Hornet`s Nest

Chapter Four

The downtown skyline was huge around a terrible crime scene, minutes past ten p. m. Police were tense and sweating, their flashlights probing a parking lot behind an abandoned building, and an area overgrown with weeds where the black rental Lincoln had been abandoned. The driver's door was open, headlights burning, interior bell dinging a feeble warning that was too late. Detective Brewster had been called in from home and was standing near the Lincoln, talking on his portable phone. He was dressed in jeans and an old Izod shirt, his badge and a Smith amp; Wesson. 40 caliber pistol and extra magazines clipped to his belt.

"Looks like we got another one," he said to his in-transit boss.

"Can you give me a ten-thirteen?" West's voice sounded over the phone.

Ten-thirteen's still clear. " Brewster looked around.

"But not for long. What's your ten-twenty?"

"Dilworth. Heading your way on forty-nine. EOT ten- fifteen."

Vft Brazil had learned how to talk on the radio in the academy and understood codes and why Brewster and West were talking in them.

Something very bad had gone down, and they didn't want anyone else, a reporter for example, monitoring what they were saying. Basically, Brewster had let West know that the scene was still clear of people who shouldn't be there, but not for long. West was en route and would arrive in less than fifteen minutes.

West reached for the portable phone she had plugged into the cigarette lighter. She was on red alert, driving fast as she dialed a number.

Her conversation with Chief Hammer was brief.

West shot Brazil a severe look.

"Do everything you're told," she said.

"This is serious."

By the time they reached the crime scene, reporters had gathered in the night, all poised as Brazil's peers tried to get close to a terrible tragedy. Webb held a microphone, talking into a camera, his pretty face sincere and full of sorrow.

"No identification of the victim, who like the first three shot to death very close to here was driving a rental car," Webb taped for the eleven o'clock news.

West and Brazil were quiet and-determined as they made their way through. They avoided microphones jabbed their way, cameras rolling in their faces as they ducked and dodged and hurried. Questions flew all around them as if some fast-breaking news bomb had gone off, and Brazil was terrified. He was acutely self-conscious and embarrassed in a way he did not understand.

"Now you know what it's like," West said to him under her breath.

Bright yellow crime-scene tape stretched from woods to a streetlight.

Big black block letters flowed across it, repeating the warning

It barred reporters and the curious from the Lincoln and the senseless death beyond it. Just inside it was an ambulance with engine rumbling, cops and detectives everywhere with flashlights.

Video tape was running, flashguns going off, and crime-scene technicians were preparing the car to be hauled into headquarters for processing.

Brazil was so busy taking everything in and worrying about how close he was going to be allowed to get that he did not notice Chief Hammer until he walked into her.

"Sorry," Brazil muttered to the older woman in a suit.

Hammer was distressed and immediately began confer ring with West.

Brazil took in the short graying hair softly framing the pretty, sharp face, and the short stature and trim figure. He had never met the chief, but he suddenly recognized her from television and photographs he had seen. Brazil was awed, openly staring. He could get a terrible crush on this woman. West turned and pointed at him as if he were a dog.

"Stay," she commanded.

Brazil had expected as much but wasn't happy about it. He started to protest, but no one was interested. Hammer and West ducked under the tape, and a cop gave Brazil a warning look should he think about following. Brazil watched West and Hammer stop to investigate something on the old, cracked pavement. Bloody drag marks glistened in the beam of West's flashlight, and based on the small, smeared puddle just inches from the open car door, she thought she knew what had happened.

"He was shot right here," she told Hammer.

"And he fell." She pointed to the puddle.

"That's where his head hit. He was dragged by his feet."

Blood was beginning to coagulate, and Hammer could feel the heat of the throbbing lights and the night and the horror.

She could smell death. Her nose had learned to pick it up the first year she was a cop. Blood broke down fast, got runny around the edges and thick inside, and the odor was weirdly sweet and putrid at the same time. The trail led to a Gothic tangle of overgrown vines and pines, with a lot of weeds.

The victim looked middle-aged and had been dressed in a khaki suit wrinkled from travel when someone had ruined his head with gunshots.

