Let the Devil Out (20 page)

“Fair point,” Atkinson said. “But think about this. True, from what we know of her, Leary lived downtown, but the killing she did, at least the ones that we know about, she did uptown. Cooley was killed in Central City. And then Gage was killed, what, a mile and a half from here? So she stole in the Quarter, lived in the Bywater and the Marigny, but she did her murder up here. It's pretty consistent to find her here when you think about it.”

“Except for the fact that this time she was her own victim.”

Atkinson shook her head. “Nope.”

“What is it, then?”

Atkinson raised her hand and touched her cold fingertip to the artery in Maureen's throat. “That right there? With a blade like Leary carried? That's a flick of the wrist. Less effort than it takes to toss a bottle cap across the room. The wound she had? It's vicious. That's a murder wound if I ever saw one.”

Maureen touched her throat, put her finger where Atkinson's had been. She could feel her pulse throbbing underneath her skin, still warm where Atkinson had touched it. The detective was right, of course. Seemed obvious now. No matter how much she hated herself, no matter how crazy she was, Leary couldn't cut herself deep and wide like that, couldn't open herself up like that without flinching, without collapsing or dropping the razor.

“So who killed her?”

“That question, Officer Coughlin, is why I get out of bed every afternoon.” Atkinson tilted her head back and touched her own jugular. “This. I keep coming back to this. Had to be someone who knew her. Someone who knew how she worked. Someone whose purpose would be served by killing her just this way, the way she killed the others.”

“Revenge,” Maureen said.

“Who's in town raising hell over his dead son?” Atkinson asked.

Maureen thought again of Dice, of her warnings. She'd have to be careful about what she told Atkinson. But she did have to tell. “Listen, I saw Dice the other night. I was downtown, on Frenchmen, for a show. She appeared out of nowhere, must have followed me to my car.”

“I should've heard about this sooner.”

“I was suspended,” Maureen says. “I wasn't supposed to talk to anyone on the job.”

Atkinson frowned at her. “You pick that night to follow the rules.”

“Okay, you're right, I could've made it work,” Maureen said. “Anyway, I'm telling you now. She told me there were rumors in the streets about someone looking for Leary. Somebody had been working the downtown neighborhoods at night, asking questions about her to the street kids. A man. Dice thought he might be NOPD.”

“She give you a description?”

“She hadn't seen the man herself,” Maureen said. “She'd just heard that he was looking.”

“I thought she was your snitch,” Atkinson said. “She didn't bring you anything else?”

“I wouldn't go that far. She's not my snitch.”

“What does this person want with Leary?” Atkinson asked.

“Dice didn't say. She didn't know. She just asked me to back off.”

Atkinson raised her eyebrows. “Why would she ask you that?”

“You know what I mean,” Maureen said, recovering. “She asked me to maybe get this other cop to back off. She seemed concerned for Leary's safety. Like maybe the search was more personal than professional.”

Atkinson walked over to a marble bench in front of one of the larger tombs. She sat, leaned her elbows on her knees. That marble has to be ice cold, Maureen thought.

“You think Gage did this?” she asked. “You think he knows Leary killed his son?”

“I'm assuming he knows how his son died,” Atkinson said. “What kind of wound he suffered. If she has a history, he might recognize the method. I don't know who she is to him. I don't know what he knows about her, or even about his son.”

“Revenge would explain why he's in New Orleans,” Maureen said. “Revenge and to shut Leary up if he's involved with the Watchmen himself. He had to figure she'd fall into our hands eventually, by way of a shelter, jail, or the emergency room. There weren't really any other options for her. Asking about the death of his son would be good cover for being in the city.” She paused. “But then why tell the cops you're here in the first place if you're in town to commit a murder? Why not do the deed and slip back out of town?”

“Unless he figures there's no way for him to hide being in New Orleans,” Atkinson said. “Like, say for example, he knows the feds are interested in him.”

“Fuck me,” Maureen said. “Detillier told me the FBI was in the dark on this guy. That's why I'm meeting him tomorrow.”

“Detillier told you that?” Atkinson asked. “That they'd never heard of Leon Gage before he came to New Orleans?”

“Not that exactly,” Maureen said. “He made it sound like Clayton was the one they were interested in, that Leon had just popped up because of Clayton's death.”

Atkinson raised her shoulders, turned up her empty palms. “Making one thing sound like another. Sure sounds like the feds to me.”

“That motherfucker.”

“Don't feel bad,” Atkinson said. “That's how they do. I think sometimes it's unconscious. He might not even know he was playing you.” She stood. “And maybe I'm completely wrong about Detillier. Maybe Gage is here for the reasons he gave and didn't think he'd find her and he took advantage of an opportunity. Maybe she set it up, the meeting in the cemetery, like she did the other two killings, maybe
that's
what really brought Gage to New Orleans, and it just went wrong for her.”

“You believe all that?” Maureen asked.

“I have to be open to every possibility,” Atkinson said.

“But do you believe any of what you said?”

“About as much as I believe Leary's death was a suicide.” Atkinson shivered and zippered her coat. Finally, Maureen thought, the cold is getting to her. She's human. Atkinson said, “Can you find that girl again? Dice. I want to talk to her. She's the only person we know in the city who knows a thing about Leary.”

“I didn't find her,” Maureen said. “She found me.”

“I know you've tried to help Dice,” Atkinson said. “To build trust, a rapport. That's good police work. If you can produce her, I don't have to send other cops who don't know her like you do looking for her. If you can find her, things'll go easier for her.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is what it is,” Atkinson said. “It's not news that the Eighth District and the gutter punks are not real collegial with each other.”

“It's not my district. Won't I be stepping on toes?”

“Since when has that stopped you?”

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, fuck 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.

“I take it you know why I'm here,” Gage said.

“You have questions,” Maureen said, “about the death of your son.”

“I do, I do,” Gage said. He reached into his bag. He pulled out a digital recorder, set it in the middle of the table.

Maureen eyed the recorder. Gage had turned it on. She covered it with her hand, pushed the device across the table. “We won't be recording this conversation, Mr. Gage. You can put this away.”

“Many people would consider your refusal to go on the record as an admission of something to hide,” Gage said. “If our roles were reversed, you would use it against me, as cause for suspicion.”

“Consider it anything you like,” Maureen said. “I'm willing to discuss whatever it is that troubles you about what happened to your son. But we won't be recording anything.”

Gage raised his eyebrows. “You've already told me so much. Thank you.”

He returned the device to his bag. Maureen wasn't sure he'd turned it off.

“You wouldn't believe what it's like trying to have a simple conversation in this city,” Gage continued. “The police, the coroner's office. Or maybe you would. Doing what you do.”

He set his elbows on the table, leaned a bit forward. “And I'm not uncomfortable with the word
murder
. Because that's what it was. Murder. I am not a fearful man. Fear is how we lose our truth, by obscuring things from the very beginning of the story. Hiding the truth for the sake of people's
feelings
, or for correctness, or to pass along responsibility for it. My son didn't die. He didn't have a stroke. He didn't drown. He didn't fall down a flight of stairs. He was
killed
. On purpose. As a choice someone made. That difference in wording, that specificity, acknowledges that someone, a free individual, bears responsibility for him being dead.” He paused. “I want that acknowledgment made and sustained.”

“Consider it so acknowledged,” Maureen said, resenting being made to feel like she was on the witness stand. If any one person bore prime responsibility for Clayton Gage's death, she figured, it was Clayton Gage. He'd made choices of his own. She figured withholding that opinion from his father was best.