Cop Town

by Karin Slaughter

  “You help people,” Kate said. She had always thought of her father as a man of the people. “You heal their minds.”

  “I talk to wealthy men who are afraid of losing their money. I prescribe Valium to housewives who would be better served volunteering at their church.”

  Kate didn’t like this picture he was painting. “You saved Mama and Oma. You brought them here.”

  “No, Kaitlin. When I got to Amsterdam, the first time I saw with my own eyes what the war was really about—” His voice had turned gruff. He cleared his throat. “Your mother saved me. I assure you, it was not the other way around.”

  Kate clutched at straws. “You have your charity cases at Grady.”

  “By the time I see a patient at Grady, he’s been cleaned up, he’s been medicated, he’s been strapped down.” Jacob smiled sadly. “What was his life like two, three hours before? I only have his patient chart to go by, sometimes the police report. I’ve never been to his home. I have no idea how he really lives. And I never before gave one thought to the police officer who brought him to the hospital. Who took away the razor before he cut his wrists. Who tackled him to the ground. Who kept him from harming himself and others.”

  “I’ve hardly acted so valiantly, Daddy. I ran into a wall on my first day. I knocked myself out this afternoon.”

  He winced, and though she gathered he knew the highlights, she appreciated that her father did not want the details. “My point is that you see these people in a way that I will never see them. Your experiences are no longer my experiences. I can’t guide you any longer because I don’t know where you’re going.”

  Kate thought about the putrid smell of the projects. The pimp who licked his lips as he leered at her. The dry cleaner who let her use his bathroom. The two dead men lying in the upstairs bedroom of the Portuguese lady’s boardinghouse.

  She told her father, “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Kate couldn’t answer him, because she couldn’t make sense of it. The job was soul-killing and humiliating and terrifying but on some strange level, it was challenging and, most surprising of all, fun.

  She settled on banalities. “I will always be your daughter.”

  “I know that, sweetheart.” He gently cupped his hand to her face. “Your mother was worried that this job would turn you into somebody you’re not. I worried it would turn you into the person you really are.”

  Kate wondered why his honesty didn’t wound more. “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “I don’t know, Katie. People in these high-stress jobs tend to split in two. Part of you will stay the same girl that we know. Another part will break off into a woman we’ll never meet who sees these horrible things.”

  Kate felt defensive. “Like Oma? Like Mother?”

  “Clever girl. I’ll end my suppositions.” The moment was over. His voice took on a lighter tone. “It is not within a father’s purview to find fault with his daughter.”

  “Freud?”

  “Herschel.”

  “That guy,” Kate teased. “I hear he’s fantastic.”

  He smiled again. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Good night, Daddy.” Kate kissed her father’s head by way of goodbye.

  She left through the front door. Her fingertips brushed the mezuzah. She unpinned her hair as she walked down the steps and across the driveway. She had parked in the turnaround down from the garage. Kate leaned her hand on her car and took off her left shoe, then her right. Next, she pulled down her pantyhose and threw everything into the car.

  Instead of getting in, she walked down the driveway. Her feet howled with every step. There were blisters on her blisters. Her heels looked like they’d been put through a Waring blender.

  Kate took a left at the end of the driveway. There were no cars on the road. No glowing tip of a cigarette. No phantom stranger’s eyes following her every move. She looked up at the moon, which offered barely a crescent of light. The path was so familiar that she needed no guide. The first twenty-five years of Kate’s life had been defined by this street. Her best friend had lived two doors down before she moved to New York. Her elementary school was six blocks over, her high school seven and a half. The Temple was four streets away. The mall was a ten-minute drive. This was where she learned to ride a bike. This was where the school bus dropped her. This was where she made out with Patrick in the car before she took him up to meet her family for the first time.

  The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker—they were all within one square mile of the exact spot where she stood.

  Her father’s Atlanta.

  No longer Kate’s.

  She passed Janice Saddler’s house. Both her parents were gone now. Car accident. Janice and her brother had sold the house to a young lawyer and his wife.

  The Kleinmans’. The Baumgartens’. The Pruetts’.

  Their children were grown, but the parents still lived in the grand old houses that had been passed down through the generations. Kate had played on their swing sets, swam in their pools, flirted with their sons, sneaked through their backyards.

  She turned left again. The driveway wasn’t paved. Pea gravel stuck to the soles of her bare feet. She could barely feel anything now, which she supposed was the best way to describe the current state of her life. When the pain got to be too great, Kate simply blocked it out.

  The front porch light was off at the main house. All the windows were dark. Kate traced her hand along a black Cadillac Fleetwood. She walked past the kitchen, the sunken den, the swimming pool, the tennis court.

  The guesthouse was originally meant for the help, but those times were gone thanks to civil rights and vacuums and washing machines and clothes dryers and all the other modern conveniences that made it possible to run a large estate without a large staff. There was a small sports car parked in front of the one-story house. The top was down. Kate stroked her hand along the soft leather of the driver’s seat.

  The porch light was on. There was a faint glow of light behind the front curtains. She heard a record playing inside. As she had in front of her parents’ house, Kate rested her hand on the side of the car. This time, she took off her underwear.

