The Devil She Knows

by Bill Loehfelm

  Maureen watched her hand disappear into his. “Maureen Coughlin. Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  John pushed through the front door. He glanced at Maureen, extended his hand to Waters. “Sheriff. Surprised to be back around these parts?”

  “Surprised it took this long, Junior,” Waters said. “Knowin’ you.”

  “Always one for the warm and fucking fuzzies, I see,” John said, looking over Waters’s shoulder at the car. “Where’s your other half? Couldn’t get him out of bed this early on a Sunday?”

  “Purvis?” Waters asked. “Haven’t you heard? He left the department, took a job at the borough president’s office.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Purvis seems to think he’s got a bright future in politics,” Waters said. “I’m flying solo these days. Suits me better.”

  “Five years,” John said. “Five years before he’s making a perp walk on the evening news.”

  “I got three in the office pool,” Waters said. “Let’s go inside, out of the cold.”

  John pulled open the door, bowed to Waters and Maureen like a butler.

  “Junior?” Maureen asked, passing through the doorway.

  “Long story,” John said. “Nobody calls me that anymore.”

  Maureen let the men precede her up the stairs, listening as they talked about John’s sister, Julia, and her budding art career. Two of her paintings hung in Cargo. Haunted and abstract, the paintings gave Maureen the creeps—after hours, at least, when the shadows hit them right. The owners loved Julia’s work, though. That’s what happens, Maureen thought, when you let artists own a bar. Yeah, as opposed to who, Vic? The Narrows, it seemed to Maureen, collected plenty of its own creeps.

  At the landing for Maureen’s floor, John took his leave and headed upstairs to his own apartment, where Molly waited.

  Molly had arrived early that morning, letting herself into John’s place. Maureen had been awake for a while, but she’d stayed curled up on the couch, feeling too warm and heavy to move. When she’d heard the key in the door, though, she cursed herself for not heading home. John had told her not to worry, but as the door opened Maureen wanted to yank the blanket over her head and hide from Molly. She’d drawn her covers to her chin, watching John’s girlfriend with wide and fearful eyes, as if Molly were a monster emerging from a closet.

  Despite the late-November cold, Molly didn’t wear a coat. A long, thick Aran sweater curled over the thighs of her tight brown cords. She pulled off her knit hat, stuffed her gloves inside it, and dropped the hat on the end table by the door along with her keys. Molly shook out her cascades of hair, deep, dark brown with shades of red. Like a Coke loaded with grenadine, Maureen thought, held up to the light.

  Molly came right to the couch, settling on the arm at Maureen’s feet. “I’m Molly. I think we met at Cargo once or twice. You probably don’t remember me.”

  Maureen did remember. She stared at Molly’s shimmering hair, falling in waves over the shoulders of her sweater. That’s what you get, Maureen thought, when you don’t live in a world of grease and smoke and no daylight. “I remember. You’re a teacher.” She sat up on the couch, folding her legs underneath her, arms and legs still covered by the blanket. “Thanks, you know. For this. Rough night last night.”

  “Yup. Let me wake the lazy bastard up,” Molly said. “And he’ll make us some coffee, if he knows what’s good for him.” She stood up and picked invisible lint off her right thigh. “And you’re welcome.” She looked right at Maureen. “Just, you know, don’t make a habit of it.”

  Now, the coffee gone cold, Molly and John together upstairs, Maureen followed Waters to her front door. Fear tickled the edges of her bones. She recalled her dread at Molly’s arrival. Waters waited at Maureen’s front door, his huge hands jammed in his pockets. Maureen looked at him, remembering her panic when his car came around the corner. She recalled Sebastian’s quiet, menacing laugh. She frowned as she pulled her keys from her coat. Is this how I’m gonna go through life now? Afraid of everyone and everything?

  9

  Maureen let Waters lead her into her apartment. He didn’t ask her to wait outside, nor did he cross the threshold with one hand on his gun and the other thrust out behind him, commanding her to stay back, lest there be danger, like cops did on TV. Waters didn’t seem cautious, just tired and slightly put out to be going through the motions, like a guy on a dinner date he didn’t want to have in the first place. If someone had been waiting on her return, Maureen thought, Waters didn’t expect they’d stuck around. Who could blame him? Was she really worth the effort? Even to her, the apartment so haunted with threat and menace the night before now sat bland and empty in the daylight.

