Cop Town

by Karin Slaughter

  Maggie said, “Take off the rest of it.”

  “What?”

  She swung the baton back. That’s all it took. He ripped open his shirt. The buttons popped off. He unfastened the snap on his pants, slid down the zip. His thumbs hooked into the waist of his underwear.

  “No,” Maggie said, not because she didn’t want to humiliate him any further but because she didn’t want to see him. “Get in the phone booth.” He stepped tentatively into the vomit. She hoped it was cold. She hoped he could feel the chunks against the soles of his feet.

  Conroy said, “What are you—”

  Maggie pushed the folding door closed. She reached up to the top of the booth. She had to stand on her tiptoes to find the trip lock. The bolt clanged down.

  Conroy pushed on the door. It wouldn’t budge. “Let me out.” He started to panic. He put his shoulder into it. “Let me out! Goddamn it!”

  Kate had folded the grandfather’s coat. She laid it beside the phone booth. “Do you think they’ll give it back to him?”

  “It’s not our business.” She jammed the baton back onto her belt. “Anything else, Kate? Anything you want to ask me, or question me, or drill me on?”

  Kate shook her head.

  Maggie walked away. She tapped her fingers on her Kel-Lite. Her head pounded with each footstep. Her vision was wonky. She was sweaty and shaky.

  Kate’s footsteps came up behind her. She followed at a distance. She was giving Maggie some space, which was irritating and demeaning and just like something Kate would do.

  The first week Maggie rode with Gail, she’d known to keep her trap shut. She’d taken notes. She’d followed orders. She hadn’t asked questions. She hadn’t volunteered her opinion every five minutes. She hadn’t turned every stupid thing she did into a joke so that she could laugh at herself before everybody else did.

  Maggie fished the keys out of her pocket. Her hand cramped. She couldn’t loop the ring on her middle finger.

  Pulling the trigger. Gripping the steering wheel. Banging on doors. Holding the Kel-Lite. Wielding the nightstick. Wringing her hands and praying to God that her brother was alive. That he was dead. That Terry hadn’t found him. That she would never have to see him again.

  Maggie stopped in front of the cruiser. Her chest hurt. She wondered if she was having a heart attack.

  Kate stood behind her. She said nothing, but the question was loud and clear: Are you all right?

  Ah you ah-wight?

  Maggie tossed her the keys. “You drive.”

  27

  Maggie gritted her teeth the entire way to the Portuguese lady’s house. Kate drove like an old woman. She tapped her foot on the brake any time another car got near. She didn’t pass anyone. She engaged her signals two hundred feet from the turn. She kept both hands on the wheel in the ten-two position.

  Maggie knew an act when she saw one. She had pulled over her share of Kate Murphys. Women like that didn’t think the rules applied to them. They ignored stop signs. They pushed the speed limit. They drove with the convertible top down and silk scarves wrapped around their heads to keep their hair from getting messed up.

  Gosh, Officer, was I really going that fast?

  The cruiser came to a slow stop in front of the Portuguese lady’s house. The place looked much the same as the day before. The only difference was the sheer curtain blowing out of the broken window on the second floor. No one had bothered to board it up yet.

  Kate got out of the car first. She was first up the sidewalk, first on the porch.

  Maggie was fine with letting her take the lead. Let someone else be in charge for a change. Knowing Kate’s luck, she would open the door and Jimmy would be standing there. He’d hold out his hands and give her a confession. Cal Vick would promote Kate on the spot. She’d be the only female detective on the force. At the ceremony, she would take a bow and a rainbow would come out of her ass.

  Kate knocked on the door like she was the Avon Lady.

  Maggie said, “You need to knock harder.”

  “I was under the impression that you wanted me to handle this.”

  Maggie said nothing. Every time she thought her hostility was gone, Kate would open her mouth and she would want to punch her all over again.

  Kate knocked, this time like she was a kid selling magazine subscriptions.

  Maggie asked, “Where’d you learn Portuguese? You live in Europe or something?” She had probably honeymooned there with her dead husband who looked like Robert Redford.

