. So he’s back on the streets. But he walked away thinking that I now have whatever Quinn and Ruiz had over him, so I don’t know if he’s flipped, but he might be useful to us in the future. At least until he finds out I’m full of shit.”

Atkinson said nothing for so long that Maureen started getting nervous. Then the detective said, “That is good goddamn police work, Maureen. Well done. This is how good cops make a name for themselves, this right here is exactly it. Hell of a job, Officer. Preacher’s going to be real proud.” She paused. “I know I am.”

“Thank you,” Maureen said. She had decided only a year ago to be a cop, but Atkinson’s praise sounded like words she’d been waiting her whole life to hear. She didn’t know whether to jump up and down or burst into tears. “That means a lot. I’m just happy to help, on a day like today, especially.”

“You’re welcome,” Atkinson said. “Have you seen Preacher? I heard he came through surgery okay, that he’s doing pretty good.”

“He is,” Maureen said. “He’s in pain, and he’s rattled, but who wouldn’t be? I’ll probably stop by one more time before I head home, whenever that is. I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

“Anthony’s with him, I take it?”

Maureen stammered. Atkinson chuckled. “C’mon, Maureen. I thought you wanted to be a detective?”

“Some day,” Maureen said. “In the way, way distant future, apparently.”

“All right, I gotta go,” Atkinson said. “The music never stops. Don’t forget to keep me updated on the apartment. Keep up the good work.”

“Will do,” Maureen said. She ended the call.

She eased off the hood of the cruiser, her whole body humming with what Atkinson had said to her. She felt high. She knew that when she got back to work, when the car started rolling and the radio chatter started, the spell would be broken. She wasn’t ready to give it up just yet.

Instead of getting into the car, Maureen walked over to the abandoned house where she’d found Little E. She sat on the concrete steps. She tilted her head back and howled at the stars. A yard dog in the neighborhood answered. She rubbed her palms on her thighs, looked at her hands. What inside her, she wondered, had stayed her hand in the bar? She didn’t really care about Shadow’s welfare. She hadn’t cared about Bobby Scales’s at the river. That wasn’t why she’d tried to save him from Quinn. Complete exhaustion had done her in, then? Maybe. The fact that other cops were watching her? Could be. But they didn’t care about Shadow, either. They knew the stakes. They’d done things like she was doing. There was more to it than that.

She’d done a lot of damage over the past six weeks, she realized, to others, to herself, and the result of her efforts had been only the desire and the opportunity to do more and greater harm. She’d been here before, she realized, snared in this ugly cycle of using pain to justify pain. Like an alcoholic. Like a junkie. The snake eating its tail. In New York, she’d done it with married men and cocaine. Now, in New Orleans, it was pills and violence. Eventually, she knew, sometimes it took weeks, sometimes it took months, but eventually she came back to wielding her weapons at the same old target. Herself. She broke her own heart. She bloodied her own nose. Sabotaged herself. Over and over again. Too many ways. Too many times.

She thought, of all things, of what Solomon Heath had said about Leon Gage. People like that never get less angry.

What had Nat Waters said to her on the day they’d met? You have to protect yourself, Maureen, he’d said. Nobody else can do it for you.

She rested her elbows on her knees, folded her hands in front of her. She closed her eyes. There wasn’t a sound on the street. She took a deep breath and held it, listening for the grinding gears of the machine in her belly. She couldn’t hear it.