  After clicking on the lights, Maureen shuffled along behind Waters, embarrassed at the state of her place and struggling to remember the last time anyone but her had seen it. She watched as his round gray head turned one way and then the other to survey the living room. The only sound was the detective’s heavy breathing. She told herself he was assessing the situation, that he was detecting and not just searching for a clean place to sit. Watching Waters, Maureen thought of Sebastian.

  The two men stood about the same height and were about the same age, though Sebastian took better care of himself physically, used a better tailor and a better hairdresser. Well, Sebastian had a tailor and a hairdresser and maybe a personal trainer. Waters had a dusty closet lit by a bare bulb, carried a fifty-cent comb in his back pocket, and thought trainers were for boxers, dogs, and circus animals. Both were large men. But while Sebastian had what Maureen figured for a longtime gym rat’s build, too large in the shoulders and arms for his waist and legs, Waters carried his weight evenly if not without effort, like he was made of wet cement spread over a steel frame. His skin was nearly that color. He moved like a man who had been born into the husky section at Sears and had carried a large weight his entire life.

  Waters, in fact, reminded Maureen of a big bear. Not a circus bear or one caged in a zoo, but like she imagined a grizzly might look, rumbling along in the wild: unhurried and graceless, assured of its power and its place at the pinnacle of the food chain. Sure Waters was a cop, so he had a badge and a gun, but those things didn’t give him his power. His height, his weight, that’s what mattered. The back like a billboard, the arms and legs thick as water pipes, the hands the size of dinner plates. The sheer overwhelming, intimidating maleness of him.

  What must it be like, Maureen wondered, to be that size? To be that strong? To know you can show your back to every dark stairwell, doorway, and alley. To have people stare at their shoes and not at your tits when you caught them looking. For people to step aside and not “accidentally” brush up against you when they passed in close quarters. What’s it like to be that big instead of five-four, a hundred pounds, and female? For one week, for one day, I wanna be that size. A guy that size.

  Waters lifted his left arm and pointed to Maureen’s TV, turning to look at her over his shoulder. The screen had been kicked in, fractured in a thousand places like thin ice. She pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut tight. Her new little flat-screen, less than a month old, dead where it sat. A treat for herself, for her very rare days off. She had paid extra for the built-in DVD player.

  Her three movies, Aliens and the first two Terminators, had been stomped to pieces.

  “That’s new,” Maureen said. “The damage. Wasn’t like that when I left last night.”

  “Anything else? You see anything missing?”

  Maureen hadn’t really been looking, forgetting that while she had her own ideas about who had hit her apartment, Waters’s natural assumption was a random burglary. Other than the TV, nothing appeared out of order. The cheap Georgia O’Keeffe print in the drugstore frame hung crooked as always over the couch. Her secondhand couch slumped against the wall to her right, unwashed black stockings that probably stank of sweat and smoke tossed ove
r the back. On the coffee table, overflowing ashtrays and cocktail-sticky glasses sat atop stacked, unread paperbacks. Against the far wall, beside the kitchen doorway, the small cabinet bar stood untouched, her half-empty bottles of Jameson, Stoli, and Bacardi standing their ground between the broken lava lamp and the four dusty martini glasses, a housewarming gift from her mother.

  What a dump, Maureen thought. I’m such a friggin’ slob.

  What must this guy be thinking? Where’s the cats, probably. That bastard Sebastian. The flat-screen was the only thing of value in the whole apartment, so he’d gone right for it. To be cruel.

  Waters turned to face her, hands stuffed in his pants pockets. To Maureen’s surprise, he was grinning. “You work a lot.”

  Maureen blinked at him, surprised at the comment. “I do. I’m a waitress.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Narrows, over on Bay Street,” Maureen said. “Ever been?”

