Cop Town: A Novel

by Karin Slaughter

  Both looked confused.

  Kate couldn’t find a way to make it sound funny, so she chose not to explain. “There are just all sorts of practical things that I’ve never had to deal with. I’ve never felt so out of place.” Kate drank her martini, so she didn’t see the look exchanged between her mother and grandmother. “The least you could do is pretend to be surprised by this revelation.”

  The look was exchanged again.

  “Of course you’ll learn,” Oma soothed. “This job—it’s good to help people, yes? To give back?”

  Kate nodded, though she couldn’t think of one damn thing she’d done all day that contributed to the well-being of anyone, least of all herself. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

  Oma said, “I remember that nice police captain who spoke to us when the Temple was bombed.” She put down her drink. “We were all very worried, of course. We’d never met a police officer here except to ask directions. He was very serious. One of our crowd, surprisingly. When was that? Fifty-six?”

  “Fifty-eight.” Kate had been eight years old when the Temple on Peachtree Street was nearly destroyed. They lived close enough that they heard the dynamite explode.

  “Those fools thought we’d be there on a Sunday,” Liesbeth said. “But maybe they weren’t so stupid. They got away with it.”

  Oma was never one to dwell on the negative. “The point I am making is that the police were very helpful. They made us feel safe again.” She smiled so sweetly that Kate felt her heart breaking in two. “And now you are making people feel safe, Kaitlin. What a gift you’re giving the world.”

  Kate knew there was a prostitute on Cheshire Bridge Road who would certainly disagree, but she smiled for her grandmother’s sake.

  Liesbeth asked, “It makes things easier for you, yes?”

  She meant after Patrick. Kate supposed what she had done today was better than staying in bed all day and crying over something that would never change. Sitting right in front of her were two sterling examples of women with the strength to carry on past unspeakable tragedies.

  And the tragedies did go unspoken. Neither her mother nor grandmother ever talked about what had happened to them during the war. They refused to dwell on their losses. Kate knew facts, but not details. Oma had lost her mother and father, a brother, her husband, and a son. Liesbeth had lost her family, too. She was barely a teenager when she was transported to the camps. Each had assumed the other was dead until the Red Cross managed to reunite them after the liberation.

  And here they sat trying to comfort Kate as if her aching body and bruised ego were of any consequence.

  Kate told her mother, “Yes. You were right. It’s good to have something to do.”

  “Something useful.” Oma raised her glass in another toast. “I’m very proud of you, darling. This is unconventional, what you’re doing, of course, but always know that your family is very proud of you. You’ve made us very happy.”

  “You have,” Liesbeth agreed. “Though we would’ve been equally as proud had you kept that last job as a secretary.”

  “Hoe kom je erbij,” Oma muttered. “She was an awful secretary.”

  “She wasn’t that bad.”

  “Ze is te slim voor dat soort werk.”

  “Moeder.”

  The two women switched to their native tongue. Kate tuned them out. She understood only half of what they were saying. As with most Americans, Dutch sounded to her more like a disease of the throat than an actual language.

  Kate leaned forward so that she could dry her feet. Her back twinged with the movement. Her vision swam. Suddenly, she was so tired that she could barely stay upright. The clock over the fireplace showed it was almost eleven o’clock. The thought of driving home was too much. Kate could stay and sleep in her old room. Mary Jane would have her uniforms ready. She could use her mother’s makeup. Or, if she was lucky, Maggie would open her locker and Kate could retrieve her purse.

  Her purse. It was only through divine intervention that Kate had been able to drive her car tonight. Years ago, Patrick had stuck a magnetic key box under the wheel well or she’d still be sitting in the parking lot off Central Avenue. Kate would have to get a combination lock. She would pay for it because it didn’t seem right not to. They probably had some locks at the pro shop inside the tennis club. She could borrow one from her father until she had time to go.

  With a start, Kate realized that she was really returning to work tomorrow. She wasn’t going to quit after her first day. How had that happened? Certainly through no conscious effort of her own. Her grandmother wasn’t a quitter. Her mother had never given up. Their blood flowed in Kate’s veins. Compared to what they had survived, the Atlanta Police Department was a walk in the park.

  She could do this.

  She had to do this.

  As if on cue, Mary Jane came into the room with Kate’s uniforms neatly folded in her arms. “I got the stain outta the one, but you can probably see where I had to stitch the tear in the sleeve.”

  Kate began, “I’m so sorry that I …” Her voice trailed off.

  Philip Van Zandt was standing behind Mary Jane. He was wearing a charcoal-gray Hickey Freeman suit with a light purple shirt. The hair on his chest showed beneath his unbuttoned collar. His pants were closely tailored to his body. The legs gently flared out below his knees.

  He said, “Good evening again, Mrs. Herschel. Mrs. De Vries.” He was showing off. He pronounced Oma’s name like he were riding a bike along the Herengracht. “I’m afraid I gave Mary Jane a fright knocking on the basement door.”

  Kate knew exactly why he was knocking on that particular door. All her friends knew she had moved downstairs when she turned fourteen because her parents could no longer endure Kate’s giggly slumber parties. Besides that, her car was in the driveway and almost every light was on in the house.

