18
Outside the café, Maureen put a cigarette between her lips and buttoned her coat against the cold afternoon. She lit up and sat at one of the empty outside tables to call Atkinson. The detective’s phone went right to voice mail. Maureen couldn’t decide what to say, so she left no message. No harm, she figured, in calling Detillier right away. She’d tell him everything Gage had said to her. Maybe that mumbo jumbo the man had spouted would mean something to the FBI. Maybe they’d hear a code in his language, something over her head that the FBI would find useful. Maybe something would surface that helped Atkinson. She wasn’t optimistic. She found Detillier’s number in her phone, punched it, and put the phone to her ear.
That was when she saw him across Esplanade Avenue, waving at her. His unbuttoned suit jacket and his tie fluttered in the wind. It was awful chilly, she thought, to be out in the street without an overcoat. Detillier stood in the street, on the edge of the traffic, on the balls of his feet, waiting for a chance to cross. The call connected as she watched him, but he made no move to answer. He seemed to be in a big, big hurry. Borderline frantic, she thought, judging by his body language. His head snapped back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome. He was clocking more than the traffic. What now?
She stood and looked up and down Esplanade Avenue. Gage was gone. Was that the problem? she wondered. Letting him walk away had been part of the plan. If the plan had changed while she was in the café, no one had thought to tell her. Fucking typical, she thought. Fucking bureaucrats. Detillier’s voice mail started speaking to her. She disconnected the call. Detillier had made it to the grassy neutral ground. He waited for another break in the traffic. He looked behind him. Went back to watching the street. He was calling her name, like she should rush over there to him.
Maureen’s phone buzzed in her hand. Atkinson. Fantastic, Maureen thought. How was that for timing? She answered. “Coughlin.”
“Jesus Christ, Maureen,” Atkinson said, out of breath. “Oh, thank God. Where are you?”
Maureen’s heart had dropped into a hole. “I’m outside Dizzy’s, in the Tremé. Right where I told you I’d be. Why do you sound like that? What’s happened?”
Detillier was running across the street. He had his gun drawn.
Maureen lowered the phone. She could hear Atkinson ask, no, demand that Maureen talk to her. Maureen had never heard her sound anything like this. Shouting, yelling. Panic was something Atkinson didn’t do. Hearing it terrified Maureen. A commotion arose inside the café. Maureen turned and looked in the window. Employees and customers alike had gathered, standing under the television. Even the cooks and dishwashers had come out of the kitchen. Maureen couldn’t tell exactly what they were watching, but several people had their hands on their heads, or covered their mouths in clear horror. On the screen was an aerial shot of somewhere in the city. Sirens in the streets. Lots of sirens. She half-expected to see an overhead shot of her standing on the corner.
She looked up into the sky for the helicopters. Nothing but clouds. Gray and static. And in the distance, she could hear sirens.
Detillier jumped up onto the sidewalk. “Gage! Where is Gage?”
“He left not five minutes ago. He might still be in the neighborhood. I don’t know where he parked. I didn’t know I was supposed to follow him.” She could hear Atkinson calling her name, asking what was happening. “That wasn’t the plan. What the fuck is going on? Why is your gun out?”
“Who is that on the phone?”
Maureen felt the air go out of her chest. “It’s Detective Atkinson.” She felt like a fist was squeezing her heart. A wave of dizziness washed over her, threatened to melt her knees. Like it had a year ago on Amboy Road. She wasn’t Atkinson. Panic was something she did often. No. Not now. Not now. “She’s calling to see if I’m okay?” Her vision blurred. She could hear the quaver in her voice. “Why is she doing that? Why is she doing that?”
“You can talk to her on the way,” Detillier said. He took her by the arm.
Maureen snatched her arm back. The adrenaline surge that came at his touch steadied her, brought her back to earth. “On the way where?”
“We have to move you, we have to do it now.”
“What is going on? You said I’d be safe.” Maureen looked at her phone. Atkinson had disconnected.
“A bunch of cops have been shot,” Detillier said. His eyes moved to the television inside the café. He couldn’t help himself.
“A bunch?” Maureen asked, almost laughing at the word. “A bunch?”
“They were ambushed, in different places around the city,” Detillier said. “Four of them, so far.”
“So far?”
“I’ll explain later. We have to get you out of here.”
Maureen heard more sirens in the distance now. The screaming seemed to come from every direction. “Are they dead?”