  “Pardon?” Kate looked confused, then she smiled that million-watt smile. “She wasn’t speaking Portuguese. It’s Yiddish. I picked up some from my grandmother. Father’s side. She’s eastern European. A shande oon a charpe, it was quite a scandal when they married.”

  Maggie was saved asking what the hell she was talking about by the door opening.

  There were no bolts and a sliding chain this time. The Portuguese lady stood back from the doorway. She held a candle in her hand. The house was dark; no lights were on. She was wearing the same black outfit as the day before, but the sleeve was torn at the shoulder. Her salt-and-pepper hair hung down to her waist. Maggie didn’t know why. She hadn’t bothered to wash it.

  Kate didn’t speak. She touched the little rectangular box on the doorjamb before walking into the house.

  Maggie felt her training rear its head. The rooms were filled with shadows. All the drapes were closed. Even the mirror over the fireplace was covered with a black sheet. She wanted to turn on a light. There was no telling who else was in the house.

  The woman walked toward the kitchen. The candle flickered from the breeze. Her feet padded softly against the floor. She wasn’t wearing shoes.

  Kate started to follow. Maggie grabbed her sleeve.

  “Shh,” Kate warned.

  Maggie tried to catch her sleeve again, but Kate was already walking down the hallway. All Maggie could do was follow. This was what she got for letting Kate take the lead—an interview where nobody was allowed to talk.

  At least the kitchen wasn’t as dark as the rest of the house. There were no curtains on the windows. Sunlight streamed into the room. Food of all kinds was laid out on the countertop. Maggie didn’t recognize half of what she saw.

  The Portuguese lady put the candle on the windowsill over the sink. She nodded toward the kitchen table. Kate sat down, so Maggie did, too. The woman kept her back to them as she fixed two plates.

  Maggie let out a long sigh to let everybody know she was not happy. None of this was getting them any closer to finding Jimmy. She’d known this was a stupid idea from the start.

  The old woman finished loading the plates. She turned around. The sunlight bathed her face.

  A surprised “Oh” came out of Maggie’s mouth.

  Stubble covered the woman’s face. No wonder she sounded like Ricardo Montalbán. The Portuguese lady was a man.

  He asked, “May I offer you some iced tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Kate didn’t seem surprised by any of this. She took the plates. She set them on the table. She gave Maggie a look of warning similar to the one a mother would give a misbehaving child. “I don’t think we exchanged names yesterday. I’m Officer Murphy. This is Officer Lawson.”

  “Eduardo Rosa.” He rested his hands on his hips as he studied Kate. “Murphy. I’m assuming you married a shagetz.”

  “I did.”

  “Smart girl. Jewish men never shut up.”

  Kate laughed very deeply at what was obviously an inside joke.

  Eduardo went to the icebox. He pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. He took a tray from the freezer. He found two glasses in the cabinet.

  Maggie watched, transfixed. How had she not seen this yesterday? The high collar hid an Adam’s apple. The long sleeves covered hairy arms. The floor-length skirt obscured big feet. The biggest giveaway should have been his hands. They were enormous.

  Maggie realized, “You’re the tranny pimp.”

  “Feh.” He p
opped the ice out of the tray. “Pimps are all schvartzes.”

  Kate snorted into her hand.

  “My late husband, Gerald—” Eduardo set the two glasses of iced tea on the table. “He was in charge of the business.” He pointed to the chair Maggie was sitting in. “Died right there three months ago. Heart attack. We were together twenty years.”

  Kate asked, “Chic was your son?”

  “His name was Lionel. He lived in Detroit with his mother, Lydia. I always liked the dark ones.” There were two more chairs at the table, but Eduardo steadied his hand on the counter and sat down on the floor. “Lionel was pimping up in Detroit, but he got into trouble. He was always in trouble; alav ha-shalom.” Eduardo paused a moment before continuing. “Lydia asked if I could help. With Gerald gone, we thought he could take over the business down here.”

  Maggie rested her chin in her hand so her jaw wouldn’t hit the floor. “Did you give them your real name for the witness statement yesterday? That’s sworn testimony.”

