“I didn’t know he was talking to us. Not at the time. I mean, we didn’t really have time to, you know, process who he was talking to or what he meant. People yell weird shit to each other across the street and stuff all the time. He wasn’t that close. He started shooting before I figured out he was talking to us. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was yelling just to yell.”
Maureen scanned the intersection. Goddamn it, she thought. So someone had stood in the middle of the street and popped off a whole bunch of rounds in a crowded intersection. Somebody saw it. Multiple people had seen it, and they were gone, disappeared back into the crowd of parade-goers down on the route. Maureen glanced at Wilburn and the injured lady in the yellow coat. They continued talking. She and Susan could be enough. They might have to be.
“Is there anything you can tell us about his voice?” Maureen asked. “An accent? Anything? Did he say anything else?”
Susan sighed. “He sounded young. Like a kid, a teenager, maybe. It was kind of high-pitched.”
“But the voice was male,” Maureen said. “You’re sure of that.”
“Yeah.” Susan shrugged. “Anyway, when this shit happens, is it ever a girl?” She patted the clean towels stacked next to her on the bench. “You know, I don’t feel so good. I totally forgot I had like three beers before we left the house and then I took that pill. Maybe I’ll try getting into the bathroom. They probably have hot water in there. I can clean up better.”
“Right.” Maureen stood. “Good idea.”
She straightened and hitched up her gun belt. She knew that three beers and whatever pills Susan had taken—if she admitted to one she’d probably taken two or three—were going to knock the woman out of commission any minute now.
“Listen,” Maureen said, “I’m gonna make sure you’re looked after, that you get the information you need to get to Cordell. We have officers that specialize in that, in taking care of people. You know, after.” Of course, Maureen recalled, those officers were stationed on the parade route right now and unavailable until the parades had ended. “They’ll probably find you at the hospital. Later. A detective might want to talk to you, as well.”
“You’re not one of those, I take it,” Susan said, standing.
“A detective?” Maureen said. “Not yet.”
“The caretakers, I meant. You’re not one of those.”
In Susan’s now heavy-lidded eyes, Maureen could practically see the fuzzy gauze she’d hung between herself and her present environment. She probably didn’t feel very good. She also probably did not want to be as high as she currently was and talking to cops. Or maybe she didn’t care about that. Hard to blame her, considering what she’d been through that night.
“I’m not, in fact, one of those officers,” Maureen said, smiling. “I’m surprised you noticed.”
“I’m gonna go ahead inside,” Susan said, gesturing toward the bar door, “and finish cleaning up.”
“Please stay here around the bar,” Maureen said. “We’ll want to talk to you just a little bit more. And we want to make sure you know where Cordell is.”
“Will do,” Susan said.
“And if you see that skinny reporter,” Maureen said to Susan, “don’t talk to her, or any of the pople she’s with.”
“Sure.” She went inside the bar.
Susan wasn’t going to be worth a damn thing to them for the rest of the night, Maureen thought. She hated leaving her unattended without getting more information about the shooting. She had one good lead, the shouted gang name. Maybe there were more clues and leads to be mined. She had empathy for Susan for what her night had been like. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t heartless. But the best way to prevent another shooting that night was to catch the guy who’d pulled the trigger in the first one.
The heart of 3NG territory was only blocks away. This was in fact the real estate of a rival gang—this was J-Street territory—which pointed to a gang dispute as the reason for the shooting. That was the first working theory, at least. She wasn’t sure where Cordell fit into that mix. For now she was inclined to believe what Susan had told her about him, but Maureen was confident they could make quick work of a solid, simple lead.
10
Across the intersection, Maureen noticed Laine Daniels standing on the sidewalk outside the corner store, chattering into her phone between long pulls from a forty-ounce. Maureen heard Wilburn’s voice crackle on her radio. She tilted her head to listen. Holy shit. He was calling in a description of the shooter. She looked over at him. He was triumphantly holding up his notepad, waving it at her as he talked. Yes. She raised her fists over her head. Damn it. Where was Cordts? They were solving this shit, in record time, the three of them, and he was missing it. They weren’t even gonna need the detective.
