Doing the Devil's Work (20 page)

“Trying to be useful to him will be tempting,” Preacher said, “but it won’t help you. Don’t worry about me, or Quinn, or anyone else. We can take care of ourselves. If we have to, if it comes to that, we can talk to him another time. Off the record, so to speak. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Preacher stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Now, go talk to the man before he comes looking for you by looking for me and finds us commiserating. He’s waiting upstairs in the break room. Anything he wants to know…”

“Only that and nothing more.”

“You said it, not me. You can do this, Coughlin. I believe.”

15

Maureen opened the break room door to find Drayton waiting for her. He stood in the far corner of the room, his hands folded over his stomach, one knee bent, his heel propped on the pale green wall behind him, directing his most smoldering stare across the room at her. On the table in the center of the room, beside a pile of newspapers, take-out menus, and district memos sat Drayton’s BlackBerry and a half-empty cup of coffee. One chair was pushed away from the table at an angle. Maureen knew that Drayton had been sitting at the table, probably texting, until he heard her coming, at which point he’d gotten up to strike what she was sure he believed was an intimidating pose. She shut the door behind her without acknowledging him. She rinsed a coffee mug in the sink and poured a cup from the pot on the counter. It wasn’t that he was such an actor, she thought, ripping open one sugar packet after another, it was that he so sucked at it. Hadn’t any of his male coworkers taken him aside and clued him in? More proof, she thought, sipping the hot coffee, that not only female cops disliked him.

Stirring her coffee, she thought of Quinn and Ruiz maybe making moves behind her back. Preacher said he had faith in her. Waters did, too. Christine Atkinson had everything she wanted, at least professionally, and seemed eager to teach her, but Maureen often worried she was headed more Drayton’s way, toward being the one nobody liked. She worried she’d gotten into the club and now was blowing it. That she’d be the one others mocked and kept in the dark, smirking and rolling their eyes and talking behind their hands when she arrived on the scene, like the men on Magnolia Street had. She didn’t think her coworkers saw her that way, but Drayton didn’t think it, either.

She leaned against the counter, cupping her hot coffee in both hands. Here’s your chance then, she thought, to prove yourself a team player. “Detective, you wanted to see me?”

Drayton dropped his propped foot hard to the floor and sauntered over to the table. “What happens in this room stays in this room. It stays between us.”

Maureen didn’t answer. Drayton didn’t seem to care. He reached into his suit jacket, producing something from the inside pocket. A rolled-up plastic bag. An evidence bag. Her heart stopped. The Post-it from Gage’s wallet, she thought. Quinn had turned it in, putting her on the spot for not mentioning it to Drayton when she’d briefed him about Gage.

“Can you explain this?” he asked.

Maureen looked closer at the bag, resisting the urge to reach for it. She didn’t see the yellow paper in it. “Explain the fact that you’ve got what appears to be an empty evidence bag in your hand? Or the fact that we’re standing here?”

Drayton wiggled the bag at her. “You’ve got a reputation, you know. A hard-charger. A go-getter. You’re a girl in a hurry.”

“You’ve been reading my third-grade report card,” Maureen said.

She could tell Drayton wasn’t amused. A voice in the back of her head scolded that this behavior was exactly
not
what Preacher had instructed. But the way Drayton said that word:
girl
. It sounded in her ears like
child
. She inhaled the steam from her coffee, hoping the warmth and the scent would soothe and level her. Drayton was a detective, Maureen reminded herself. Asshole or not, he outranked her and everyone else involved by a lot. He could hurt her in the department if he wanted without going as far as framing her for murder. He could fuck Preacher and Quinn and Ruiz, too. He could hurt them with the feds, as Preacher had warned. He could wait until the Gage thing had blown over and hurt them later.

She took a hit of coffee. The fluorescent light overhead started to flicker, setting off a twitch under her left eye. She wanted to escape whatever snare Drayton was setting. She didn’t need to make an enemy of him to do it. She was smarter than that.

“You’re a clever girl,” Drayton said. “I’ve heard that, too. Strong, independent streak. I’ve heard that you struggle with being a team player.”

“I’d ask who told you that,” Maureen said, “but I get the feeling you’d never tell me.” She paused. “And it’s not true. I can go along to get along.” She hated herself for saying it. “So I’m thinking nobody’s told you those things. Not really.”

“I hear stories.”