  “I gave them Gerald’s name. Nobody asked me to put my hand on the Bible.” Eduardo looked up at Kate. “I know you’re here for information. Can you get my boy released to me?”

  Kate seemed surprised. “You haven’t had the funeral?”

  “The coroner won’t release the body. We have all the paperwork. Lydia is down there now. They say it will be another week.”

  Finally, Maggie could contribute something. “They have to do an autopsy. It’s an important part of the investigation. If they can track the bullet back to the gun that was used, then they might find the killer. And all of it has to be presented at trial.”

  “I don’t want my son’s body mutilated any more than it already is.” Eduardo’s voice was firm. “I need to do right by him.”

  Maggie said, “I’m sorry, but it’s the law. Don’t you want us to catch the man who killed your son?”

  “Young lady, I know that Lionel was in a very dangerous line of business. Would I be happy if you caught his murderer? Of course. But you must understand that I need his body released so that his mother and I can bury him.”

  Kate asked, “Have you talked to your rabbi?”

  He indicated his dress. “Do I look Reform to you?”

  “Maggie? Do you know someone?”

  “At the coroner’s office?” Maggie thought she knew a girl from night class who was a secretary. “I can make some calls, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Eduardo clasped his hands together in his lap. He looked down at the floor. Maggie wondered if he was praying, but she wasn’t sure how Jews prayed. Or if they prayed at all.

  He finally looked up. “If you promise to do whatever you can, then I’ll tell you what you came here for.”

  “All right,” Kate agreed, as if this was exactly what she had planned.

  Eduardo began, “The girl who was there the night the policeman was shot, her name is Delilah. I have no idea if that’s her real name. Maybe she likes Tom Jones. Who doesn’t? I don’t know her last name, either. She was probably fifteen when Gerald found her sucking cock inside the porn theater on Ponce.”

  Kate sat back in her chair.

  “He worked her hard. That was his reputation. Puritan work ethic.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Delilah didn’t last long, and she was a lot more trouble than she was worth. Gerald sold her off at a loss just to get rid of her. When Lionel came to town, he had to start from scratch. I loved my boy, but he was an arumloyfer. Everything had to be handed to him. I said I might know a girl desperate to do anything that was needed. He found her working the Amtrak station on Peachtree.”

  “In Buckhead?” Kate’s voice went up. She was back to form.

  Maggie took over. “Is Delilah still working Whitehall?”

  “I have no idea where she’s working. She came here the night of the shooting. Lionel smacked her around. She was supposed to work all night. She gave him the police transmitter. Lionel called me in to look at it. I knew immediately what we had.”

  Maggie said, “A bargaining chip.”

  “We were going to wait until the reward got higher. Five thousand dollars.” He huffed with disgust. “When they caught the last guy, the reward was up to twenty.”

  Kate crossed her arms. All of her pleasantness had drained away.

  Maggie asked, “What did Delilah see? I assume you weren’t going to let her walk into the police station, tell her story, and collect the money.”

  Eduardo asked, “You’ll make the call? You promise?”

  “I said I would.”

  “I’m trusting you.”

  Maggie said, “You realize that the person who killed Lionel is probably the same man who killed that cop?”

  He put his hand to his chest. His voice wavered. “I understand that, but you must understand that I want my son’s body buried in the ground where it belongs.”

  Maggie felt his despair as easily as she felt her own. “I promise you that I will do everything I can to get him released.”

  Eduardo nodded. “The killer was white, not like the black man in the police sketch.”

  Maggie felt her heart seize.

  “Tall. Muscular. Broad shoulders. He was wearing black pants, a red shirt, and had black gloves on his hands. She didn’t notice the shoes.”

  Maggie bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Jimmy wore black gloves.

  Eduardo continued, “He had dark hair, cut short. His mustache was trimmed. Long sideburns. Delilah said he looked like a square except for his sideburns.”

  Maggie forced her voice to remain steady. “That’s pretty specific. How close was she?”