When he’d finished on the radio, Wilburn walked over. Maureen slapped him hard on the chest when he arrived. Twice. “Look at this motherfucker here.”
“How ya like me now?” Wilburn said. “I’m so bad I’m good. Check this out. That lady I was talking to, Doris Wilson, she lives a couple blocks from here, back in the neighborhood. She was heading for the bar for a drink to go before she met her grandkids at the parade when she caught fragments in the back, right under the shoulder. According to her, the little girl was on her father’s shoulders when she got shot. He’s six-three, she’s all of three feet tall and she catches the bullet. Unreal. Then again, the shot missed his face by half a foot. Maybe. He dropped to the ground and shoved her under a car to protect her, but she’d already been shot. Insanity. No wonder he was so crazy.”
Cordts wandered over at that moment. “Good get on the ’scrip, Wils. I heard it. We’re gonna get this guy.”
He had swapped out his bloody vest for a new one; Faye and Kornegay must’ve had a spare in their car. He looked hollowed out, as if something had sucked the electricity from him through the soles of his feet. He had the girl’s black wings folded and tucked into his new vest.
“You all right, Cordts?” Maureen asked.
Cordts grinned. His face was as white as the belly of a fish. The wrinkles at the corners of his mouth were deep; his wet blue eyes quivered. He mimicked holding the girl in his arms. Dark spots of blood stained the sleeves of his uniform. He stared at his hands. “You wouldn’t believe how light she was. She didn’t weigh anything.” He shrugged. “I just can’t believe the bullet didn’t do more damage than it did. So random. It was all so random. You’d think a bullet hitting someone that size would … you’d think that she’d…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the little red sneaker that had fallen off the girl’s foot. “And I’ve got this, too. I forgot to give it to her father before he left.”
“Not your fault,” Wilburn said. With narrow eyes and a tight mouth he studied Cordts. Maureen could tell he’d hoped for Cordts to be in better shape upon his return to the crime scene. “The father took off running. Things were chaotic.”
“Yeah, I wonder if he ever got to the hospital,” Cordts said. “They should be together, the three of them. The girl and her parents.”
“Tell you what,” Maureen said, flashing a wary glance at Wilburn. “Maybe we should lock up that shoe in one of the units. And those wings, too. We’ll get everything back to her later.” She reached out for the shoe and the wings.
“Right, right,” Cordts said, but Maureen could tell her words hadn’t registered. “Yeah, good idea.” The wings stayed tucked in his vest. He stuffed the sneaker into his back pocket. “Oh, shit. I completely forgot.” He pulled out a gun, not his department-issue Glock, but a small black automatic pistol, and showed it to Maureen and Wilburn, turning his wrist so they could get a look at it. “I found this. Forty-cal. Polymer. Lying right in the intersection.” He shrugged, tucked it in the back of his pants. “I’m guessing the shooter tossed it when he ran.”
“You think?” Maureen said. She looked at Wilburn. “Maybe we should bag that, Cordts?”
“Listen, Cogs, you got a cigarette?” Cordts sai
d.
Maureen produced her pack and lit one for Cordts, passing it to him. His hand trembled as he took it from her. “Cordts, are you okay?” She realized she had no idea what she’d do or say if he admitted something was wrong.
“Crazy night” was all he said.
“The gun?” Maureen said. “We’re gonna need it. We’re gonna need to pull prints and such when we catch this guy.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Cordts said. “Leave it to me.”
Maureen held her breath, waiting for Wilburn to step in, to take her side. Other than the shooter himself, that gun was the most valuable thing they could possibly find. She turned to Wilburn, who raised a cautionary hand. “He’s got it. He’s fine.”
The bar door opened behind them and everyone turned to look.
Donna staggered out, a melting Susan draped across her black leather shoulders like one of Dalí’s watches. Maureen marveled at Donna’s ability to balance on her impossibly high heels, top heavy as she was already, and now with a drunk hanging on her back.