  She tossed it into the car. She walked up the steps.

  Then she knocked three times on Philip Van Zandt’s door.

  24

  Kate’s knees felt shaky as she walked across the parking garage under the Barbizon Hotel. Every atom in her body was vibrating at a different frequency. Her lips felt swollen from Philip’s kisses. Her breasts were tender from his mouth. If she closed her eyes, she could summon up the sensations of his tongue roaming up and down her body.

  She longed to go back to Philip’s warm bed, to let him do all those wonderful things to her over and over again, but there was still some small part of Kate’s brain that held on to a tiny sliver of sanity. She couldn’t wake up next to him in the morning. She couldn’t burn his toast or fix his coffee or ask about his plans for the day. She couldn’t let herself fall into domesticity.

  It felt too much like cheating.

  How odd that letting Philip do the things he did to her did not feel like betraying Patrick. The two men were nothing alike. Philip’s kisses were more sensual. He had an intimate knowledge of the female anatomy. He was in no rush. He enjoyed every inch of her. When it was time, he did something extraordinary with his hips—an exquisite movement like a spoon dipping into honey. There were no quickening thrusts that ended too soon so that Kate found herself slipping off to the bathroom to take matters into her own hand.

  Kate knew that she had never orgasmed with her husband. At least not like she could on her own. This wasn’t a matter of duration, but one of finesse. Patrick brought her to the precipice, which was nice, but there was no final push that sent her over the edge. Kate was certain this would have changed if they’d had more time together. Time to explore. Time to grow up and appreciate what they could offer one a
nother.

  As it was, Patrick’s pleasure had always been the central issue, which had bothered Kate none whatsoever. She felt good with her husband. Her body responded to him. There were tingles in all the right places and her heart leapt and her body arched up in anticipation. That the obvious didn’t follow was something Kate had always assumed was her fault. Not because of Freud, but because she loved Patrick so much that the failure must be her own.

  Kate didn’t need Patrick for that anyway. Just lying beside him was enough. Feeling his strong arms around her was enough. Hearing the catch in his breath, seeing the look in his eyes—that was more than enough. They were in love, deeply, deeply in love, and his happiness was more satisfying to Kate than anything that could be done to her in bed.

  Kate was certain that she would never feel this way about Philip Van Zandt. She would never iron his shirts. She would never lovingly fold his handkerchiefs into neat little squares. She would never press her face to his pillow just to breathe in the wonderful scent of him.

  Her father was wrong. Kate wasn’t splitting into two different people. She had fractured into three.

  She pressed the call button for the elevator. Normally, Kate took the stairs up to the lobby, but she didn’t trust her legs to hold her. It was five-thirty in the morning. Bumblebees filled her head. Her body was still pulsing with thoughts of Philip. She needed a shower. She needed a quick lie-down. And then she would put on her uniform and go into work.

  The elevator doors slid open. Kate eyed the red velvet bench in the back of the car, but knew she couldn’t give in. She pressed the lobby button and thought how strange it was that she was still going to work after what had happened yesterday. If anything, the carnage at the Portuguese house made her want to work more. She needed to prove herself. She needed to make things up to Maggie. She needed Gail Patterson to know that her loss was not in vain.

  Freud popped into Kate’s head again; the curse of the psychiatrist’s daughter. Undoubtedly, the dead shrink would have diagnosed Kate with masochistic tendencies. Or maybe he’d call it penis envy. Why else would a woman want to do a man’s job? She wanted her father’s attention. She wanted to punish her mother for giving her father things she could not. She was crazy. She was hysterical. Her hormones were imbalanced.

  How was it that completely independent of each other, the male cops on the Atlanta police force and an elderly Austrian psychiatrist had reached the exact same conclusions?

  They should all consult with Dr. Philip Van Zandt. He was more of a Masters and Johnson man. Which was why Kate was smiling when the elevator doors opened.

  And then her smile dropped.

  Maggie Lawson stood in front of her. She had obviously been crying. There was a cut underneath her eye. Bruises ringed her neck. She said nothing, but there was such an air of desperation about her that Kate could almost chew it with her teeth.

  Kate asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Jimmy’s gone.” She blurted out the words like she’d been holding them in for a long while. “He’s missing.”

  “Missing?” Kate stepped off the elevator. Mr. Schueneman, the night doorman, eyed her with great disapproval. She wondered how long Maggie had been waiting. She worried that she looked as obvious as she felt. And now she was worried about Jimmy.

  Kate said, “Tell me what happened.”

  Maggie took a deep breath before answering. “I got home last night. Jimmy wasn’t in his room. His car wasn’t outside. He wasn’t at the station. He’s not on duty. None of his friends know where he is. Don’s girlfriend hasn’t heard from him since Monday. He’s not at his usual bar. We can’t find him. We’ve looked everywhere.”

  Kate tried to focus her weary mind. There was something practiced about Maggie’s tone, as if she was reciting a prepared speech. “We?”

  “Terry. Me. We split up.” She kept looking away, not meeting Kate’s eye. “The other guys are looking for him, too. Terry put out a BOLO on him. That’s—”

  “Be on the lookout,” Kate said. “Has Jimmy disappeared before?”