  “All right.” Mary Jane had never been one for tension. She put the uniforms on the sideboard. “I’ll be off now.”

  Kate said, “I’m so sorry I kept you up this late.”

  Mary Jane waved away her concern, but Kate felt awful as she watched the old woman shuffle toward the back stairs.

  Philip gave the maid a slight bow as she passed him. “Ladies, my apologies for coming so late unannounced, but my mother was at the club tonight and it seems she may have picked up your lipstick by mistake.”

  He held a tube of lipstick in his hand. The item was the sort of thing you’d find in a corner store. All the women knew this. Philip knew this. Yet he pretended he was performing a remarkable act of chivalry.

  Oma was always game for deception. “Yes, that belongs to me. Thank you, Philip. You’re so thoughtful to return it.”

  Liesbeth wasn’t so easy. “I forgot to ask your mother how your wife is doing. I believe she’s studying in Israel?” She turned to Kate. “Philip is married now.”

  “Yes, I know,” Kate said, just like she knew if she tried to stand up, the heating pad would pull her back to the couch like a slingshot.

  “Israel,” Oma echoed wistfully. “Philip, have you seen Dr. Herschel’s stamps from the Hapoel Games?”

  His smile said the mere thought delighted him. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “If you could?” Oma held out her hand. Philip helped her stand. While his back was turned, Kate yanked the heating pad out from under her dress. The noise was awful, like a sash being pulled through a belt loop.

  Philip turned toward her. He looked at the heating pad on the couch. He looked at Kate.

  Kate looked at the floor.

  Oma said, “I’ll find the stamps. Liesbeth, get some fresh ice from the kitchen.”

  Unusually, Kate took her mother’s view. “It’s very late, Oma. I think Philip must have work in the morning.”

  He held open his arms. “I have the whole day off.”

  “Really?” she asked, because what was he doing here? It was one thing to share a harmless flirtation, but this was taking it a step too f
ar. “Maybe you should spend the time writing a letter to your wife.”

  “I’ve already written two. I told her all about seeing you today.”

  “You saw each other?” Liesbeth’s voice went up suspiciously. “When was this?”

  “At the hospital,” Kate answered, then because she didn’t want to tell her mother that another police officer had been shot, she lied, “Philip was giving me information about a case.”

  Philip winked at Kate. “Your daughter is quite the detective.”

  “She tends to figure things out quickly.” Liesbeth held a fresh cigarette between her fingers.

  Philip leaned down with a light. “I’ll have a gin and tonic, Kaitlin. Extra ice.”

  “Lieverd?” Oma called from the hallway. “Can you help me in the study, please?”

  Liesbeth stabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. “Your father will check on you before he comes to bed.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said, though they both knew that her father was likely asleep by now. “Philip won’t be staying long.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Herschel.” Philip bowed as she left, the same as he had with Mary Jane. He told Kate, “Such a lovely woman.”

  Kate warned, “You shouldn’t vex her.”

  “The tactic seems to be working well for me with her daughter.”

  “It’s really not.” Kate grabbed the ice bucket as she headed toward the kitchen. She pushed through the swinging door. She leaned against the counter. Her hands were shaky, but not because of Philip. She was exhausted. It was late. And he was married.

  “I should look at that bruise.” Philip stood a few feet away. The kitchen door swung silently behind him. He certainly liked to make an entrance. “How did it happen?”

  For a change, she told the truth. “I ran directly into a wall.”

  He didn’t laugh. “Did you lose consciousness?”

  “No.”

  “See stars?”

  Kate crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s the point of this?”

  “I’m a doctor. This is an exam. Did you see stars?”

  She relented. “Yes.”

  “Feel dizzy?”

  She nodded.

  “Were you nauseated?”

  She nodded again.

  “Threw up?”

  “A little.”

  “Get up on the counter.”

  “Philip, I—”

  “You could be concussed.” He put his hands on her waist and lifted her up. “Your back feels like it’s on fire.”

  The heating pad. “It’s where I store my vexation.”

  Philip laughed. He kept his hands on her waist. “Did you take something?”

  “Aspirin and Valium.”

  “Are you on any other medication?”

  “No.”

  “Birth control?”

  She hated herself for blushing. “Yes. But not for—”

  He held up one finger in front of her face. “Follow.” She tracked his movement back and forth. “Let me check your eyes.” He pressed at the lids. “Look up.” She did as she was told. “Now down.” Again, she complied. “Tell me if anything is tender.” He palpated her face and neck with his fingers. “Open your mouth.” She opened her mouth. “Open your legs.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can run my hand up the inside of your thigh.”

  She gasped, because she’d blindly complied and that was exactly what he had done.

  Instead of clenching her knees together or slapping him away, Kate sat perfectly still. “You are a married man in my father’s house with your hand up my dress.”

  “Only halfway up.” He gently stroked the inside of her thigh with the tips of his fingers. His touch was like a butterfly fluttering against her skin.

  Kate started to sweat. “Philip, stop.”

  He stopped stroking her, but he didn’t remove his hand. His palm rested against the inside of her leg. His skin was hot. He looked at her mouth. “Do you still taste like strawberries?”

