The Devil in Her Way

by Bill Loehfelm

  The scale of what had happened in New Orleans, though, a loss like that hitting a whole city at once, a city bleeding out like a murder victim with her throat cut, going empty of people first in a flood and then in a trickle, that was a hard thing for Maureen to get her mind around. Even those times her life had changed overnight, she’d at least awoken in the same bed in the same city the next morning, with her people, few in number as they may have been, surrounding her.

  By now, a lot of the people helping to refill and revive New Orleans were transplants like Maureen who hadn’t had a life to lose here before the storm. She knew that some of her fellow reinforcements, maybe most, had lost their lives wherever they were from. Like her, they had arrived here in search of something new, in their way washed ashore in New Orleans by the flood.

  Maureen knocked on Mother Mayor’s storm door and waited for an answer. She realized she hadn’t slept but three hours out of the past thirty. She knocked again. Rose-patterned white curtains covered the small front window. Maureen leaned close to the door, listening for a radio or a television, anything to indicate somebody was home. She thought she heard voices inside, maybe a television.

  She banged again, harder this time.

  “Police, ma’am. NOPD. Please open up.”

  The voices stopped. Someone had muted the TV. Maureen heard rapid footsteps headed her way. Recalling what had happened at the Garvey Apartments, she braced her feet and set her hand on her weapon. She wouldn’t get caught making assumptions this time. She heard two toots of a car horn behind her. She turned to see Preacher in the driver’s seat, shaking his head. Maureen dropped her hand from her gun. She did remember, at the last moment, to step to the side of the doorway, out of the path of anything that might exit that door in a hurry. The side step would buy her a few seconds of reaction time if she needed it.

  The inside door flew open and there stood Mother Mayor. She wore a red-and-white caftan with a rose pattern on it, a matching scarf tied over her hair, which was up in multicolored plastic curlers. She looked at Maureen and her bottom lip rolled over in disgust.

  “I knew it’d be you. I knew it.”

  “If I could, Mother Mayor, I’d appreciate coming in and talking to you.”

  “About?”

  “About the murder of Norman Wright.”

  “I didn’t see nothing,” Mother Mayor said. “I don’t know nothing. I can’t help you.”

  When she moved to close the door, Maureen stuck her foot in the way. Mother Mayor, using the door, let Maureen know she didn’t like it.

  “Excuse me,” Mother Mayor said. “I didn’t see your foot.”

  “And I’m sure you didn’t see who shot Mr. Wright, either,” Maureen said. “But if I could ask you a few questions about some other people we think might be involved? Some people, young people, we need to find and we think might be in danger.”

  She’d added that last part, the danger part, thinking it up on the spot. Could be true. Maybe Scales had heard they’d been dropping his name in front of the cops. Maybe he was looking for them, too. Her embellishment did nothing to soften Mother Mayor’s hard stare.

  “You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?” Mother Mayor said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I really am.”

  “You may as well come in, then. I can’t afford to be air-conditioning the entire neighborhood.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Maureen said. “I appreciate your time.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, hoping Preacher was noticing her having won over Mother Mayor, but he was hidden behind the newspaper.

  “The fat one’s just gonna sit in the car like that, ain’t he?” Mother Mayor said.

  Maureen followed Mother Mayor into the house. “We’re better off with him right where he is. Is anyone else at home?”

  “No,” Mother Mayor said. “It’s just me.”

  She threw a wary glance at the shelves on the wall. On them sat several versions of the Bible and about a dozen framed photos. She knew Maureen had caught her looking. “My daughter’s away.”

  Maureen wished Preacher had told her about the daughter. No, she corrected, this conversation was her idea. She should have asked for background information on Mother Mayor. She hadn’t even asked Preacher for Mother Mayor’s real name. “What should I call you, ma’am? I’m afraid I haven’t even asked your name.”

  “Ma’am will do. Or Mother.”

  “Okay, then,” Maureen said. “Thank you.”