“I’m sure you do. So do I.” She wouldn’t back down to him, either.

With a snap of the wrist, Drayton unfurled the evidence bag. “Don’t change the subject. Explain this to me. This is your one shot at it in front of only me. Make it count.”

Maureen could not see what was in the bag, if anything. “Due respect, Detective, but what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You secured the scene at the Gage murder,” Drayton said. “Or, I guess I should say, you were
supposed
to secure the scene. You know, do basic police work.”

“Technically, I was second on the scene,” Maureen said. “I assisted in securing it. Quinn and Ruiz arrived first, which, even if you don’t remember last night, is the way it’s written in the reports. Why do I get the feeling they’re not getting the same shitty hard time over this that I am? Have you even talked to them about the crime scene?”

That was quick. So much for standing by your teammates, she thought. She waited for Drayton to throw it back at her. She hated him for how he made her feel. Contradictory. Hypocritical. Confused. Inferior. Like a nervous, bumbling rookie.

Drayton tossed the plastic bag at the table. He missed and the bag fluttered to the floor. Cursing under his breath, he snatched it up and slammed it down on the table.

“Look at that,” he said, raising his voice now, pointing at the bag. “There’s your answer why I’m coming after you and not them.”

Maureen studied the bag. The note wasn’t in it. That was a relief. Was something else supposed to be in it? Was it theatrics, Drayton using the empty bag to make a point? She’d seen other cops put on a show. She’d done it. Drayton’s career was one long performance, Maureen thought. Maybe tonight was part of it. He held his arm outstretched, pointing at the bag. Drayton had come across as sexist, silly, and dim, not exactly a surprise in the modern workplace, law enforcement or otherwise. But now, with the way this episode was escalating, Maureen saw Preacher’s concern that he could be treacherous, manipulative. Bullies could be as dangerous, Maureen knew, and as lethal, as the brilliant. She knew this firsthand.

She set her coffee down on the counter. She stood up straight, raising her shoulders and her hands in exaggerated confusion. Drayton wasn’t the only one who could act. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’m not sure what you’re asking me. Can you help me out?”

“Did you handle the body?” Drayton asked. “Who was with you when you did?”

“
Handle
is a strong word,” Maureen said. “Quinn and I, we checked it out. We looked around the immediate area. The usual. See if the weapon is recoverable, stuff like that. I found his wallet and checked his ID. But we didn’t move him or anything, if that’s what you’re asking. Why would we do that?”

“People have their reasons,” Drayton said, looking away from her, rueful tones creeping into his voice. “Sometimes they even have good ones, at least to them. They don’t see the bigger picture.”

He sat at the table. He picked up his BlackBerry and checked the screen, without real awareness he was doing it. He did a similar thing with the evidence bag. Slouching in his seat, he scratched at something sticky on the table. He was the image of a man steeling himself for something unpleasant, but necessary. Drayton was shifting tactics, Maureen could tell. She could see it happening. Intimidating authority figure hadn’t gotten him the results he wanted. Now he’d emulate the burdened public servant. Bad cop first, now the good cop. She’d let him play it. The more moves he made, she thought, the more he’d reveal about his true motives. She recalled a piece of advice she’d gotten from Atkinson. Once someone starts lying to you, she’d said, don’t interrupt. Lies could tell plenty.

“You’ve put me in a difficult spot here, Coughlin.”

Maureen’s ears perked up; he’d used her name, gotten it right. Warning bells rang in her head. Had he been playing her with his thickheaded behavior? Was his act better and more complicated than she thought?

“That’s not my intent,” she said.

“It’s no good,” Drayton said, “when one cop has to go up against another cop, put himself at odds with her, or him, whatever the case. It’s bad every way around, for the whole department. People get forced into choices they don’t want to make.”

Maureen moved to the counter and topped off her coffee. She wished she hadn’t brought Quinn’s name into the conversation about the body. She didn’t want to put Drayton on a coworker’s scent, or to be accused of trying to do so.

“I think we’re miscommunicating, you and me,” she said. “Men are from Mars, women are from Venus, that kind of thing. We’re on the same side. Tell me what’s gone wrong. I’ll do what I can to fix it.”

Pouting, Drayton waved a limp hand at the room. “This, this is not what I’m talking about, you and me in here.” He stabbed the evidence bag with his finger. “This, in here, is what I’m talking about. This is what’s wrong.”

Maureen reached for the bag. “May I?”

