She suspected, though, that he feared the raw wrath and bloodlust of a gut-shot NOPD. Anyone connected to these attacks who the city cops got their hands on tonight wouldn’t live to see the morning. Any information a prisoner gave up before dying would be beaten out of him, and that information would be useless as a prosecution tool. As badly as she wanted Leon Gage caught or even dead, she understood Detillier’s strategy. He needed Gage, needed the information in his head.
As the voices of the men surrounding her got more heated, Maureen decided that hanging around corpses and angry men did her no good. From a distance, she made eye contact with Detillier and pointed toward the front of the store. He nodded and put a finger to his lips. She got the message. Talk to no one. She decided she might heed his wishes. She might not. Someone had to find Leon Gage. She’d blown the hunt for Madison Leary. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Detillier made a hand signal at his ear that meant he’d call her later, like someone would make to a friend across a crowded barroom. The gesture seemed so absurd, Maureen had to fight back laughter.
On her way out of the Walmart, she passed through the grocery section and grabbed a cold bottle of water. She’d pounded half of it down by the time she got outside.
23
Maureen felt as if she’d escaped from a maze as she stood outside the front door, people in uniform hustling past her. She ran her fingers along her scalp, enjoying the cold air, wondering how she’d get a ride to Dizzy’s to pick up her car.
As she peeled off her FBI jacket, a familiar voice called her name.
She turned to see a smiling man, large and muscular, approaching out of the swirling crowd of law enforcement filling the parking lot. Dressed in full paramilitary gear, with his wraparound shades, flattop haircut, and an automatic rifle strapped across his chest, he looked like a soldier dipped in blue ink. Maureen recognized him right away. Sansone. One of the muscle-bound boys from the Tactical Unit.
“Why am I not surprised,” he said, “to see you in the middle of this mess, Cogs?”
“What can I say? You guys were too slow. The pros had to step up.” She took off her shirt, and unstrapped her vest and pulled it off, dropping it to the ground behind her with a grunt. She put the jacket back on. She rolled her shoulders. In her thin sweaty T-shirt, she shivered in the cold. “Much better.”
“I heard you were rolling with the feds on this. Badass.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Maureen said. “One fed. Guy named Detillier. He’s working the Watchmen case, the guys who shot up my house. I was with him when this shit went down. It was Detillier who knew they’d be here at the Walmart. We were halfway here before the first nine-one-one call came in from the store.” She patted her pockets. “Tell me you have a cigarette.”
“For you,” Sansone said, “of course.” He produced a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo. He lit hers, then lit one for himself. “Tell me you got ’em. Please tell me it was you and not that fed.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” Maureen said, “but they offed themselves before we got to them.”
“Fucking cowards,” Sansone said, stomping on the pavement. “I hate that shit. Hate it. So much for my hard-on.” He growled. “But I’ll get it back tonight. We’ll be out busting many heads tonight. I’ll be sporting a fucking table leg. I’ll be staggering.”
Maureen took a long pull of her cigarette. “What’ve you heard about Preacher?”
Sansone shrugged, looking away from her, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “He was alive when he went in the ambo. Conscious, too. Talking, of course, because he’s fucking Preacher.”
Her relief was so overpowering she lost her balance. She found a concrete planter by the door, sat on the edge. “You were there? You saw him?”
Sansone shook his head. “Fuck, no. This is my day off. This parking lot is the first place that I’ve been. I’m just now catching up myself. I missed everything.”
“And?”
“Straight into surgery is what I heard. He got that far.”
“Nothing since?” Maureen asked.
“It hasn’t been that long,” Sansone said. “Not much more than an hour since the first calls came in to nine-one-one.”
“Holy shit. An hour? I feel like I’ve been running for days. This is fucking insane.” She crushed out her cigarette in the dirt of the planter. She was absolutely fiending for a drink. Preacher hadn’t been the only officer shot. Waiting to hear it wouldn’t make the news any better. “What about the others? What’s the word?”
“Bad, bad, bad.” Sansone nodded at the Walmart. “Those two dead pieces of shit in there walked into the Reginelli’s on Poydras and opened up. Pulled AKs out from under long coats, like in a fucking movie. Mays and Harrigan from the First were in there on lunch, splitting a pizza, sitting right by the door. They never had a chance. Not a chance. Died with their weapons in their holsters.” Sansone coughed into his hand, covering the cracking in his voice. “Harrigan’s old lady had a kid like six months ago. Fucking family man. Mays wasn’t even thirty yet. This is a fucking nightmare.”