  “Never.”

  “He didn’t call or leave a note?”

  “No.” She looked over Kate’s shoulder. “He didn’t leave anything.”

  Kate tried to put together her thoughts. Part of her was still asleep in Philip’s bed. “Are you sure he hasn’t gone off with someone?”

  Maggie shook her head. “There’s nobody.”

  Kate wondered if this was true. If Jimmy Lawson had a man in his life, his family would be the last to know.

  Unless there was another reason.

  Kate felt her brain finally wake up. “The Shooter.”

  Maggie looked at her now. There was real fear in her eyes. This must be what she was worried about. Not that her brother had run off, but that someone had murdered him and they hadn’t yet found the body.

  Kate said, “We’ll find him, okay? I’m sure he’s fine.” She took Maggie by the arm and led her toward the bank of elevators behind the front desk. “I just need to change, all right? But I’ll make you some coffee and we can talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Maggie followed her onto the elevator. “We just need to find the Shooter. We have to stop him.”

  Find the Shooter, not find her brother. She was all over the place.

  The doors closed. Kate studied Maggie in the mirrors. She looked awful. Her hair was a mess. Her lipstick had faded. Her uniform was clean, but it was wrinkled, like she’d pulled it from the bottom of her closet.

  Maggie said, “I’ve already checked the Golden Lady. That’s the—”

  “Strip club where the four previous victims ate their last meals.” The bell dinged again. Kate got off the elevator. “What did they say?”

  “They haven’t seen Jimmy.”

  They were back to Jimmy again. Maggie didn’t know whom she wanted to find. “Did you ask about the victims?” Kate turned when she didn’t answer. Maggie was standing in the middle of the hall. Her hand was resting on the chair molding. “Maggie?”

  “What?”

  “The other victims. Ballard, Johnson, Keen, and Porter. Did you ask about them at the strip club?”

  “Yes.” Maggie pushed away from the wall. She was like a toy car. The only way she could move was if Kate wound her up with a question. “The club manager keeps a running tab so the boss knows who got comped. All four of the victims were there the nights they died. Everyone had the same meal: hamburgers and fries. Those are the only foods on the menu.”

  “That matches what the medical examiner found in their stomachs.” Kate slid her key into the lock. “The club manager was certain that Jimmy and Don didn’t go there the night that Don was murdered?”

  Maggie had stopped listening again. She was visibly lost in her own thoughts. Her eyes tracked back and forth. The poor lighting in the hallway darkened the bruises around her neck.

  Kate opened the door. “Come in.”

  Maggie didn’t go in. She was too distracted by the décor. Having seen Maggie’s house, Kate could understand.

  What she could not understand was the strange smell of cigarettes. No one had ever smoked in Kate’s room.

  Maggie asked, “Should I take off my shoes?”

  “Of course not.” Kate ignored the smell, which was probably coming from the girl next door. She told Maggie, “Make yourself at home.”

  Maggie sounded suspicious. “How long have you lived here?”

  “A year, maybe.” She indicated the overstuffed chair by the window. “Have a seat.”

  Maggie stayed where she was. “Did your father help you get it?”

  Kate told the first lie that came to mind. “My husband had an insurance policy.” She glanced at the photo of Patrick on her nightstand. And then she did a double take.

  Patrick’s dog tags were missing.

  They had been there when she’d left last night. Kate could clearly remember looking at the dog tags before closing the door. She leaned over t
o check behind the nightstand. The space was too narrow to see anything. She wanted to search under the bed, but Maggie already had reason enough to think that Kate was imprudent without seeing her crawl around on the floor in a dress. And no underwear.

  Maggie asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Kate rubbed her arms to warm herself. The curtains were open. Kate could’ve sworn she drew them before she left last night. She got the same chill she’d experienced on her parents’ front porch: that now familiar, unsettling sensation that someone was watching her.

  “Kate?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Kate changed the subject before the current one got away from her. “I was just thinking: If the Shooter had done something to Jimmy, we would know by now. You said it yourself: his M.O. is always the same. He kills them when they’re on duty. He makes them call in a meal break before their radios are unplugged. He knows that someone will eventually go looking for them. And by virtue of protocol, the first place to look is evident—the last ten-twenty they gave dispatch.”

  “That’s not how it happened with Sir Chic.”

  “Are you certain that Chic was killed by the Shooter?”

  “Why else would he be killed?”

  Kate could think of a lot of reasons, not least of all because he was a pimp. Still, she picked up from Maggie’s line of reasoning. “We can’t be the only ones who figured out one of Chic’s girls saw something. Obviously, someone got to the Portuguese house before we did. Or after, since there was plenty of time for him to set up across the street. So, maybe he was following us.” Kate dropped that theory. She didn’t want to think about anyone following her. “Either way, the Shooter was certainly watching Chic when we were all upstairs in the front room. Remember how it happened? Chic held up the transmitter. Gail stuck her gun in his face. Chic was about to talk. You know he was. And the Shooter knew it, too. The transmitter was proof that a witness was there. All that was left was for Chic to tell us what she saw.”

  “Jimmy’s transmitter.” Maggie had clearly forgotten all about it.