  “I know the name. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” Waters sighed. “Your place looks a lot like mine.”

  Maureen laughed. “How’s your wife feel about that?”

  Waters raised his left hand, turned the back of it to her. “I’m not married. Was once. Long time ago.”

  Duh. The wrinkled, ill-fitting clothes, the bad hair and sad eyes. Had he taken a seat at one of her tables, she’d have read him easy. She was off her game. Widower, she figured, if she had to guess. Divorce, unless it was really recent, you had to dig for. Death lingered like a stray dog. “Sorry. I’m not much of a detective.”

  “I should go into the bedroom with you,” Waters said. “For a quick look. But naturally you can go through your things yourself.”

  Maureen hesitated. Why bother? No one had come to steal from her. Sebastian had delivered his quick fuck you and that was that. But she didn’t want to tell Waters about that. Besides, he had come out on a cold Sunday morning for her; the least she could do was go through the motions, give him a show. With the Narrows shut down, she had nothing better to do. She led Waters to the bedroom.

  He waited in the doorway as Maureen made a cursory sweep of her closet, her jewelry box, the drawers of her dresser, running her hand under the bras and over her perfume vials, over the envelope of cash tips. She gave Waters a shrug as she went to the bed.

  “Doing what you do,” Waters said, “I’d imagine you’ve got cash around. Your neighbors know you’re a waitress?”

  “Maybe. I don’t really talk to them.” She glanced at the nightstand beside her bed, caught herself, and looked back at Waters. “Doesn’t matter. The money’s where it should be.”

  She hadn’t gone through the nightstand, figured Waters had noticed the omission. She wondered what he made of it. He probably thinks that’s where I keep my coke stash. Good for him, let him think what he wants. Tissues, loose change, half a dozen ancient condoms, and a vibrator with fresh batteries, that’s what was in that drawer.

  And there was no chance on God’s green earth of Waters seeing any of it.

  “We can check the kitchen,” Maureen said, “but I don’t think there’s much point.”

  “What is the point, Maureen?” Waters asked. “Why did you want to see me? Junior told me about the break-in, reason enough to be cautious, but you didn’t call the police last night, when we might’ve caught someone waiting on you or in the area, maybe hitting other places. Junior told me you’d rather not talk to us at all. We’ve done our little dance. What’s this really about?”

  When she sat on the bed, Maureen felt something under the covers, something like a deck of playing cards or a handful of business cards that had been scattered under the comforter. She looked at Waters, confused. Waters took a step into the room, frowning at her. Maureen stood and pulled back the covers. Strewn across the mattress were dozens of thin blue and yellow plastic cards, each a shade smaller than a credit card.

  “MetroCards,” Waters said.

  He walked to the bed and picked one up. Maureen took it from him. She turned the card over in her hand, ran her thumb over the black strip across the front. She looked up at Waters. Fear twisted her stomach in its fist. She felt it tug at her knees. She was so scared, so angry she wanted to scream. Instead, she raised the card between her fingers to Waters’s face.

  “A MetroCard,” Maureen repeated, “is the last thing you get before you catch the train.” She flung the card over the bed. “Fuck.”

  “You work at the Narrows,” Waters said. “Where that train accident happened last night.” He reached for Maureen’s shoulder. She jerked back her arm and cocked her fist. Waters didn’t flinch or pull back his hand, holding his ground. “I’m sorry. Did you know him? The deceased?”

  She backed away from Waters, out from under his hand, looking down at the cards on her bed. Her fist stayed locked tight at her hip. Deceased. The word floated around inside her head like a whisper. Maureen felt like her throat was closing. “I don’t know anybody.”

  Waters’s eyes softened. “This break-in wasn’t a burglary, it’s a threat. Who’s trying to get your attention?”

  “Nobody wants my attention.” Maureen blew the hair off her forehead. “Who am I? I’m nobody.” Straightening her shoulders, she made sure she looked Waters in the face. “I appreciate you coming out. But maybe you should go.”

  Waters turned and left the bedroom. He didn’t leave the apartment. He settled himself on the couch, readying his notepad and pen. “I gotta justify my time here to the City of New York. Talk.”