  Mother patted at the bouquet of curlers on her head. “And, by the way, it’s impolite to talk to another adult wearing sunglasses indoors.”

  Maureen slipped off her shades and hung them on her shirt pocket. She stood blinking a moment, as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the house. The window shades were lowered, protection from the late-afternoon sun. An AC unit rattled away somewhere deeper in the house. The machine strained, but it did the job better than the one Maureen had at her place.

  She stepped closer to the bookshelves for a better look at the photos, not waiting for Mother’s permission or invitation to look. May as well learn what she could.

  The photos showed a young woman in military uniform, desert fatigues, Army it looked like. A younger, thinner Mother Mayor, definitely a daughter. The standard posed head shots in dress uniform with the American flag stood alongside several pictures printed from a computer, Mother Mayor’s daughter standing beside different types of idle helicopters. In each picture, she smiled like the choppers were well-trained pets or kids of which she was especially proud. A mechanic, Maureen guessed.

  One photo was set off to the side. The daughter, in civilian dress, younger and heavier than she was in the Army photos. Late high school, probably, early college age, tops. Baby fat still rounded out her face. Instead of standing before a large helicopter in a desert hangar, the young woman sat in front of a dull gray portrait-studio sky. It was a classic high school yearbook photo, except for the young boy three or four years old sitting on her lap. He had the same huge smile as his mother and his grandmother. A teen pregnancy. The Army photos made even more sense. No sight or sign of the girl’s father in the pictures. No sign of her baby’s father. Maureen realized she was talking to a single mother. The proud single mother of a grown daughter. That was a person she could relate to. Keep her talking about the daughter, she thought. Maybe she could get a genuine conversation going instead of getting a performance or a lecture.

  “When does she get out?” Maureen asked. “I’m sure you’re anxious for her to get home.”

  “She’s back from Kabul in six months.” Mother Mayor blessed herself. “God willing, this is her last tour. Kuwait first for a few weeks, then back home for leave.”

  “Only for leave?”

  Mother Mayor smiled, revealing beautiful white teeth, a perfect match of the smile in the photos. “She’s career military, my daughter. She likes the work, and the uniform. Waking up every day with a job, knowing what needs doing. Eight years in the service this fall.”

  No mention of the grandson, Maureen noticed. “I can relate.”

  “Oh, you can?”

  “Sure. I like my job and my uniform. Can’t say I know my way around a helicopter, though. Never been overseas, either.” She tapped her finger on her badge. “They don’t even let me fill up the tires on the cruiser. Yet. You have to start somewhere, I guess.”

  She turned back to the shelves. “He’s beautiful, your grandson. Looks happy. I bet he misses his momma.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Or his auntie.”

  “So you have another daughter?” Maureen asked. And no pictures of her?

  “Any of your own?”

  Maureen laughed. Mother was getting short with her. So much for her whip-smart detective work. There were women in this world, Maureen thought, with more than one daughter. Time for another angle. “No, ma’am. No kids or aunties.”

  Looking around the cluttered living room, Maureen saw that rose-colored and rose-themed knickknacks arrayed
every flat surface. Needlepoints, doilies, two dozen ceramic ornaments and boxes. Maureen hadn’t realized Precious Moments made black cherubs. Made sense. There was not a single live flower, Maureen noticed, no roses or any other kind of flower anywhere in the room. She hadn’t seen any out front, just a patch of half-dead weeds by the steps. The house smelled of cheap air freshener, something Maureen figured came in a pretty box and promised to smell like roses. She let Mother Mayor watch her look around.

  “My mother loves roses,” Maureen said. “She grows them in her backyard.”

  “Storm took my garden,” Mother said, not looking at Maureen, instead watching the silent soap opera on a large flat-screen TV. “Floodwater killed every last rose. Over by where I used to stay got four feet. I haven’t got the space here to start over. The last place, I’d taken over for my momma when she passed, the house and the garden. That garden was old. New one’ll never be like the old one was. Roses grow so slow. And I don’t know that Deandra is the type for slow-growing things. She won’t be home to tend anything, anyway. So I did it different.”