  Kate had difficulty finding her voice. “That was lip gloss.”

  “It was delicious.” His started stroking her thigh again. “You’re so beautiful, Kaitlin. Do you know that? You’re perfect.”

  “Philip,” she managed. His touch was unbearably tender. She felt a tremble working through her body.

  “You were the first girl I ever kissed who wasn’t my cousin.”

  Kate pushed his shoulder. “Why do you joke about everything?”

  “Because it’s funny. I’m a married man in your father’s house and I’m standing here with my hand up your dress.”

  Maybe if it hadn’t been Kate’s father and Kate’s dress, she would’ve seen the humor. “I asked you to stop.”

  “Do you really want me to?”

  Kate didn’t know what she wanted. “What about your wife?”

  “My wife is for making babies. You’re for fucking.”

  The sting was unexpected. “That’s an awful thing to say.”

  “Trust me, one is a lot more fun than the other.”

  “Why would I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t.” Philip’s hand moved higher up her leg. His fingers brushed against her.

  Kate’s breath caught. She could feel him through the thin cotton of her underwear. He knew exactly what he was doing. Everything melted away under his touch. There was nothing but the firm pressure of him moving between her legs.

  “That’s good?” He watched her face as he stroked up and down. “You can feel that?”

  Kate nodded. God, could she feel it.

  “It’s good?”

  She gripped his shoulders. The muscles moved beneath her hands. She wanted to kiss him. He wouldn’t let her. She tried to pull him closer. He wouldn’t come. He just kept staring at her, gauging her reaction as he touched her.

  “Hey, your vexation is even hotter down here.”

  “Shut up,” Kate breathed. She was quivering. The feel of him was almost too much.

  Philip kissed her neck. Kate wanted to be devoured by his mouth. His lips were so soft. His face was so rough. She reached for his belt, but he stopped her. She tried to pull down her underwear. He stopped her.

  “Philip—”

  “Shh.” The sound of his deep voice pulsed through her body. She was so close. “Will you do me a favor, Kaitlin?”

  She nodded because she was breathing too hard to answer.

  “Knock on my door,” he whispered. “Will you knock on my door?”

  She shook her head. He was making her crazy.

  “Like the song. Knock three times. Okay?”

  “For what?”

  “For me to fuck you.”

  His hand moved ever so slightly forward. Kate’s nerves ignited. She was on the edge. His mouth was still at her ear. His tongue. His teeth. Every sensation reverberated between her legs. She didn’t know what he was doing anymore. She was too consumed by want.

  He said, “Only when you’re ready. But soon, okay?”

  Kate couldn’t answer. She was almost there. Her body throbbed with anticipation.

  He backed off the pressure. “Okay?”

  “Yes,” she whispered—begged. “Yes.”

  Slowly, Philip took away his hand. His wet fingers dragged across her skin. He tenderly kissed her forehead.

  Kate opened her eyes. “What are—”

  “Shh.” His thumb traced along her lips. She could smell herself on him. “Soon, okay?”

  He knocked three times on the counter, then turned and walked away.

  16

  Fox sat in front of his television. He was drunk and he was pissed off. Too pissed even to watch Kate, which meant that he was only punishing himself.

  He deserved the punishment. He had failed.

  It was the sort of thing that would’ve happened to Fox Senior—sitting in a bar with a bunch of faggots while some woman was doing his job. Or at least trying to do his job. Sheer luck was the only thin
g that had kept Jimmy Lawson above ground. Fox had heard it on the police scanner. The old woman had used a .44 magnum. Jimmy’s arm had taken the bullet when it should’ve been his head.

  Fox was not going to shift blame. This wasn’t like the first time, when Fox had turned the corner onto the alley and found Don Wesley on his knees going at it with Jimmy Lawson. Any man would’ve frozen in that kind of situation. And the gun had jammed. And Lawson had jumped behind a Dumpster and Fox had left because a good soldier knew when to retreat.

  Today was not the same. Fox had been squarely in the wrong. Jimmy wasn’t on his way to the bar, looking for some queer to lick his wounds. He was looking for the man who had put down his faggot partner.

  That was all it took. The plan no longer sat in the back of Fox’s mind, working through the options, spitballing images of Kate Murphy to keep him on the hook.

  The plan was going to happen.

  Part one: Jimmy couldn’t just be killed anymore. He had to be used, because Fox had to prove to himself that he was back in control.

  Part two: The pawn would be sacrificed for the queen.

  Fox put down his drink. That was the important part. He needed to be clearheaded for this. He could no longer sit idly by waiting for lightning to jolt the thing from the back of his skull into the front. Fox knew all the options. He had to figure out the best way to combine part one and part two into an executable plan.

  The sooner the better. One thing Fox had learned during the war was that once a man knew he was marked, he started acting smarter. He noticed his surroundings. He took precautions. He varied his routine.

  Fox liked routine. He needed routine. Routine had always served him well, no matter what target he was hunting.

  He picked up his clipboard and paged back through his log.

  Friday of last week. Wednesday of last week. Monday of last week.

  He went back farther. Another Friday, another Wednesday, another Monday.