Cop Town (6 page)

Fox had a clipboard of his own.

He glanced down at his log.

0546: Exited building. Talked to no one.

0600: Breakfast at diner, usual table, usual waitress: one hardboiled egg, dry toast, black coffee. Read paper. Left twenty-five-cent tip

0628: Walked opposite direction from building, down 14th and around block

0639: Asked unknown businessman for time

0651: Sat on bench outside bank building, stared up at sky

0658: Rose from bench, went into apartment building

Now what?

Fox opened the glove box. He saw the pantyhose that had covered his face last night.

Her
pantyhose.

The scope of the mission was changing. Fox could feel the shift almost like he was standing on a rug that was being slowly pulled from beneath his feet. This had happened before. Fox would be doing one thing, but somewhere in the back of his brain, his thoughts were mulling over other courses of action. All it took was some kind of lightning to strike. The bolt would hit his skull, and the thing in the back of his brain would jump to the front.

And like that, he had options.

Fox took out his binoculars and used them to find the familiar window. As he watched, the curtains were opened. He smiled at his luck. Sometimes, he missed the curtains. Sometimes, he would look up and his guts would turn to liquid because he had no idea how long ago the curtains had been opened, whether or not he had missed something important.

But today, he saw her open the curtains.

Fox noted a new time in his log: four minutes from now, because he knew that’s how long it took for the elevator to arrive on the correct floor, the short ride down to the lobby, the next elevator down to the parking garage, the quick walk to the right space, and bingo—exactly four minutes later, Fox watched Kate Murphy pull her car out of the underground garage.

Christ, she was beautiful. The way the sun hit her face, he could almost let himself forget about her dirty little secret.

Fox rolled down his window to let out the smoke. He put the clipboard on the passenger’s seat.

Then he followed her.

4

Terry’s anger pushed a low pressure into the car that reminded Maggie of the way she felt when a tornado was about to touch down. Her head throbbed. Her blood felt thick. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at a permanent attention.

They should have been able to have a conversation about what had happened to Don and Jimmy. Two cops stuck in a car; it was normal for them to discuss the shooting, talk out what they were going to do next to make sure the killer was brought to justice. But Terry didn’t think of Maggie as a cop and Maggie sure as hell didn’t think of her uncle as a confidant, so they both stared grimly out the window and kept their thoughts to themselves.

Besides, justice was probably the last thing on Terry’s mind. He wouldn’t be thinking about what had happened this morning. He would be thinking about the cop killer who had gotten away with murder.

Last January, Detective Duke Abbott had been shot in the chest while sitting in his parked car behind the City Motel off Moreland Avenue. His partner was inside the motel doing what you’d expect a cop to
be doing inside a motel at two o’clock in the morning when he was supposed to be working a shift. Duke was a white cop. Witnesses had seen a black man leaving the scene. By the time the morning paper hit the stands, the city was wound up like an alarm clock strapped to a thousand sticks of dynamite.

Within three days of the murder, they had a suspect’s name. Edward Spivey was a mid-level drug dealer and pimp who operated in the vicinity of the motel. A couple of witnesses had identified Spivey as the man leaving the scene of the crime. One claimed he saw Spivey ditch a gun in a sewer grate. The other said Spivey had blood on his shirt.

Terry led the team that had found both the gun and the bloody shirt. For nearly a week, they turned the city upside down looking for Spivey. The suspect proved to be more cunning than any of them anticipated. Instead of running, Spivey turned himself in. He invited a local news crew to meet him on the steps of the station house. He shouted out his innocence. He said the evidence was planted, the witnesses bribed. He hired a fancy lawyer from up north. He talked to any reporter who showed up at the jailhouse. He practically dared the city to send him to the electric chair.

Normally, the city would have gladly obliged, but between Duke Abbott’s murder and Edward Spivey’s trial, Atlanta had gone through a radical change. The newly elected black mayor had delivered on his promise to bring diversity to local government. Which was good or bad, depending on how you looked at it. Before the transition, a black man accused of shooting a white cop would’ve gone straight to death row. But then the ballots were counted, and an all-black jury let Edward Spivey walk out of the courthouse a free man. The resulting rift between the police and the district attorney’s office made the Grand Canyon look like a crack in the sidewalk.

