Cop Town by Karin Slaughter Page A

His hands went up immediately, another sign that he was new.
    She told him, “Take the next left. Headquarters is on the left, halfway up.”
    He tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.”
    Maggie continued up the sidewalk. The man jogged across the street and preceded her along the other side. She’d forgotten the academy had spit out a class of new graduates. There could not have been a worse day for new recruits to start. On top of dealing with the fallout from Don Wesley’s murder, they’d have to step over a bunch of flailing newbies who, if past was prologue, would wash out before the middle of the week.
    Instead of taking a left on Central Avenue, Maggie kept going straight for two more blocks. The Do Right Diner specialized in blandfood and weak coffee, but its location ensured a loyal clientele. The place was empty but for two customers in the back. No one ate here unless they were on the clock, and roll call wouldn’t start for another forty minutes.
    “Jimmy all right?” the waitress asked.
    “He’s great, thanks.”
    Maggie kept walking toward the back. Two women in various states of undress were lounging across a circular banquette. Torn stockings, micro-minis, heavy makeup, and blonde wigs—these were all perks that came with being a PCO, or plainclothes officer. The women were part of the new John task force, which, as far as anyone could tell, was a moneymaking scheme that kept rich white bankers out of jail.
    Gail Patterson winked at Maggie around the smoke from her cigarette. Her deep South Georgia twang played perfectly with her undercover getup. “Lookin’ for some action, mama?”
    Maggie laughed, hoping her face didn’t look as red as it felt. Her first year on the job had been spent in a cruiser with Gail. The senior officer was gruff and ornery and undoubtedly the best teacher Maggie had ever had.
    “I need to bounce.” The other woman downed a glass of orange juice with a loud gulp. Her name was Mary Petersen. Maggie only knew her by reputation. She was a divorcée who had a thing for cops. Of course, that’s what they said about all the women on the force, that they joined because they had a thing for cops, so Maggie didn’t really know.
    Mary’s vinyl skirt squeaked as she slid out of the booth. “Jimmy all right?”
    “He’s fine.”
    “Good. You tell him we’re here for him.” She patted Maggie on the shoulder as she left.
    Gail waved at the vacated spot. “Rest your dogs, chickie.”
    “Thanks.” Maggie unclipped the transmitter from the back of her belt and sat down. The seat was still warm. She leaned into the soft foam. Suddenly, her eyes wanted to close. Her body started to relax.Maggie had been tense from the moment she’d entered her mother’s kitchen.
    Gail took off her wig and dropped it on the table. “You look as tired as I feel.”
    “Guilty,” Maggie admitted. “You look good.”
    Gail laughed out some smoke. “Fuckin’ liar.”
    Maggie was lying. Gail looked like an old whore, which was only partly due to the way she had to dress for work. She was forty-two years old. Her skin was showing wrinkles. Her hair was too black to be natural. There was a heaviness to her cheeks and eyelids. She had a deep cleft between her eyebrows that came from always scrutinizing everything around her.
    God forbid if Gail didn’t like what she saw. Everybody was afraid of her nasty temper. She had come up when there were no federal grants paving the way for women on the force. She’d fought tooth and nail to get her PCO rank. She was part of the old guard, Terry’s group, and like everybody else, she was terrified of losing her status.
    Gail asked, “How’s Jimmy really doing?”
    Maggie told the truth. “I have no idea. He never talks to me.”
    “Sounds about right.” She kept her cigarette in one hand as she used her fork to cut into a stack of pancakes. “You ask out that neighbor of yours yet?”
    Maggie hadn’t come to the diner to talk about her miserable