“The conspiracy in Vegas,” Maureen said. “The cops killed in the ambush, in the restaurant. That was these people you’re talking about. These are the people who are after me.”
“They got our attention around here before that,” Detillier said. “When those state police got killed in LaPlace. But, yes, the killers in Vegas called themselves Sovereign Citizens. The man they just caught in Pennsylvania who killed those state troopers at their barracks. Him, too.”
“LaPlace was three years ago,” Preacher said. “Vegas was last summer. Pennsylvania was last month. You’re not making much progress. They’re still there, and probably elsewhere in Louisiana, and now they’re here in New Orleans, too.” He nodded at Maureen. “She’s got a front door full of bullet holes to prove it.”
Maureen shook her head. “Not anymore. Rehab is done on the outside. Can’t even tell it happened anymore. I don’t even wanna think about what it cost the landlords to get it done that quick.”
“What about the inside?” Preacher asked.
“That’s got some work left,” Maureen said. “There are bullet holes above the fireplace. In my bed frame.”
“That’s gotta frighten the boys away,” Preacher said.
“Well, good luck with that,” Detillier said, loud enough to get everyone back on point. “If the events of last month have checked the Watchmen’s move into the city, it’s not for long. We’re planning aggressive countermoves. We would like your help with that.”
Maureen stretched her legs under the table, crossing her ankles. “In what capacity?”
“This is not the part where I make you a federal agent,” Detillier said. He reached into his suit-jacket pocket, produced a notepad and a pen. “This is the part where I ask you some questions. Hopefully, you give me useful answers, and we move on from there.” He clicked the pen. “What can you tell me about Madison Leary?”
Maureen crossed her arms. Not the question or the name she’d expected to hear. Leary was a New Orleans case. Skinner had told her the feds had dead Gage’s father on the hook, and that he was the person they wanted to talk about.
“She came here from LaPlace on the run from the Watchmen,” Maureen said. “Allegedly carrying a sizable wad of cash that she’d stolen from them. As far as we were able to figure, both Cooley and Gage were in New Orleans looking for her and the money. But she’s not who you want. A man named Caleb Heath, he’s the one you want.”
“Coughlin,” Preacher said, caution in his voice.
“Leary knows the Watchmen,” Detillier said. “She lived with them in LaPlace. She was one of them. The last place she lived before she came to New Orleans was with the Watchmen.”
“She’s a crazy drifter who fell in with the wrong guys at the trailer park,” Maureen said. “That’s not the same as joining a terrorist cell. She came to New Orleans to get away from them. To escape, and they hunted her here.”
“According to your friend Detective Atkinson,” Detillier said, “this poor, unfortunate victim you describe, she’s the lead suspect in the murders of Gage and Cooley.”
“Then ask Atkinson about her,” Maureen said.
“We did,” Detillier said. “And she sent us to you. She said you knew her first.”
Maureen turned in her chair and looked at Preacher, expressionless behind his dark glasses. In the park, they had theorized about how Maureen had drawn the FBI’s attention. Atkinson was the answer, then. Maureen wondered what else the detective had told the feds about her. Not too much, not everything she knew if Detillier wasn’t coming after her with cuffs.
“If you want the Watchmen,” Maureen said, turning back, “if you really want to hurt them, find Caleb Heath.” She waited for Detillier to write the name down. “Caleb Heath, son of Solomon, the owner of Heath Construction and Design. They have a house on Audubon Park. You need me to spell it for you?”
“I see their signs around the city,” Detillier said. “I know who they are.”
“They’ve rebuilt half of it,” Preacher said. “And they’re tearing down the other half so they can rebuild that. City dollars, state dollars, federal dollars. Katrina made Solomon Heath even richer than he was before the storm. And that’s saying something.”
Detillier chuckled, shaking his head. “Caleb Heath is in Dubai. You both know that already.”
“He can’t stay there forever,” Maureen said.
“I don’t know about that. He’s got a brother who lives there. Heath Construction has an office there. Among other places.” Detillier leaned across the table. “Do you have any idea how big these people really are?”
“I get the feeling you do,” Maureen said, leaning away from him. “And that you’re making your decisions accordingly. The poor people like Leary put up so much less of a fight.”
“It’s the poor people, as you put it,” Detillier said, “who shot up your house.”