“And whoever else there is to get, we’ll get ’em. Only a matter of time.” He grinned and pounded his armored chest with his gloved fist. “Believe.”
Maureen felt tears rising to her eyes again. They ran down her cheeks when she tried to blink them away. She knew who else there was to get. She knew at whose doorstep the blood trail ended. Forget the goddamn weed dealers, Solomon Heath’s door needed kicking in. She wanted to pin the man down, hold a broken bottle to his throat while he called his sons in Dubai. She wanted to, but she wouldn’t. Not then. Not yet. She returned Sansone’s grin and nodded at him. “Right,” she said. “We’ll get ’em. Believe.”
But she was lying. She didn’t believe.
*
She watched Sansone as he marched away from her to join the rest of his crew before they went out to eat together, which they would do before they spent the night working together. Maureen knew she’d have to dart out of roll call in a hurry if she was going to get on the streets alone tonight. And she needed to do that. Work alone. She didn’t need anyone asking her questions about where she was going and what she was doing.
Carrying her vest and wearing the FBI windbreaker, she walked to Detillier’s car. She left his jacket in the backseat and put her leather jacket back on. She turned and looked back at the scene. She shouldn’t leave. Eventually, somebody would want to talk to her about what had happened inside the Walmart, and outside Li’l Dizzy’s. Then again, Detillier had been there for everything. He was the one everyone wanted to talk to, and he could tell the story as well as she could. She realized they hadn’t discussed her conversation with Leon Gage. Perhaps that had been what the “call me” gesture had been about.
Maureen couldn’t think of anything from that conversation that would’ve tipped her off to what was happening across the city while she sat with Leon. She couldn’t think of anything that might tell her what would happen next, either. He’d babbled at her, killing time while his people killed cops. Overall, she felt pretty fucking useless. Detillier would want to talk about Leon Gage. And he’d want to talk about Madison Leary. A call to Atkinson, Maureen thought, was probably a good idea.
She pulled out her phone and walked off to the side of the parking lot, away from the reporters. But before she spoke with Atkinson, she had another call to make. She found the number and waited for an answer, the phone to her ear.
“Maureen,” Amber said, “what’s the matter?”
“Ma, every time I call,” Maureen said, “that’s how you answer.”
There was silence, which was Amber’s way of either refusing to argue or starting an argument, Maureen was never sure. But the silence was a good thing. If Amber were aware of what had happened in New Orleans, she’d be hysterical, not pouting.
“Last time I called and you answered like that,” Maureen said, “I had good news.”
“And that was two days ago,” Amber said. “What are the odds you’ve got more good news already?”
This time Maureen was quiet. Her mother had a point. She didn’t have good news, unless she counted the fact that she wasn’t one of the cops who’d been shot, which was kind of a big deal.
“Am I right or am I right?” Amber asked.
“Some stuff went down at work today, Ma,” Maureen said.
“Stuff? What do you mean by ‘stuff’?” Already Maureen could hear panic creeping into her mother’s voice. “Do I need to turn on the TV? Is the city flooding again? I thought hurricane season was over. Let me find Nat and tell him to turn on the TV.”
“Before you do that,” Maureen said, “listen to me. No, we’re not flooding.”
She decided she’d tell the truth, up to a point, and tell it fast. She felt immense relief that her mother had Nat there with her, in her life. That fact would help her be more honest. “It’s bad news. It is. Four cops were shot here today. They were ambushed in restaurants. Two of them were killed, two of them were badly hurt.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Where are you? Where are you calling me from? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Maureen said, though she wasn’t and she knew her mother could hear it. “I’m calling from a parking lot. I wasn’t shot. I wasn’t hurt. I’m fine.”
She could hear her mother yelling for Nat. For once, Maureen didn’t want to talk to him; she wanted to talk to her mother. She wanted her mother’s attention. But she felt her throat closing, acid rising from her belly to the back of her throat. She had to get the story out, had to finish telling it quick, before she lost control of herself. Hysterics on her part would only make her mother more upset, and she wasn’t sure how many of her fellow officers could see her. The conversation couldn’t last. Only one key piece remained to tell. She choked out the words.
“Mom, Preacher got shot. He got shot. He could die. They shot Preacher.”