Free Doing the Devil's Work by Bill Loehfelm Page B

woman?”
    The guy was psychic, Maureen thought. She’d swear to it in court.
    “Who knows about her?” Maureen answered. “She’s kind of a casualty.”
    “Aren’t we all,” Preacher said. “But she’s why you’re here.”
    Maureen said nothing.
    “She’s why you’re here,” Preacher repeated, again telling and not asking. “You’re not a social worker, Coughlin. Remember that. The city pays other people for that. They have degrees and shit. The one job you have is hard enough. Just try to do it right.”
    “That guy she was with,” Maureen said. “He was no good. There’s more to that story. You know I’m right. It’s like when I first saw Marques Greer. I knew he was in trouble, I knew there was more to it than we were seeing.”
    “As I recall,” Preacher said, “mistakes were made in the matter of Marques Greer. And you needed some considerable help.”
    “I know, I know. I’m a new cop, Preach, but I’ve been a woman my whole life. Believe me, I know a predator when I see one.”
    “And so you sprung the rabbit from the trap,” Preacher said. “You did a good thing. But when the rabbit goes back down the hole, as rabbits do, we don’t follow. It’s the natural order of things. The wild animals stay wild. We don’t bring them home and make them pets. Understand?”
    “We might need her,” Maureen said. “We want her feeling good about us if anything important comes up on Clayton Gage. And, trust me, something will. We might need a witness or something. Look at how handy a witness would be in the Cooley case. I thought looking out for her might get us on her good side. I’m trying to make friends, like on Magnolia Street. I’m trying to think ahead.”
    “Nice try, Coughlin. You’re so full of shit. You let me know how it goes with Hardin.”
    “Ten-four,” Maureen said, chastened. Even if she’d lied about her original motivations for pursuing Madison Leary, what she’d said to Preacher was true.
    “Ten-four, good buddy,” Preacher said, chuckling.
    “One more thing,” Maureen said. “I have to ask, how did you know to find me here?”
    “You called in your twenty to dispatch like the good soldier you are,” Preacher said. “I wish everyone left a trail like you do. You’re so by the book sometimes, Coughlin, you kill me. You chose the right side of the law. You’d make a lousy criminal. When you come back to the Sixth, bring me a Hubig’s. Sweet potato flavor.”

 
    7
    After double-parking on Royal Street among a pack of other units, Maureen found Sergeant Hardin standing on the marble steps in front of the classy Colonial structure that housed the Eighth District. The Eighth, in the heart of the French Quarter, with wide white columns bracketing the beveled-glass and brass-handled front doors, outclassed in appearance the modest, scuffed, and utilitarian Sixth District home base Maureen was used to. Hardin came down the slate walkway to meet Maureen on the sidewalk.
    Hardin was dark-skinned, with a smooth shaved head. He stood well over six feet tall, with a thick muscled frame. She’d dealt with him before, a real professional, calm as a glassy lake. She liked him a lot. He was high on her list of people to emulate as she learned the job. Considering the size of him, she wondered why he’d never unnerved her the way Ruiz did. Maybe because Hardin reminded her of an old friend from New York, a bouncer she had worked with at her last cocktailing job. Seemed like yesterday sometimes, her Staten Island life, the good and the ghosts. Other times it seemed a lifetime ago, or, on her best days, like someone else’s life entirely.
    Hardin held an unlit cigar in his left hand. He extended his right. Maureen shook it, her own hand disappearing into his palm. She squeezed extra hard.
    “Saint Coughlin of the Sixth,” Hardin said. “It’s been a minute. How you been?”
    “Staying busy,” Maureen said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
    “Heard you got the