Donna flipped her hair from her face, stray white strands sticking in her waxy red lipstick and her thick mascara. “Hey, Protect and Serve, can I get some help here?”
Maureen helped Donna ease Susan onto the bench, where she slumped like a blackout drunk, which, Maureen guessed, she pretty much was at this point. She’d cleaned the blood from her hands but not her hair.
“She was in the bathroom, crying,” Donna said. “The other girls were scared of her.”
“It was nice of you to look out for her.”
“She was sitting on the floor,” Donna said, “by the sink, under the sink, making these sad kitten noises.” She freed her trapped hairs from her lips and her eyelashes, and steadied herself atop her heels.
“Her boyfriend did get shot tonight,” Maureen said.
“The floor in there,” Donna said. “It’s filthy. Who runs that place? I wouldn’t think you could fit a whole person under that sink. You can’t fit more than three people in that whole bathroom. Does this city even have a health department?”
“Well, thanks for bringing her back outside,” Maureen said.
“We’re good for something, I guess,” Donna said. “We evil TV people. I didn’t see you rushing in to help her.”
“I was just about to,” Maureen said, wondering why she was defending herself to this plastic tart.
“I’m so sure you were. As if.”
“How old are you?”
“What?” Donna said.
“Like I said, we’re grateful to you.”
“Whatevs. Do you know where Laine is? She has my per diem. I need to pay that chubby bitch of a bartender.”
Maureen pointed across the street at Laine, who now stood talking to an enormous muscle-bound police officer. His coal-black bald head reflected the red neon letters of the corner store’s OPEN sign. The officer leaned forward and down so he could better hear what Laine was telling him, his large hands clasped behind his back, his blue uniform straining against the thick muscles of his shoulders. Just like Sergeant Hardin, Maureen thought, to be out in his sleeves while the rest of us are bundled up. At least he’d finally arrived.
Hardin straightened and looked in their direction. Maureen liked Hardin. She’d crossed paths with him when he’d worked in the Quarter, and she had been pleased when he transferred from the Eighth District to the Sixth at the beginning of the year. “At least someone will finally put a tent over this circus.”
“I guess we’re going back to the parade?” Cordts said. He sounded disappointed.
“Fuck that,” Maureen said. “I’m finding this shooter. We’re on the trail. Who else is gonna do it? Korn and Faye? Please.”
“Lookit fucking Laine,” Donna said, chuckling. “For real, do you know anyone who still thinks drinking a forty looks gangsta? That girl was meant to be behind the camera. I mean, the hair alone, right? Tragic.”
“You have nothing else to do right now?” Maureen asked. “Aren’t y’all supposed to be making a TV show?”
“It’s a Web-based documentary series,” Donna said.
“Whatevs,” Maureen replied.
“Do me a favor, Red,” Donna said. “Tell Laine I went to the parade. No sense missing it.”
“Excuse me?” Maureen said.
Donna lit another long white cigarette. “And tell that chiseled hunk of black marble, too. If he can find me in that crowd, I’ll make him a star.” She walked away in her spike-heeled boots down the middle of Washington Avenue, hips swinging, chest puffed out, already waving for beads with her free hand.
“Who was that?” Wilburn asked.
“Donna somebody. She’s part of the On Fire crew.”
“She famous?” Cordts asked. “She acts like it.”
“She made a sex tape once,” Maureen said. “Well, twice. The second one was the hit. That’s what her producer told me.”
“A sex tape,” Wilburn said. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down. I didn’t know you could even get famous for that anymore.”
“They’re annoying me, the TV people,” Maureen said. “They’re in the way. There’s got to be a way to chase them.”
“Freedom of the press,” Wilburn said with a shrug. He took out his phone, started thumbing away. “You didn’t get the memo? We’re supposed to be extra helpful to any TV people out on the route. Every one of these dumb shows is a free fucking commercial for the city.”
“‘Mardi Gras on Fire’?” Maureen said. “These are the commercials we want? Interviews with murder witnesses? Blood in the streets?”
