“So you get my help with the father and the Watchmen,” Maureen said, “and Atkinson maybe gets help with finding Leary, which may also benefit you guys. What I want to know is, what’s in it for me?”
“Preacher will tell you,” Detillier said, unfazed by the question, rolling into an answer that sounded like he’d prepared it, “that plainclothes work is the quickest way to a promotion in any police department. That’s especially true of the one that you work in. Here’s your chance to build that résumé, with an endorsement from the FBI to put in your file. Your coworkers may twitch at the idea of you doing a favor for the feds. They’ll get over it. The brass and the suits look real favorably on that kind of thing, on anything that makes them look good. The brass are the ones who give out the gold shields. And I know one DC I figure you owe some good turns.”
Maureen turned to Preacher, who shrugged.
“Believe him,” Preacher said. “It’s not like you’ll be in Narcotics in two weeks, but you have to start somewhere. Sounds like a cake gig to me. This is a legit opportunity.” He glanced at Detillier then looked back at Maureen. “If they want to overpay for a small favor, fucking let them.”
“Your department is bleeding cops at a near-terminal rate,” Detillier said. “From top to bottom. You didn’t hear it from me, but your SVU is about to lose five detectives. Five. Someone’s getting sucked up into that empty space in the departments above you. Why not make it you? We want one hour of your time. Have coffee with the man. Tell us what he tells you. Couldn’t be simpler. If it’s nothing, well, we tried, and the effort looks good on you.”
He checked the time on his phone, reached into his jacket pocket, produced a business card. He placed the card on the table between them. “Take a few minutes to discuss things with your duty sergeant here. But call me soon. Later today or tonight. We don’t know how long Gage is staying in the city. If we wait too long, we may all of us lose our chance to get what we can from him.” He raised his hand to Preacher. “Sergeant Boyd, a pleasure.” He shook Maureen’s hand. “Officer Coughlin, we’ll speak soon.”
Maureen left the card on the table until Detillier turned the corner. When he was out of sight she picked up the card, tucking it into the inside pocket of her leather jacket.
“What do you think, Preach? Straight up. Do I trust this prick?”
“You have to make that decision,” Preacher said. “I’m not seeing a downside for you right now, but they set it up that way on purpose. I will tell you this. If you get them something good for Detillier, if you put the NOPD in the middle of the FBI making a major bust, you will have gone from the shithouse to the penthouse faster than any cop in department history. We could really use a gold star around here. Believe it.”
12
That evening Maureen arrived an hour early for roll call. She’d always been prompt, but an entire hour set a personal record.
She sat alone in the room at one of the two-person desks, a cup of terrible station-house coffee steaming in front of her. She sniffed it. She added a fourth packet of sugar. Okay, maybe the horrible coffee was one thing about her job she hadn’t missed. She rubbed stray sugar crystals between her fingers and thumb, waiting for the other night-shift cops, trying to enjoy the quiet. She savored silence on the job. How she hated the quiet, she thought, when it filled her own house. Because when her house was quiet, she thought, that was when her brain ran at its loudest.
The day shift was still on the streets when she’d parked out back and headed into the building. She’d taken her time getting dressed in the locker room, having the place to herself. No other women were on duty that night.
She’d remained on the bench in front of her locker for a long time, stripped to her underwear and a white T-shirt, her hair down and loose on her shoulders, the lacquered wood of the bench cool on the backs of her thighs though the heat was on. The locker-room air had that dry, close feel she remembered from New York City school buildings. She breathed in the institutional antiseptic smell of the room. She listened to the occasional squeak of boots on the hallway tile as other cops passed by. She heard their muffled voices as they talked on their phones, or to one another. Overhead, water surged through the old pipes. The elevator thumped to a stop in the front of the building. The fluorescent lights hummed.