  Maureen ignited her best flirty smile and stopped just short of batting her eyelashes. “This is obviously some bad prank. Come by the bar. I’ll buy you a drink to make up for your wasted time.”

  Waters said nothing.

  “It’s just some weird thing with an ex-boyfriend,” Maureen said. “Long story, kind of pathetic, I don’t wanna waste your time. Or the city’s time.”

  Waters didn’t move, didn’t write anything down. He just sat there looking at her, unimpressed and waiting, not unlike, she realized, the calico cat on her fire escape. Unfortunately, pouring beer on his head to chase him away was out of the question.

  For a moment she considered trying one more time to tap-dance her way around the truth, fat lot of good it had done her so far. But looking at Waters she knew there was nothing she could sell him. He’d been a cop as long as she’d been alive. She had skills, but not like that.

  “If I gotta find something here to bust you for,” Waters said, “I can do that. I’ll leave here with something.”

  So she would give him something. Maybe everything. Maureen knew she was about to step in it worse than she had the night before. Talking to this cop about Sebastian wasn’t any different, wasn’t any smarter, than pouring whiskey down her throat to counterbalance the coke she put up her nose. But like the booze and the coke, she was gonna do it anyway. What else could she do? She was stuck. You had to at least try.

  “I need a drink for this.”

  “I got no problem with that,” Waters said.

  Maureen went into the kitchen for a glass and some ice. She noticed the bird feeder sitting on the counter. Be patient, little birds. It’s for your own good. It’ll go back up as soon as I get this other thing sorted out. Don’t give up on me yet. She looked out the window for her birds and saw none. Not on the fire escape, not on the power lines running to her roof, not even in the bare trees behind her building. She took another moment to search for the cat but couldn’t find him, either. She knew that didn’t mean he wasn’t around, maybe even right under her nose. If the birds were hiding, that cat was out there somewhere.

  Standing at the bar with her back to Waters, Maureen fixed a screwdriver, a weak one with lots of OJ and ice. She didn’t want the vodka taking a bite out of her, she only wanted enough to nip at her nerve and wake it up. She sipped her drink, the sharp, oily sting of the Stoli sliding through the acid tang of the OJ and pricking the back of her tongue. She resisted the urge to add more vodka.

  S
he joined Waters on the couch, sitting on the opposite end, holding her drink between her knees. He didn’t say anything, waiting for her to speak. Maureen lit a cigarette, then balanced it carefully on the edge of an overfull ashtray. She swallowed a mouthful of screwdriver, took a breath big enough to fuel the whole story, and started talking.

  While she talked, Maureen kept a close eye on Waters’s reactions to her story. He gave away nothing he thought or felt. He kept his eyes on the notepad propped on his knee, scribbling, nodding now and then to prove he was listening. Maureen was grateful he didn’t interrupt with questions, though she knew they’d come eventually. She had the feeling that any pause in the story would wreck her nerve. If she stopped talking, she’d find a million lame reasons not to continue. She wanted to tell the truth like she tore a Band-Aid off a blister, in one quick, sudden motion.

  Waters flipped his notebook closed. Maureen felt a rush of hope that he’d discovered a solution; that his notes mapped out a route back into the life, such as it was, that she’d had only yesterday. It was a foolish hope, but so big she nearly choked on it anyway. She knew she was setting herself up for disappointment. Typical. When, lately, had it been any other way? Especially when it came to what she expected from men.

  “You ever see any evidence of a problem between Dennis and Sebastian?” Waters asked.

  “Dennis acted like they’d never met, but Sebastian told me they knew each other.” She shrugged. “As for me, I never saw Sebastian at the Narrows before this weekend.”

  “And you would remember?”

  “It’s my job,” Maureen said, “to know when money walks through the door. I couldn’t tell you where it’s from, but Frank Sebastian’s got money. You have to, right, to run for office?”

  “I’d say so. Money of your own, other people’s money. Did Dennis have money?”

  “I doubt it. Seemed to me he was getting by on what he made at the Narrows, like the rest of us.”