Pants and Jockey shorts were down around fleshy knees, the familiar hourglass painted bright orange, leaves and other plant debris clinging to blood.

Dr. Wayne Odom had been the medical examiner in the greater Charlotte-Mecklenburg area for more than twenty years. He could tell that the spray-painting had occurred right where the body had been found, because a breeze had carried a faint orange mist up to the underside of nearby poplar leaves. Dr. Odom was reloading a camera with bloody gloved hands, and was fairly certain he was dealing with homosexual serial murders. He was a deacon at Northside Baptist Church and believed that an angry God was punishing America for its perversions.

"Damn it!" Hammer muttered as crime-scene technicians scoured the area for evidence.

West was frustrated to the point of fear.

"This is what? A hundred yards from the last one? I got people all over the place out here.

Nobody saw anything. How can this happen? "

"We can't watch the street every second of the day," Hammer angrily said.

Vy From a distance, Brazil watched a detective going through the victim's wallet. Brazil could only imagine what West and Hammer were seeing as he impatiently waited by West's car, taking notes. One thing he had learned while writing term papers was that even if he didn't have all the information, he could create a mood. He studied the back of the abandoned brick building, and decided it had been some sort of warehouse once. Every window was shattered, and an eerie dark emptiness stared out. The fire escape was solid rust and broken off halfway down.

Emergency lights were diluted and weird by the time they got to the thicket where everyone was gathered. Fireflies flickered around the dinging rental car, and Brazil could hear the sounds of far-off traffic. Paramedics were coming through, sweating in jumpsuits, and carrying a stretcher and a folded black body bag. Brazil craned his neck, writing furiously, as the paramedics reached the scene. They unfolded the stretcher's legs, and Hammer turned around when metal clacked. West and Brewster were studying the victim's driver's license. No one was interested in giving Brazil a quote.

WA "Carl Parsons," Brewster read from a driver's license.

"Spartanburg, South Carolina. Forty-one years old. Cash gone, no jewelry if he had any."

"Where was he staying?" Hammer asked him.

"Looks like we got a confirmation number for the Hyatt near Southpark."

West crouched to see the world from a different angle. Parsons was half on his back and half on his side in a nest of bloody leaves, his eyes sleepy slits and dull. Dr. Odom inflicted yet one more indignity by inserting a long chemical thermometer up the rectum to get a core temperature. Whenever the medical examiner touched the body, more blood spilled from holes in the head. West knew that whoever was doing this had no plan to stop.

X? Brazil wasn't going to stop, no matter how much West got in his way. He had done all he could to capture visual details and mood, and now he was on the prowl. He happened to notice a new bright blue Mustang parked near an unmarked car, where a teenaged boy sat in the front seat with a detective Brazil had seen before, running around, impersonating a drug dealer. Brazil took more notes as the teenager talked and paramedics zipped the body inside a pouch. Reporters, especially Webb, were obsessed with getting footage and photographs of the murdered man being carried away like a big black cocoon. No one but Brazil focused on the teenager climbing out of the detective's car and returning to his Mustang, in no hurry.

The top was down, and when Brazil headed toward the flashy car, the teenager's blood began to pound with excitement again. The nice-looking blond guy had a reporter's notepad in hand. Jeff Deedrick got out his Chapstick and cranked the engine, trying to look cool as his hands shook.

"I'm with the Charlotte Observer," Brazil said, standing close to the driver's door.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Deedrick was going to be famous. He was seventeen but could pass for twenty-one unless he got carded. He would get all those girls who, before this night, had never paid him any mind.

"I guess it's all right," Deedrick reluctantly said, as if weary of all the attention.

Brazil climbed inside the Mustang, which was new and did not belong to Deedrick. Brazil could tell by the dainty blue lanyard keychain that matched the color of the car. Most guys too young to drink didn't have cellular phones, either, Brazil noted, unless they were drug dealers.

He was willing to bet that the Mustang belonged to Deedrick's mother.