If Maggie had to guess, she would’ve said that the only thing on Terry’s mind right now was making sure that Don Wesley’s killer never saw the inside of a courtroom.

The car jerked as Terry took a left into the parking lot down from
police headquarters. The Buick sailed into its regular space. Maggie moved in tandem with her uncle: He put the gear into park. She pulled the door handle and got out of the car. There was a brief moment of relief, then Maggie found herself facing a wall of duplicate Terrys.

Same cropped haircuts. Same bushy mustaches. Same kind of anger flashing in their beady little eyes. Terry’s friends all had names like Bud and Mack and Red and talked about the good old days like preachers talked about heaven. They all had multiple ex-wives, angry mistresses, and grown children who wouldn’t talk to them. Worse, they were all the same kind of cop as Terry. They always knew better than everybody else. They never listened to anyone from the outside. They carried throwaway guns in their ankle holsters. They kept their Klan robes hanging in the back of their closets.

Maggie couldn’t remember a time in her life when Terry’s friends were not around—not because of Terry, but because of Jimmy. They attended all of his football games. They dropped by practice to offer the coach unsolicited pointers. They slipped Jimmy cash to go on dates. They bought him beer before he was old enough to drink. When Jimmy’s knee blew out, they had given him a police escort to the hospital.

Maggie had thought that their hero worship would end with Jimmy’s football career, but in some ways, they seemed happier to have Jimmy on the job than they were to see him on the field. The day Jimmy had graduated from the academy, the first two rows of the audience were filled with his cheering squad. They all loved him like a son. They mentored him. They told him stories. They offered advice.

And sometimes, if they were drunk enough, they even let Maggie listen.

“Hey!” Jett Elliott banged his fist on the roof of the car. He was so drunk he could barely stand. “We’re not lettin’ this one get away with it. You hear me?”

“Damn straight we’re not.” Mack McKay shored up Jett with an arm around his shoulder. “We’re gonna take care of this ourselves.”

There were grunts of agreement as a flask was passed around. Maggie
pulled her purse onto her shoulder, but she couldn’t go anywhere. The wall of Terrys had managed to both block her path and completely ignore her.

Les Leslie leaned against the car. “The boss already put in a call to California. Three-hour time difference, but they’ll get somebody to lay eyes on him.”

He was talking about Edward Spivey. After the trial, the man had moved to the other side of the continent, but no one believed he would stay there for long.

“Oughta fly out there ourselves,” Red Flemming said. “Lay more than eyes on him.”

Terry slammed the car door. “Think they’ll let us take a noose on the plane?”

“I got two in my trunk.” Jett grabbed at the flask.

Mack pushed him away. “Fuck off.”

Jett pushed back. “You fuck off.”

Maggie took advantage of the shoving match and headed toward the street. She didn’t want to be around when they really got wound up.

Red held out his arm to stop her. “Jimmy all right?”

She nodded as she eyed the exit. “He’s fine.”

“He’s coming in,” Terry said. “Wouldn’t stay home.”

“Damn right he wouldn’t.” Les passed the flask to Terry. “We takin’ care of business today?”

“Hell yeah.” Terry took a healthy drink. “Gonna put that fucker in the ground. Am I right?”

“You’re goddamn right.” Jett grabbed the flask from Terry. “No trial for this asshole. Only walk he’s taking is to the grave.”

There were more murmurs of agreement. Maggie tried to edge around Red.

“Need to keep Jim out of this,” Red mumbled under his breath. Everyone heard him. Nods went around. Maggie was both annoyed and jealous. To a man, they would all lay down their lives protecting Jimmy Lawson.

Terry said, “You got somewhere to be?”

Maggie realized he was talking to her. She didn’t feel her usual impulse to do the opposite of what her uncle said. She started toward the street, glad to be away from them.

