Read Online Cop Town by Karin Slaughter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karin Slaughter
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knew “older” meant around her own age. “Okay, so we need the name of the pimp who owns that corner. Do you have any sources who might talk?”
“Sure I do. But I got some bad blood on the street right now. Might’ve been too hard on a coupla whores got in my way.” Gail tapped her cigarette in the ashtray. “You know me, kid. Never met a bridge I couldn’t burn. I know who’s got the information. Just might need some help pryin’ it out.”
Maggie felt her toes start to tingle. She was walking along the edge of a very steep cliff. “I’m not a detective.”
“So what?” Gail stared a challenge into her. This was how Maggie got roped in every time. She wanted Gail’s approval too much. “Lookit, go a couple of steps out. I get the name from a source. Then what? Pimp ain’t gonna talk to me. You know how those bastards are. They wanna talk to some pretty young thing still got her tits where they’re supposed to be.”
Maggie felt her stomach pitch. Gail had obviously given this some thought. “You think I can just stroll into some pimp’s lair and he’s gonna talk to me?”
“Listen, sweetheart, forget what I told you when we were back in patrol. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being PCO, it’s that sometimes it’s okay to use the fact that you’re a woman.”
Maggie wasn’t so sure about that.
“Not like you gotta do anything after that except sit back and watch.”
Maggie knew what she was saying. Give Terry the name, then let the guys take care of the problem.
Gail jammed her cigarette into the stack of pancakes. “Listen, this is a yes-or-no question. You wanna say yes, meet me at the Colonnade Restaurant around two. You say no, and the guy who murdered Don, almost killed your brother, gets away with it again?” Gail shrugged. “That’s on you.”
5
A large crowd of cops gathered on the front steps of police headquarters. The squat, ugly building was clad in white marble that had been mined from the Tate quarry in North Georgia, the same place where they cut blanks for tombstones. Fittingly, the men all seemed to be talking about death. Even from a distance, Maggie kept hearing Don Wesley’s name. Most of them had probably never met him. She could tell from the numbers on their collars that they were from different squads though they all seemed to have the same dark sense of purpose. This was the third instance where a killer had reached into the heart of the police force. The panicked determination that had marked the last two manhunts had evolved into an outright bloodlust.
Nothing brought cops together faster than a common enemy.
And Atlanta had a lot of cops. The city was divided into seven police zones, including the airport and Perry Homes, a ghetto so dangerous it required its own separate police force. Each zone had a corresponding precinct. The downtown zone, Zone 1, used the bottom floor of the headquarters building for roll call. In practical terms, the location wasideal, but it was never good to be this close to the brass. Terry and his friends were always complaining about running into the police commissioner in the men’s toilet. She guessed they couldn’t decide which part of him they hated more: that he was new or that he was black.
After months of open hostilities, Mayor Maynard Jackson had finally managed to push out the old chief of police. Commissioner Reginald Eaves had taken over around the time of the Edward Spivey trial, which made a bad situation unbelievably worse. Eaves didn’t seem to care. He was on a mission to break the white power structure that had controlled the Atlanta Police Department since its inception.
Suddenly, Terry Lawson had a problem with cronyism.
Maggie could understand her uncle’s anger, even if she didn’t share it. The good-ol’-boy system was great so long as you were one of the boys. When Terry’s group first joined the force, black cops weren’t even allowed in the station houses. They had to hang
“Sure I do. But I got some bad blood on the street right now. Might’ve been too hard on a coupla whores got in my way.” Gail tapped her cigarette in the ashtray. “You know me, kid. Never met a bridge I couldn’t burn. I know who’s got the information. Just might need some help pryin’ it out.”
Maggie felt her toes start to tingle. She was walking along the edge of a very steep cliff. “I’m not a detective.”
“So what?” Gail stared a challenge into her. This was how Maggie got roped in every time. She wanted Gail’s approval too much. “Lookit, go a couple of steps out. I get the name from a source. Then what? Pimp ain’t gonna talk to me. You know how those bastards are. They wanna talk to some pretty young thing still got her tits where they’re supposed to be.”
Maggie felt her stomach pitch. Gail had obviously given this some thought. “You think I can just stroll into some pimp’s lair and he’s gonna talk to me?”
“Listen, sweetheart, forget what I told you when we were back in patrol. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being PCO, it’s that sometimes it’s okay to use the fact that you’re a woman.”
Maggie wasn’t so sure about that.
“Not like you gotta do anything after that except sit back and watch.”
Maggie knew what she was saying. Give Terry the name, then let the guys take care of the problem.
Gail jammed her cigarette into the stack of pancakes. “Listen, this is a yes-or-no question. You wanna say yes, meet me at the Colonnade Restaurant around two. You say no, and the guy who murdered Don, almost killed your brother, gets away with it again?” Gail shrugged. “That’s on you.”
5
A large crowd of cops gathered on the front steps of police headquarters. The squat, ugly building was clad in white marble that had been mined from the Tate quarry in North Georgia, the same place where they cut blanks for tombstones. Fittingly, the men all seemed to be talking about death. Even from a distance, Maggie kept hearing Don Wesley’s name. Most of them had probably never met him. She could tell from the numbers on their collars that they were from different squads though they all seemed to have the same dark sense of purpose. This was the third instance where a killer had reached into the heart of the police force. The panicked determination that had marked the last two manhunts had evolved into an outright bloodlust.
Nothing brought cops together faster than a common enemy.
And Atlanta had a lot of cops. The city was divided into seven police zones, including the airport and Perry Homes, a ghetto so dangerous it required its own separate police force. Each zone had a corresponding precinct. The downtown zone, Zone 1, used the bottom floor of the headquarters building for roll call. In practical terms, the location wasideal, but it was never good to be this close to the brass. Terry and his friends were always complaining about running into the police commissioner in the men’s toilet. She guessed they couldn’t decide which part of him they hated more: that he was new or that he was black.
After months of open hostilities, Mayor Maynard Jackson had finally managed to push out the old chief of police. Commissioner Reginald Eaves had taken over around the time of the Edward Spivey trial, which made a bad situation unbelievably worse. Eaves didn’t seem to care. He was on a mission to break the white power structure that had controlled the Atlanta Police Department since its inception.
Suddenly, Terry Lawson had a problem with cronyism.
Maggie could understand her uncle’s anger, even if she didn’t share it. The good-ol’-boy system was great so long as you were one of the boys. When Terry’s group first joined the force, black cops weren’t even allowed in the station houses. They had to hang
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