First Brazil got name, address, phone number, and repeated every syllable back to Deedrick to make certain all was correct. This he had learned the hard way. His first month on the job, he had gotten three We Were Wrongs in a row for insignificant, picayune errors relating to insignificant details, such as somebody junior versus somebody the third. This had resulted in an obituary about the son, versus the father. The son was having tax problems, and didn't mind the mistake.

He had called Brazil, personally, to request that the paper leave well enough alone. But Packer wouldn't.

Perhaps Brazil's most embarrassing mistake, and one he preferred not to think about, was when he covered a loud, volatile community meeting about a controversial pet ordinance. He confused a place with a person, and persisted in referring to Latta Park this and Miss Park that. Jeff Deedrick, however, he had right, of this Brazil made sure.

There would be no problems here. Brazil eyed the crime scene in the distance, as paramedics loaded the body into the ambulance.

"I admit I had a few, am driving along and know I'm not going to make it home," Deedrick kept talking, nervous and excited.

"Then you pulled back here to use the bathroom?" Brazil flipped a page, writing fast.

"Pulled in, and see this car with lights on, the door open and think someone else is taking a leak." Deedrick hesitated. He took off his baseball cap and put it on backward.

"I wait, don't see no one. Now I'm getting curious, so I go on over and see him! Thank God I got a phone."

Deedrick's wide stare was fixed on nothing, and sweat was beading on his forehead and rolling from his armpits. At first he thought the guy was drunk, had dropped his pants to take a piss, and had passed out.

Then Deedrick saw orange paint, and blood. He had never been so frightened in his life. He galloped back to his car, peeled out, and floored it the hell out of there. He pulled off under an overpass and peed. He called 911.

"My first thought?" Deedrick went on, a little more relaxed now.

"It's not really happening. I mean, the little bell is ringing and ringing, all this blood, pants down around his knees. And I… Well, you know.

His parts. "

Brazil looked up at him. Deedrick was stuttering;

"What about them?" Brazil wanted to know.

"It's like they were spray-painted traffic cone orange. With this shape."

Deedrick was blushing as he outlined a figure-eight in the air.

Brazil handed him the notepad.

"Can you draw it?" he asked.

Deedrick shakily drew an hourglass, to Brazil's amazement.

"Like a black widow spider," Brazil muttered as he watched West and Hammer duck under crime-scene tape, ready to leave.

Brazil ended the interview, in one big hurry, conditioned by now to fear being left. He also had a question that Hammer and West needed to hear. He addressed the chief first, out of respect.

"Has the killer spray-painted all his victims with an hourglass?"

Brazil said earnestly and with excitement.

West went still, which was rare for her. She did not move. Brazil thought Hammer was the most overpowering person he had ever met. She waved him off with a no comment sort of gesture.

"I'll let you handle this," she said to West.

Hammer headed to shadows where her car was parked. West strode to her Ford without a word, and when Brazil got in and fastened up, they had nothing to say to each other. The scanner was active and it was getting very late. It was time to return Brazil to the parking deck so he could get in his own car and get the hell out of her hair. That was the way West felt about it. What a night.

They were riding back to the LEC at almost midnight, both of them keyed up and tense. West couldn't believe she had hand-delivered a reporter to that scene. She absolutely could not take it in. This had to be somebody else's life that was happening to West on a dimension where she had no control, and she was reminded of a time she would never admit to anyone, when she was a sophomore at a very small, religious school, in Bristol, Tennessee. The trouble began with Mildred.

Mildred was very big and all the other girls on her floor were afraid of her. But not West. She saw Mildred as an opportunity because Mildred was from Miami. Mildred's parents had sent her to King College to get saved, and to straighten out. Mildred found someone in Kingsport who knew someone in Johnson City who had dealings with a guy at Eastman Kodak who sold pot. West and Mildred lit up one night on the tennis courts where no one could see anything except tiny orange coals glowing and fading by a net post on court two.

It was awful. West had never done anything this wicked, and now she knew why. She lost control, belly laughing and telling outlandish stories while Mildred confessed she had been fat all her life and knew precisely what it felt like to be black and discriminated against.