“I make these decisions?” Wilburn said with a shrug, focused on his phone. “I just work here. Be nice to TV, the bosses said. You were in the same meetings I was. You know what the brass wants, what the mayor wants.”
“At least the holiday’ll be over by the time it airs, right?” Maureen said. “They have to edit and stuff, right?”
Cordts shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“This On Fire is a Web series,” Wilburn said. “I googled the show. It’s a YouTube channel.” He shrugged. “They want, they can edit and upload their shit by morning, later tonight, if they want. All they need is a laptop.”
“How do you know about this?” She thought about Donna’s sex tape. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“My brother does stand-up comedy,” Wilburn said. “He does all this shit. He’s pretty funny. He’s got a YouTube channel, too.” He held out his phone to Maureen. “C’mon, Cogs, this isn’t exactly NASA-grade technical shit.”
She took the phone from him. He had Laine’s YouTube channel pulled up on the screen. Sure enough, there was Donna talking to the camera, tits hanging out of some Mad Max–type outfit made out of a camouflage-print bikini and a singed and shredded potato sack. “Three hundred thousand people watched her Burning Man thing? Three hundred thousand? Holy shit. Joke’s on me, I guess. What the fuck do I know?” She handed Wilburn back his phone. “There’s money in this? We’re in the wrong fucking business.”
“You’re telling me,” Wilburn said. He looked across the street and put the phone back in his pocket. “Well, here comes Hardin. You can tell him yourself that Hollywood South with the tits is calling for him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear it.”
11
Hardin gathered Maureen, Wilburn, and Cordts around him in the street outside the bar. “Cordts, well done on recovering the weapon. Nice work, Wilburn, getting that description out. Nothing on it yet, but fingers crossed. Coughlin, I hear you’ve already corralled a couple of witnesses. Y’all are showing me something. Way to take control of the chaos. We’re building a good case.” He looked over his shoulder. “That TV lady is a trip.”
“You should see the other one,” Wilburn said. “And thanks.”
“What else have you got for me?” Hardin asked.
“Cordts and I came down Baronne,” Maureen said, “and Wilburn
followed up Washington. Korn and Faye came up later, helped wrangle the bystanders. They helped contain the scene. Mounted came and went when they saw there was nothing left but mop-up duty. But none of us really focused on securing the scene, really locking it down. There’s been foot traffic all through it. People were hurt and needed help.”
“Y’all did fine,” Hardin said. “Better than fine. Korn and Faye gave me the basics. Three shot, including a child, but no fatalities. Two of them at the hospital.” He made the sign of the cross. “A fucking miracle. It’s not good luck anytime three people get shot, but that none of them got dead? That’s pretty fucking lucky.” He looked at Maureen. “I hear you have a friend of the male vic?”
Maureen looked over her shoulder at Susan, now curled up asleep on the wooden bench. “Uh, yeah. His girlfriend.”
“That’s her?” Hardin asked, eyebrows high on his broad forehead.
Maureen took a deep breath, held it, her cheeks puffed out. “Yup. We kept her upright as long as we could.” She looked at Wilburn, who tilted his head toward Cordts, who stood off to the side, smoking the burning filter of his cigarette, staring at the traffic light as if wondering what devil magic made it work. Not good, Maureen thought. Wherever Cordts had gone after putting that girl in the ambulance, he had yet to come all the way back. It was probably best Hardin didn’t catch on. No sense ruining his good mood. She caught Wilburn’s eye and looked at the store across the street.
“If you don’t need us right this absolute second, Sarge,” Wilburn said, catching the hint, “I’m gonna grab Cordts for a coffee run across the street.” He reached out and touched Cordts on the elbow. “Hey, let’s get a coffee. We got a long night ahead of us.”
Cordts looked at Hardin. “Sarge? You need us right now?”
“Great idea,” Hardin said. “While you’re over there, double-check for me and make sure whoever’s running that store tonight knows we want their video. Nothing gets erased. We should find out when the counter guys get off. We don’t want them leaving without giving a statement.” He paused. “You got that? You can handle that?”
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