The next morning, in her sunlit bedroom, her closet half-empty, her clothes strewn across her bed, Maureen changed her outfit five different times. She’d be so glad to be working in a uniform again.
She finally committed, more out of frustration than preference, to the outfit she’d started with: black cotton slacks and a matching jacket, under which she wore a button-up white top. Instead of her black boots she wore a pair of black patent-leather wedges. The combination made the closest thing she owned to a business suit. This was how you looked like you meant business off the streets, she thought. Clothes like this proved you were a grown-up. This was the uniform of offices, of courtrooms, of people talking over a desk or a conference table and not over the hood of a patrol car at three in the morning. People who weren’t borderline crippled by what they’d done the night before. She bent forward, her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths.
Her hangover was brutal. Epic. A record-setter. Her ankle throbbed like a second panicked heart. A pulsing reminder of the violence she’d dished out. At least, she thought, someone out there was having a worse morning than her. She felt like she was moving through glue. She was almost ready to leave. Almost.
She took off her jacket and blouse, laid them carefully on the foot of the bed. In her bare feet, she walked into the bathroom. She tied her hair up, and in her slacks and white bra, made herself throw up one more time, her knuckles white as she gripped the cold rim of the bowl. Nothing but bile came up; she was empty inside.
She struggled to stand up straight, her stomach muscles sore and cramping from the morning’s efforts. At the sink, she blew her nose, brushed her teeth again, and rinsed her mouth with cold water and mouthwash. She rinsed her eyes with Visine, blinking at the bathroom ceiling as the saline ran down her cheeks. She checked her nails one more time. Her fingers were raw from the scrubbing she’d given them, but no blood remained, no dirt. Relax, Lady Macbeth, she thought. That was the beauty of the ASP. Using the weapon saved her hands. Sticking to body shots minimized the blood. Externally, anyway, which was Maureen’s main concern.
In front of the mirror, leaning over the sink for a closer look, she touched on modest makeup, mostly around the eyes. She let her hair down, brushed it.
Returning to the bedroom, she dressed again.
She searched the jewelry box on top of her dresser for her favorite earrings, a pair of sterling silver fleurs-de-lis. She should show loyalty to the cause. They were a gift she’d given herself on her thirtieth birthday. For twenty-nine she’d gotten a nose ring. Her nose had gotten infected and she’d hardly worn it. A dumb idea, anyway. She checked her nostril in the mirror, touched the side of it with her fingertip. The tiny hole was gone. As if it had never been there. As if she had never made that bad decision. She touched the space under her nose, the indentation in her top lip. She thought of Dice, who had a stud punched through her own top lip, right there in the middle.
She tossed the earrings back in the jewelry box. Whatever. Fuck it, she thought. She’s not my problem. I’m not a goddamn social worker. She slammed the box closed.
She realized, taking one final look in the mirror, that she had picked out, with the exception of having switched out a blue top for white, the same outfit she’d worn to her hearings with the Public Integrity Bureau. That wasn’t bad luck, right? No. It was good luck, she thought. She’d survived and was on her way to get her job back. Things had worked out for her.
She had a horrible thought.
Things had worked out provided the DC wasn’t putting her on a desk in the motor pool or the evidence room. What if that’s what waited for her after this favor for the feds?
She put her hand over her eyes, as if hiding from the sight of her foolish self in the mirror. Oh God, she hadn’t considered that option until that very moment. Her stomach dropped through the floor. The brass and administrators knew how badly she wanted to stay in New Orleans. She hadn’t exactly kept it a secret. They knew she wanted to buy the house she was renting. That she had bills in the present and plans for her future.
For the first time in her life, she had plans beyond surviving the next shift. She needed her paycheck. She needed her benefits. Why? Why had she let them see, let them know what she wanted, what she hoped for? They’d use it against her. Especially if she bungled this thing with the FBI. Then the brass would really screw her. Royally.
Calm down, she told herself. Preacher would know if the DC planned on backstabbing her. He would have warned her. He wouldn’t let her get her hopes up if he knew she was getting shafted. Preacher wouldn’t let her go blind and unaware to her own demise. She had faith in that, in him.
She checked her phone. Twenty minutes to get to the DC’s office. These questions, she’d have answers to them soon enough.