Mildred was something. The two of them sat out on red and green Laykold for hours, finally lying on their backs and staring up at stars and a moon that looked like a bright yellow swing swelling with the round shadow of promise. They talked about having babies. They drank Cokes, and ate whatever Mildred had in her pocketbook.

Mostly this was Nabs, Reese's Cups, Kit Kats, and things like that.

God, how West hated to think about that wretched time. It was her luck that, in the end, marijuana made her paranoid. A couple tokes into the third joint, she wanted to run as fast as she could, dive into her dorm room, punch in the lock, hide under the bed, and come back out in camouflage, a Tee-9 ready to go. When Mildred decided that West was physically attractive, the timing wasn't good.

West believed women were great. She'd loved every woman teacher and coach she'd ever known, as long as they were nice. But there were a couple of problems here. She had never really contemplated the possibility of what Mildred's interest might mean about West, or West's family, or of West's possibilities in the afterlife. Plus, Mildred grabbed West no differently than a guy would. Mildred didn't even ask, and this was unfortunate, since West was in camouflage, at least in her mind. West turned into the LEC parking deck for visitors.

"You can't do anything with that," West said to Brazil in an accusing tone.

"With what?" Brazil asked in a measured voice.

"You know what. In the first place, you had no business talking to a witness," West said.

"That's what reporters do," he replied.

"In the second place, the hourglass is something only the killer knows. Got it? So you don't put that in the paper. Period."

"How can you say for a fact the killer's the only one who knows about it?" Brazil was about to lose his temper.

"How do you know it won't trigger information from somebody out there?"

West raised her voice and wished she had never met Andy Brazil.

"You do it, and the next homicide in this city's going to be you."

"Yours," he helped her out.

"That's it." West turned into the police deck. She was not going to have this squirt correct her grammar one more time.

"You're dead."

"I believe you just threatened me." Brazil drew attention to it.

"Oh no. Not a threat," West said.

"A promise." She jammed the car into park.

"Find someone else to ride with." She was the maddest she'd ever been.

"Where are you parked?"

Brazil yanked up the door handle in a murderous reply.

"Well, guess what?" he said.

"Fuck you."

He got out and slammed the door. He stalked off into the dark, early morning. He managed to write his stories in time for the city edition, and he pulled off 1-77 on his way home and bought two tallboy Miller Lites. He managed to drink both as he drove very fast. Brazil had a frightening habit of pushing his car as far it would go. Since his speedometer didn't work, he could only guess how fast he was going by the RPMs. He knew he was flying, going close to a hundred miles an hour, and it wasn't the first time he'd done this. Sometimes he wondered if he were trying to die.

At home, he checked on his mother. She was unconscious in bed, and snoring with her mouth open. Brazil leaned against the wall in the dark, the night-light a sad dim eye. He was depressed and frustrated.

He thought about West and wondered why she was so heartless.

'e'/ W West walked into her own small house and tossed keys on her kitchen counter as Niles, her Abyssynian cat, appeared. Niles was on her heels, much like Brazil had been all day, and West flicked on her sound system and Eiton John reminded her of the night. She hit another button, changing to Roy Orbison. She walked into the kitchen, popped open a beer, and felt maudlin and didn't know why. She went back into the living room and turned on the late-night news. It was all about the killing. She plopped on the couch at the same time Niles decided she should. He loved his owner and waited for his turn as the TV played bad news about a dreadful death in the city.

"Believed to be another out-of-town businessman simply in the wrong place at the wrong time," Webb said into the camera.

West was restless, worn out and disgusted, all at the same time. She wasn't happy with Niles, either. He had climbed up her bookcases while she was out. She could always tell. How hard was it? He leapt up three shelves, just high enough to knock down bookends and a vase. As

for the framed picture of West's father on the farm, well, what did Niles care about that? That cat. West hated him. She hated everyone.

"Come here, Sweetsy," she said.

Niles made his ribs rattle, knowing how much it pleased her. It worked every time. Niles wasn't stupid. He reached around and licked his hindquarters because he could. When he looked at the lady who kept him, he made sure his eyes were very blue and crossed. Owners fell for that, and, predictably, she snatched him up and petted him. Niles was happy enough.