  She grinned at something on the television, but her eyes stayed sad. “And if another storm comes along, this one I can pack up and take with.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Maureen said, her standard answer for storm stories; she never tried to commiserate. She let people assume what they wanted about her story from her silence.

  “But all that’s not what you’re here for, is it?” Mother Mayor said.

  “We’re concerned,” Maureen said, “that the shooting of Mr. Wright connects to the green Plymouth he had an interest in. That vehicle, which hadn’t moved for quite some time, is now missing. It’s a coincidence that caught our attention. We’re also concerned, primarily concerned, about three young boys around twelve years of age who were on the scene when I talked to Mr. Wright yesterday afternoon. We think they may have knowledge of the car’s owner.”

  She paused, leaving room for Mother Mayor to jump in. The older woman didn’t.

  “Naturally, we’d like to talk to the car’s owner about Mr. Wright, any history that was there, and the current whereabouts of the car.”

  Maureen paused again.

  “Do you know who owns that car? Do you know anyone else in the neighborhood that might know the owner of that car?”

  Mother Mayor remained silent. Maureen ran her tongue over her teeth. She counted to ten. C’mon, Mother, she thought, give me a break. Lie to me. Even a lie gives something away. On the street, with an audience, you couldn’t get the woman to shut up about who was doing what to whom. “Do you know any of those boys?”

  “I don’t know which boys you’re talking about.”

  “The three boys who were by the car when I went to talk to Mr. Wright yesterday. Those boys.”

  “I didn’t see no boys out there. Just you and Mr. Wright. That’s all I saw.”

  “Do you know any boys in the neighborhood that age?”

  “Only about twenty or thirty or so.”

  “What about an older boy,” Maureen asked, “eighteen, nineteen. Wears Rasta gear and big sunglasses?”

  “I stay away from them teenagers, and they stay away from me.” Mother Mayor shook her head, looking away from Maureen. “I have a question for you.”

  “By all means,” Maureen said, happy to keep the conversation alive. Questions could tell as much as lies. “I’m here to help.”

  “Do you know why they sent you?”

  “We’re looking for witnesses and information concerning a homicide. A killing that took place yards from your front door, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “They’re sending a message,” Mother Mayor said.

  “I’m not sure who ‘they’ are and why they matter.”

  “Your people. Your bosses. You’re a message. They’re using you.”

  “I have a recent history with the victim,” Maureen said. “I spoke with him yesterday. I arrested him last week. You witnessed both yesterday’s conversation and the arrest. I work in this district and the lead detective on the case needs a hand. I’m sorry, I don’t see the conspiracy.”

  “You’re a smart woman,” Mother Mayor said. “Young, but smart. Where’s this lead detective, then, if we’re all so important to the police? If it’s so important to talk to and to protect those boys? Your partner won’t even get out of the car.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with you, or those boys, and everything to do with him. Detective Sergeant Atkinson is working night shift this week. I’m here so she doesn’t have to bother you after dark.” Maureen straightened her shoulders. “Ma’am, I have to say I resent the implication that I’m somehow substandard material here.”

  “A good man, a neighborhood man,” Mother Mayor began, “a veteran, a black man who lived in this neighborhood his whole life gets shot down in the street over an abandoned car and who do we get at our door? A white rookie female and a lazy fat man. You’re not even a real police officer yet, are you? You hearing a message now? Don’t worry, honey, you ain’t the only thing substandard that’s going on here. I don’t blame you. This ain’t nothing new.”

  “Look, lady, I’m not in charge of who gets sent where,” Maureen said. “I just do what I’m told. You want me to drag my partner out of the car so you can deal with a senior officer, I’ll go get him. You want me to call my sergeant and ask for a black cop to come out here, I will. I got no problem with that. My feelings won’t get hurt. I’m here to help you. It’s your neighborhood that people are getting shot in.” She took a step toward the door. “Right now. I’ll do it right now. You got a favorite black cop? You wanna make a request?”