  “She was at the end of the alley. She saw everything. The man came around the corner. He had a midnight special in his hand. Raven MP-25.”

  The brand of gun had not been released to the public. “Was she sure about that? An MP-25?”

  “Delilah knows her weapons. Her father knocked over his share of liquor stores.”

  “She saw all of that?” Maggie forced some incredulity into her voice. “She was close enough to make out the gun and the Shooter’s face and what he was wearing, and she was still alive when it was over?”

  “If I know Delilah, she was under a cardboard box shooting H.”

  “She was stoned?” Maggie felt a glimmer of hope. “That’s not what I’d call a reliable eyewitness.”

  “She’s reliable when there’s a knife in her twat.” Eduardo reached up to the counter. With much groaning and popping, he managed to pull himself up from the floor. “I’m telling you what we got out of her. I let Anthony handle it. Delilah told him everything she saw. On that, you can trust me.”

  Maggie felt sweat rolling down her back. The kitchen was too hot. She was going to throw up if she didn’t get out of here soon.

  Kate asked, “What were the two cops doing when the Shooter came around the corner?”

  Eduardo turned back to the sink. “She didn’t say. And I’ve told you ladies everything I know. May HaShem strike you down if you fail to carry out your part of the bargain.”

  “We will,” Kate said. “I promise.”

  Maggie stood up. She had to get out of this house. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Kate said, “May heaven comfort you.”

  Maggie forced herself not to run up the hallway. Her throat was closing up. She pulled at her collar. Her fingers brushed the bruises on her neck. She wrenched open the door and took great gulps of air into her lungs.

  Kate put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “You all right?”

  Maggie shrugged her off as she walked down the stairs. She buttoned her collar. She had told Kate not to trust anybody; why were they trusting Eduardo? He could be lying about the description. He could be lying about the girl who was a witness. The girl could be lying to everybody.

  But then how did she get Jimmy’s transmitter?

  Kate said, “Well, I guess that was interesting, but I’m not sure that it was helpful.”

  Maggie wiped t
he sweat off the back of her neck. Her stomach was churning. She felt strung out and exhausted.

  Kate said, “We were already considering the fact that the Shooter might be white. And that description—tall, athletic, mustache, long sideburns. Who does that sound like?”

  Maggie tasted bile in her mouth.

  “Every cop on the police force, that’s who. Including Jimmy and your uncle Terry. And all of them wear black driving gloves. Too many Steve McQueen movies, methinks.” She handed Maggie the keys to the cruiser. “It’s probably best if you drive to Dabbler’s. I’ve never been to that part of town.” She opened the car door. “I’ll give Gail credit for this: she was right about those people. I can’t believe the way Eduardo talked about that poor girl. I know she’s a prostitute, but still. You’d think he was discussing a side of beef.” She paused for a second. “He? She? Gosh, which is it?”

  Maggie walked around the car. She got in behind the wheel. She tried to put the key in the ignition but the ring slipped from her fingers. She blindly reached down to try to find them.

  Kate chattered on. “She, I guess. We ought to reward the effort. That’s what I would prefer in his shoes. Her shoes. I couldn’t believe it when she opened the door and I saw that beard. Eduardo Rosa. That explains the voice. Yesterday, I kept expecting her to talk about soft Corinthian leather.” Kate laughed to herself. “I guess we should run her name just to be sure nothing else surprises us. My gosh. I hate to sound arrogant, but one just expects more from a Jew.”

  “Goddamn it,” Maggie muttered. She could feel the keys but her fingers couldn’t grip them.

  “I know. I shouldn’t be unkind. She’s sitting shivah. It’s actually a beautiful ritual. There are all kinds of rules. You’re not supposed to shave or use makeup. She tore her clothes—that’s called kriah, to signify grief and anger over the death. She was sitting on the floor because you’re supposed to keep low to the ground. Though you’re supposed to bury the body within twenty-four hours. That’s why she’s so upset. The mourning should go on for seven days. Shivah means seven.”

  “Got ’em.” Maggie’s cheek bumped against the steering wheel. She winced from the pain. The bruise had its own heartbeat.