“You know what I mean.”
“This Sovereign Citizens business,” Preacher said, “it’s a new thing. I think Detillier meant what he said at PJ’s. I think the feds are really behind on this thing. I think they’re desperate for information. And I understand his wanting to use you.” He paused, grinning. “You figured out the real reason they picked you for the meeting, right?”
“Because I’m being groomed for intelligence work,” Maureen said. “The FBI is obviously recruiting me.”
“Uh, well, that could be true,” Preacher said. “It could be that, sure.”
Maureen laughed. “Gotcha. C’mon. We both know Detillier looks at me and he sees a short, skinny girl. What he said about my experience dealing with the Watchmen, my connections to the case, about them wanting to help me get even—the entirety of that was bullshit. We both know it. Detillier picked me because Gage will think he can intimidate me. He’ll be a lot less cautious with his talk than he would be around a man, or even blond bombshell Detective Sergeant Atkinson, all broad-shouldered six feet of her, and because of that—he’ll talk to me. Once he gets over the insult of me being what he gets, he’ll run his mouth because he’s not afraid of a little girl like me.”
Preacher looked at her a long time, like he was seeing her from across the street instead of a couple of feet away.
“What?” Maureen asked. “You’re making me nervous.”
“This thing happens with your voice sometimes,” he said. “Since you came back from the beach. You ever seen a scorpion curl its tail over its back? The poison kind of shining on the stinger? That. You sound like that shine looks.”
Maureen looked away. “Whatever. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah, it does,” Preacher said. “You know exactly what I mean.”
From inside the car, Maureen could hear the dispatcher raising their car over the radio. Preacher rose off the hood, went to the driver’s door. “Like you said, whatever. Let’s get back in the car. It’s cold out here. Somebody’s looking for us, anyway.”
Maureen went to her side. She paused after opening the door. “Preach, listen—”
“You make me nervous,” Preacher said across the top of the car. He had that faraway look again. The radio kept calling. “I sit next to you, I can hear you ticking. Like a bomb.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maureen lied. “I don’t hear it.”
“That right there,” Preacher said, “is the problem. I know you don’t hear it. That is what makes me nervous.” He dropped into the driver’s seat, reaching for the radio mic.
Maureen climbed into the car, the door creaking as she pulled it closed.
“You got your wish,” Preacher said. “We’re done sitting here for the night.”
“Do tell.”
“Anonymous tip. Seems there’s a body in Lafayette Cemetery.”
“I’d think there’d be plenty of—”
“Don’t,” Preacher said, slamming the car into drive, hitting the lights and sirens. He was trying not to laugh. “Just fucking don’t.”
14
Lafayette Cemetery was a box in the middle of the Garden District. Eight-foot-high walls of whitewashed, fern-and-lichen-crusted brick formed the sides of the box, and each wall had a spiked iron gate in its middle that was chained and padlocked at night. With the resident bodies being interred aboveground, the crypts and tombs formed rows of short buildings, their curved concrete and marble roofs peeking over the wall. Maureen had no trouble understanding why New Orleans cemeteries were called “Cities of the Dead.” Sections of the cemetery were even named as if they were city neighborhoods, the pathways running through them signed like streets.
She’d been in Lafayette before. She liked it there. She had walked among the tombs on more than one afternoon, nursing a double espresso from the nearby coffee shop. The place was even a popular tourist attraction. But her visits had been during the day, when there were other people, living people, around her. Tonight, she stood with Preacher outside the walls, trying to find a way in. Apparently, there was one dead body inside that didn’t belong there.
They had checked each gate, Maureen jumping out of the patrol car at each one to inspect the locks, and the four of them remained secure. However the unaccounted-for dead person had gained entrance, it hadn’t been through one of the gates.
“Has anyone called the, uh, custodian,” Maureen asked, “or whatever he’s called?”