The relief didn’t last long. She was never going to get away from these assholes. A black El Dorado was pulling into the parking lot. The window slid down. Bud Deacon had his hands gripped around the steering wheel. Chip Bixby was in the passenger seat. He looked worse than the rest of them. His cheeks were more sunken than usual. His lips were a weird blue, probably from smoking too much. Of all of Terry’s friends, Chip was the least offensive. Which wasn’t saying much.

Maggie preempted the question. “Jimmy’s all right. He’s coming in.”

“That ain’t right,” Bud said. “You shoulda told him to stay home.”

She wanted to laugh. “You think he listens to me?”

“Shut that smart mouth before I do,” Bud warned. “Is it too much to ask you to be there for your brother?”

Maggie chewed her lip so she wouldn’t speak her mind.

“It’s gonna be hard for him.” Chip’s voice was solemn. Duke Abbott had been his partner. Chip had been inside the motel when Duke was shot. He was also sitting behind Edward Spivey when the jury came back with an acquittal. Two deputies had to hold him down. If one of them hadn’t grabbed Chip’s gun, he’d probably be sitting on death row right now.

Maggie said, “Jimmy knows he’s not alone.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Chip said. “Something like this happens—you’re alone for the rest of your life.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say. She’d known Chip forever, but it wasn’t like they sat around talking about their feelings.

Chip seemed to realize this, too. He told Bud, “Let’s go.”

Maggie watched the car roll into the parking lot. She quickened her pace again. She didn’t want to think about the plans Terry and his friends were making. As a cop, she had a duty to make sure the law was upheld. But she was a cop, and she wasn’t going to rat out other cops. Besides, the men were detectives. Maggie was patrol. She was also a woman. No one would listen to her, and even if they did, they wouldn’t care unless
The
Atlanta Constitution
ran a story on it. All Maggie could do for now was handle what was in front of her, and right now what was in front of her was getting ready for work.

She dug around in her purse as she crossed the street. The brick that was the transmitter for her radio took up half the space in her bag. She clipped it onto the back of her belt, then jacked in the springy cord to her shoulder mic. Maggie checked the dials on top of the transmitter. There were two—one for volume, one for tuning. She could adjust both in her sleep.

Cash from her wallet went into her front pocket. Two pens and a small notepad went into her left breast pocket, her citation book went into the right one. Chemical mace went into her back pocket along with a tube of nude lipstick. Neither one was regulation, but a girl had to protect herself.

She catalogued the remaining items in her bag: a paperback, loose change, a darker lipstick, powder, mascara, blusher, eyeliner. The latter items were not necessary for the job, but necessary if she wanted to keep them from Lilly.

A breeze rustled Maggie’s hair as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The sharp pain in her knee was gone. The sensation was more like she was aware that she had a knee rather than that she was about to collapse with every step. She didn’t know how Jimmy dealt with the constant discomfort every day. Of course, she didn’t know how her brother dealt with a lot of things.

Either Jimmy was lying about what had happened during the shooting or he’d taken the time to clean his gun before leaving the hospital. Considering the half-ass job he’d done of cleaning his own face, she doubted the latter explanation. What was more likely was that he hadn’t fired the revolver at all.

In which case, what else was he lying about? Had the Shooter’s gun really jammed? Because Maggie had been on the firing range enough times to know what happened when a gun jammed. She’d had it happen herself. She’d seen it happen to others. The sequence was always the same. You pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. You pulled the trigger
again, maybe even a third or fourth time, before you accepted that the gun was jammed. The process was like sniffing bad milk or tasting something that was too spicy. You always had to do it more than once. You never believed something was off the first time.

Maggie stopped walking. She looked down at her watch. When the second hand hit the twelve, she mentally walked herself through the Shooter’s movements.

Turn the corner. Aim. Shoot Don Wesley. Recoil. Aim. Pull the trigger. Nothing. Pull the trigger again. Run.

Five, maybe six seconds. That was assuming there was no hesitation. And that the Shooter was able to re-aim quickly even though Jimmy had to be moving the moment Don went down.

Maggie started walking again. A second lasted longer than most people thought. The blink of an eye takes around three hundred milliseconds. The act of breathing in and out eats up around five seconds. An average marksman can pull his weapon in under two seconds.