“Please.”

Maureen picked up the bag. Pulling the corners tight to smooth it out, she held it up to the light in the ceiling. She could see faint brownish red smudges on the inside of the bag. Blood. Dried blood. Okay, it wasn’t empty. That was kind of a relief. And she saw a thin dark line running through each of the smudges. Hair. Bloody strands of long hair. She didn’t know what to make of them.

“These are hairs, right?”

Drayton nodded.

“And they’re from the Gage crime scene?”

That she was stalling, she knew, was obvious, and the hesitation only made her look bad. Time was running out, Maureen thought, to come clean about the traffic stop, about how those hairs got on Gage’s hands and clothes. Even if those hairs led back to Madison Leary through some law enforcement or social work database, she wondered, could they lead Drayton to the traffic stop? She hated that Drayton knew more than she did about what was happening. She remembered Preacher’s advice not to give Drayton
anything
he could use against her, or against them. She decided to trust the advice. It was certainly a lesser gamble than trusting the man in the room with her. She set the bag on the table.

Drayton stood, nodding again, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Here’s the thing. The coroner pulled those hairs from Gage’s shirt. He had others in the blood on his hands. A couple had been torn out at the root. The only way that happens, the only way those long hairs end up in his bloody shirt, is if Gage has close physical contact with the source of those hairs. If he was fighting back, say.”

“Against his killer,” Maureen said.

“Correct. The hairs we recovered that are not in that bag, I’ve sent them to the lab for tests. We’ll know soon enough whose head they came from. I’m a good guy, I have love for my fellow officers of the law, so I’ll give you one chance at this.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Where were you during the time immediately before Gage was found?”

Maureen took a step back, put more of the table between her and Drayton. This was what Preacher had warned her about. “Due respect, Detective, but are you out of your fucking mind? Are you accusing me of killing Clayton Gage? Are you crazy?”

“You were out of pocket when he was most likely killed,” Drayton said. “Off the radio. I checked.” He moved closer to her, leaning over her as he would a suspect under interrogation, asserting his authority, taking away her space. “You have to admit, it’s suspicious. And it’s not the first time, either, dispatch has lost track of you. Not this week. Not this month. You have ideas of your own. You like to wander out of the schoolyard. You’re not afraid to put your hands on people. What’re you doing out there alone in the dark?”

“Alone in the dark?” Maureen asked. “I’m not fucking Batman. I’m riding around in a cop car, in a police officer’s uniform. This is bullshit. Who said those things about me?”

Drayton didn’t answer her. Don’t step into the silence, she told herself. Don’t do it. You don’t know what he’ll be able to use against you, she thought. Don’t step into the quiet he’d set there like a bear trap. She couldn’t help herself.

“I was at the Eighth District,” Maureen said. “I was down on Frenchmen Street in full view of a hundred people, and probably a couple of security cameras. I have multiple witnesses, including an Eighth District duty sergeant and two officers from my platoon. I’m a suspect in the Gage murder? Fuck, no. I call bullshit. I don’t know what this is about, Drayton, but you take even half a step more with this weak sauce and I’m going to the union. I’ll press charges. You don’t frighten me.”

“What this is about, Coughlin, is I’ve got long brown hairs coming off my murder victim and I’ve got you among the missing at the time of death. This is your second body in as many nights. Men with a history of violence. You had time and opportunity to rig either crime scene any way you wanted. What’s
your
fucking explanation, Officer?”

“My
explanation
? For what? For me ending up around dead bodies? I’m a fucking
cop
.”

Though she was ready to let him have it, she didn’t, surprising herself. The brakes caught and she stopped talking. She’d finally caught on. Drayton was trying to do her like Preacher said the feds were doing him. Trying to knock her off balance, shake her up, and see if anything useful fell out. He didn’t have to frame her as the killer, she realized. That accusation was only to shock and scare her into coughing up something else. Did she visit a bar when she should’ve been out on patrol, did she hide out somewhere and get high? Did she, like she’d heard he did, have trysts on duty, fucking some civilian, or maybe another cop in the backseat of a city-issued vehicle? Drayton needed something to make it look like
she
was the weak link when the Gage investigation came under scrutiny. Out of everyone on the scene, Drayton had picked her as the toothless animal in the herd. His mistake. Of course he had picked her, she thought. He couldn’t help himself. Officer Maureen Coughlin was the only
girl
on the scene.