Cop Town (21 page)

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 thing 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.

The same pattern the week before.

Kate’s visits to her parents were like clockwork. Fox guessed that made her a good girl, inasmuch as a filthy Jewess could ever be thought of as good. She always dressed up for her visits. She never wore pants. Most nights, she stayed over at their house, which made things more complicated but also gave Fox more options.

Anybody who knew Fox knew he liked options almost as much as he liked routine.

Option one: The thicket of shrubs near the basement window to Kate’s bedroom. The bed was a single, probably from her childhood. There were posters on the wall (the Beatles, which he could forgive her
for; Paul Newman, which he could not). Soft pink sheets. Matching walls. A dark purple blanket she draped over the bed when it was cold. The bathroom door was always left ajar. A nightlight made it possible for Fox to track the rise and fall of her chest. He timed her breath using the second hand on his watch. If he was lucky, she got up in the night and he would see through the sliver of light Kate’s nightgown. White cotton. Almost transparent. When there was a full moon, Fox could see the darkness of her secret places through the thin material.

Option two: The mudroom by the kitchen. They usually left the light on, which meant Fox could stand at the door and see inside the kitchen. Kate always carried the dinner plates to the sink. Sometimes she would stand there watching the water run. Other times, she would sit at the kitchen table and talk to her grandmother.

Grandmother. At first, Fox had thought she was the mother and that the mother was an older sister. He’d finally had to knock on the door and pretend he was taking a survey for the phone company in order to ascertain the relationship.

The mother had invited him in. The grandmother had joined the conversation shortly after. They had served him coffee and cookies and Fox had asked to use the restroom because just being that close to women who looked like Kate made him hard as a rock.

Option three: The fallen tree in the front yard. Fox had sat behind it just that night and watched Kate walk up the curving sidewalk to the front door. She moved like a cat. “Languid” was the word. Sexy as hell. She was wearing high-heeled shoes that flexed her calves in such a way that a lesser man would’ve put his hands down his pants to relieve the pressure.

Fox had walked away because he had fucked up too many things today to think that he could remain in control.

Punishment number one: He didn’t get to watch her change for bed.

Punishment number two: He didn’t get to watch her wrap the purple blanket around her shoulders and lie down.

Punishment number three: He didn’t get to relieve the pressure in his pants as he watched the rhythmic movement of her chest.

1638: Talked to doctor in hospital ER (P)

1718: Cried in car parked outside police station (P)

1901: Closed curtains at hotel (P)

Pressure
.

This wasn’t the first time a Jew had caused him trouble.

When Fox was nine years old, a Hebrew family bought the house three doors down. The Feldmans moved in one weekend, then by the next, everybody had a For Sale sign in their front yard. Two houses sold, then word got out and nobody could sell anything for a reasonable price.

Senior told Fox he had seen this kind of thing before. One Jew moves in, then the property values plummet, then the rest of the Jews swoop down like vultures.

Lesson six: Never trust a Jew.

As with many of Senior’s predictions, this one hadn’t come to fruition. No one could afford to walk away from their mortgages. The Jews hadn’t swept in. There was just the Feldmans and the animosity that bubbled up and down the street.

Still, Fox always thought of Hebrews as vultures. Not theoretically, but in a literal sense. They were all dark with black hair and dark eyes and beaked noses. Feldman’s wife was plump and shifty-looking and all the kids scattered when she went to the mailbox because everybody knew a Jew could curse you.

The eldest daughter was a different story. Rebecca Feldman was dark, too, but she wasn’t plump. She was curvy. Her lips were a perfect red bow. She wore shapely skirts that showed her hips. And sweaters. Not a man on that street didn’t look forward to autumn, when Rebecca Feldman wore her tight sweaters. She did it on purpose. They all knew that. She teased them. She toyed with them. And they couldn’t do a damn thing about it without bringing down the law.

Lesson seven: All Jewesses are promiscuous whores.

The first time Fox got hard was when he saw Rebecca Feldman in one of those sweaters. He didn’t know what was happening. He ran
home to his room. He hid under the covers. He sweated like a maniac because he thought the Jew had cursed him.

And then his hands had worked to relieve the pressure, and all he could think about after that was what he wanted to do to her. Peel off that sweater. Slide down that skirt. Fox wasn’t sure what would come next, but he knew instinctively that the Jew had to pay for what she did to him. Because Fox was out of control. In those moments when he ran to his room and ducked under his sheets, the Pressure was in charge.

And now the same thing was happening all over again, only this time, the Jew was Kate.

17

For the second time in as many days, Kate pushed her way through the thick throng of men in the squad room. She ignored the leers. She crossed her arms over her chest to keep the groping to a minimum. Unfortunately, she couldn’t cover her ears.

“Baaah!” they bleated. “Baaaaah!”

Of all the nicknames that had been trotted out yesterday, from Irish Spring to China Doll, why was this the one that was sticking?

Someone tipped his hat to Kate. “Hello, lamb chop.”

Her smile turned into a grimace.