In the roll-call room, waiting for her fellow officers, Maureen studied the backs of her hands. Completely clean. Veins, tendons, and wrinkles. No blood under her nails. No cuts, no bruises from the night work she’d done. Her reward for choosing the right weapon. She’d been smart, but she’d been lucky, too. Don’t blow this chance to start over, she thought. Don’t lose what you came here for. Don’t end up shamed like Ruiz, or worse, wash up dead like Quinn. She didn’t want to figure in any more stories of how people around her had lost their lives. She had done that already in New York. It was a story she was trying to forget. She drank her cool coffee. Quinn and Ruiz had made their own choices, she reminded herself.
When two male officers came strutting into the room, Maureen saw Ruiz and Quinn. Then she blinked, realizing that was impossible, and saw the men for who they really were. Wilburn and Cordts. Moved to the night shift, she figured, to replace the two lost officers. They nodded at her as they sat a couple of desks away, Cordts touching his knuckle to his hairline as if tipping a cap. Maureen nodded back, raised her hand a few inches off the table in some semblance of a wave. She wondered how much they knew about her. If they remembered talking to her that night at Ms. Mae’s.
She took a deep breath, redirected her vision to the front of the room, and tried to settle her nerves. The rest of the night crew shuffled in and filled the desks around her. Patrol officers. Plainclothes officers on the night watch. She recognized their faces, knew most of their last names. Other than Preacher, she hadn’t really gotten to know anyone she worked with besides Quinn and Ruiz. She decided one thing she would do with this second chance was change that situation. As the room filled up for roll call, nobody sat with her.
Looking around the room, breathing in the testosterone-heavy smell of freshly showered, freshly shaved men, she realized she needed to be as uninteresting as humanly possible for as long as she could pull that off. She needed to be the most boring cop in New Orleans.
What were the chances of that, really?
Preacher ambled into the briefing room, huffing and puffing as he approached the podium. “Eyes front, chickadees. Put the fucking phones away. I could give a fuck about your fantasy football teams and your dick pics. Listen up.”
No matter the outside weather, the roll-call room was always warm and close. Preacher paused and used a bandana to dab at the sweat beading under his eyes. He frowned as he read over the night’s paperwork and announcements. The room stayed at a casual attention. No one talked.
“First things first,” Preacher said. “The big conundrum on everyone’s mind. The city has not gotten back to us on their petition to the DOJ for exceptions to the new detail regulations for New Year’s Eve. The state police will be here as usual, but there should be, I say should be, OT available for the Quarter, the Marigny, maybe Mid-City, traffic on Poydras and Canal, all the usual spots.”
“That’s Christmas-shopping credit-card money, Sarge,” someone said. “I need to know if it’s coming or not.”
“I gotta let my wife know if I’ll be working, Sarge,” another cop said. “It’s our year to host the party.”
Maureen watched Cordts turn in his chair. “You sure you don’t want to work?”
At second glance, Maureen noticed he was kind of cute. He had a mischief in his eyes she liked. She could see it from across the room, like flickering lights.
“We’ll get it,” Wilburn said, serious and self-important, slapping his partner on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Nobody important wants it getting out they kept us off the street if someone gets shot on Bourbon. You think Mitch wants that press? Look around this room. It’s half-empty. And it’s the same story at every district. Forget enough OT to go around, there aren’t enough cops, no matter how many troopers they send.”
“You mean when someone gets shot,” Cordts said. “This town loves tradition.”
“When I know about the OT,” Preacher said, “you will know. I’m told the decision is imminent. Off the record, I’m not inclined to disagree with young Wilburn’s assessment.”
“Soon as someone bends over and picks up the tab,” someone said.
“Enough,” Preacher said. “The day shift’s info will be on your laptops when you get your cars. Same as always. And all the cars have working laptops again, as far as I know.” He held up his hand. “No promises. But let me know if something goes wrong. I don’t think we have any extra, but we can look.” He moved some papers around. “All right, I want eyes on that grocery store at Magnolia and Washington. Used to be those dopes wore red. Now it’s a different bunch of dopes and they’re wearing white. I want to know why that is.”
“It’s after Labor Day,” Cordts said. “Case closed.”
Preacher took a long pause. “Two years of college and that’s the best you got?” He turned to another officer. “Morello, that’s your sector tonight, make some extra passes. Maybe get crazy and get out of the car, get a feel for things, sniff around. Get real crazy and make some notes.”
Maureen watched the muscles in Morello’s jaw twitch. She suppressed a grin. Morello hated being singled out, which was why Preacher did it. And because everyone in the room knew Morello got out of the car only for meals and, to look at him, to lift weights at the gym.
“The one who’s older than the rest,” Preacher said. “He’s got the white pit bull on a chain. He likes those sleeveless pullovers.”