Waiting for the detective to speak first, Maureen walked with her hands jammed in the pockets of her leather jacket, which was zipped to her chin. She had her NOPD knit cap pulled low on her head. And she was chilled to the bone. Atkinson walked with her big hands clasped behind her back, no hat, her down coat open. Maureen was embarrassed to be struggling with the weather. Here she was the born-and-bred New Yorker zipped up tight while the native New Orleanian strode along comfortably. Maureen knew, though, it was more than Atkinson’s roots that made her the tougher of the two. They were flanked by the larger, more ornate tombs and crypts as they walked, the stone structures with columns carved in the marble at their corners, with wreaths and Bible verses carved in their walls and with gorgeous white weeping angels draped across their lintels. Everyone inside those temples—and some of the structures bore plaques with more than a dozen names—everyone inside was as dead as any poor slob buried in a potter’s field, Maureen thought.