  Mother Mayor went ice-cold. “You got some attitude on you, young lady. I should call your supervisor.” Mother Mayor crossed her arms over her chest, triumphant.

  Maureen could tell that in Mother’s mind young white people feared nothing more than having their supervisor told of bad behavior. Before she could say anything, and she had plenty to say, Maureen felt a distant memory pass through her like a ghost. In it, she wore a tight skirt and a tuxedo shirt and an apron. She had a tray in one hand, her legs hurt, and some fat bitch at a small table was demanding to see her manager. In the present, she took a deep breath of rose-scented air freshener and gathered herself. She wasn’t that girl anymore. What was the point of getting older if you weren’t gonna get smarter along the way?

  “You call who you wanna call,” Maureen said, “but I’m surprised at you. You think your daughter tolerates eye-rolling over the ‘girl mechanic’ showing up to fix things?” She pointed at the pictures on the bookshelves. “You think those guys in Afghanistan care who fixes their chopper, as long as it gets fixed right? Half this neighborhood is always complaining the cops never listen, that we never do anything. I’m here now, trying to fix things. Work with me. Do you know those three boys or not? Do you know their names? Have you heard anything about them around the neighborhood? Where can I catch up to them, even one of them?”

  She waited again for an answer. Mother Mayor was weakening. Maureen decided to turn up the pressure.

  “One of those boys was present at the incident over in the Garvey Apartments the day before yesterday. Two days in a row he’s around a crime scene. Drugs, guns, and now murder.”

  Just one name, Maureen thought. And then, before she could catch herself, because she was greedy and in a hurry, the question popped out. “Have you ever heard the name Bobby Scales?”

  Damn it, Maureen. Patience, woman, patience. But the damage was done.

  Mother Mayor’s mind locked up, as if a hand from inside her head reached out and snatched what the older woman was going to say right out of her eyes. It was as much an answer as Wright offering his wrists for the handcuffs. Scales was a name that people knew, and it frightened them. Maureen wanted to find him, whether Preacher was on board or not.

  “Thank you, Officer, but you got to go.” Mother Mayor gestured toward the front door. “I got company coming. I apologize
if I disrespected you. I can’t help you.”

  Someone from Homicide, Maureen thought, probably Atkinson, had Mother Mayor on their interview list. Maureen prayed she hadn’t blown a potential lead. She needed to salvage something from the interview, even if it was only enough good feeling, or guilt, to make sure Mother Mayor opened her door to the next cop. She stopped at the pictures.

  “Your grandson,” she said. “How old is he now? He in school?”

  “He lives in Baton Rouge with his father,” Mother Mayor said. “I haven’t seen him since the storm. Please, Officer, you need to go. I have things to do.”

  Maureen dug out a business card from her shirt pocket, placed it on the arm of the sofa. Mother Mayor looked at the card as if Maureen had wiped snot on her furniture.

  “Please think about contacting me if you think of anything,” Maureen said, opening the door. “I do want to help. If you don’t want to talk to me, call the Sixth District, or call Homicide. Ask for Detective Sergeant Christine Atkinson.”

  Mother Mayor said nothing, slamming the door shut and locking it up after Maureen had stepped outside.

  “Fuck me,” Maureen said. “Brilliant work, Coughlin. Way to alienate the one person in the neighborhood who knows everyone’s business. That’s fine, fine police work.”

  She put her sunglasses on, looked around, and that was when she saw him—the orange-drink kid from yesterday. He stared at her from the sidewalk, as shocked to see Maureen as she was to see him. He held another container of orange drink to his mouth. When he froze, Maureen wasted a glance at the cruiser. Preacher was hidden behind the sports pages. Asleep at the wheel, literally.

  “Hey!” Maureen yelled, maybe at Preacher, maybe at the kid. “Hey!”

  Either way, only the kid reacted. He dropped his drink and bolted across the street.