West wasn't. The next day when she got to work, Hammer was waiting for her deputy chief, and everybody seemed to know it. West left her Boj angles breakfast with out even opening the bag. She dropped everything and hurried down the hall. West almost ran into Hammer's outer office and felt like giving Horgess the finger. He very much enjoyed West's negative reaction to being summoned like this.

"Let me call her," Horgess said.

"Let me let you." West didn't disguise how surly she felt.

Horgess was young, and had shaved his head. Why? Soon he would dream of hair. He would lust after it. He would watch movies starring people with hair.

"She'll see you now," Horgess said, hanging up the phone.

"I'm sure." West gave him a sarcastic smile.

"For God's sake, Virginia," Hammer said the instant West walked in.

The chief was gripping the morning paper, shaking it, and pacing.

Hammer didn't wear pants often, but today she was in them. Her suit was a deep royal blue, and she wore a red and white striped shirt and soft black leather shoes. West had to admit, her boss was stunning. Hammer could cover or show her legs without gender being an issue.

"Now what?" Hammer railed on.

"Four businessmen four weeks in a row.

Carjackings, in which the killer changes his mind, leaves the cars?

Robberies? A weird hourglass symbol spray-painted on the victims' groins? Make and model, names, professions. Everything but the damn crime-scene photos right there for all the world to see! "

The headline was huge:

"What was I supposed to do?" West said.

"Keep him out of trouble."

"I'm not a babysitter."

"A businessman from Orlando, a salesman from Atlanta, a banker from South Carolina, a Baptist minister. From Tennessee. Welcome to our lovely city." Hammer tossed the paper on a couch.

"What do we do?"

"Letting him ride wasn't my idea," West reminded her.

"What's done is done." Hammer sat behind her desk. She picked up the phone and dialed.

"We can't get rid of him. Got any idea how that would look? On top of all the rest of it?" Her eyes glazed as the mayor's secretary answered.

"Listen, Ruth, get him now. I don't care what he's doing." Hammer started drumming polished nails on the blotter.

West was in a worse mood when she left her boss's office. It wasn't fair. Life was hard enough, and she was beginning to wonder about Hammer. What did West know about her, anyway, except that she had come to Charlotte from Chicago, a huge city where people froze their asses off half the year and the mob had its way with public officials. Next thing, Hammer sailed here, that housewife husband of hers tagging along.

Brazil wasn't pleased with his circumstances, either. He was punishing himself again this morning, pounding up bleacher steps in the stadium where the Davidson Wildcats lost every football game, even some they hadn't played, it seemed. He was going at it and didn't care if he had a heart attack or was sore tomorrow. Deputy Chief West was a lowlife cowboy, and as insensitive as shit, and Chief Hammer wasn't at all what he had fantasized. Hammer could have at least smiled or glanced at him, and made him feel welcome last night. Brazil headed back up the steps again, sweat leaving gray spots on cement.

Hammer wanted to hang up on the mayor. She had had just about enough of his unimaginative way of solving problems.

"I understand the medical examiner believes these murders have a homosexual connection," he was saying over the phone.

"That's one opinion," Hammer answered.

"The fact is that we don't know. All the victims were married with children."

"Exactly," he slyly said.

"For God's sake, Chuck, don't pile this on me so early in the morning." Hammer looked out the window and could almost see the bastard's office from where she sat.

"Point is, the theory is helpful," he went on in his South Carolina drawl.

Mayor Charles Search was from Charleston. He was

Hammer's age and often considered what it might be like to bed her. If nothing else, it would remind her of things she seemed to have forgotten. Her place, for starters. If she wasn't married, he would swear-she was a lesbian. He sat in his leather judge's chair, headset on, and doodled on a legal pad.

"The city, out of town businesses, won't be as bothered by this…"

he was trying to say.

"Where are you so I can break your neck," Hammer said over the phone.

"When was your lobotomy? I would have sent flowers."

"Judy." This doodle was really good. He focused on it, putting his glasses on.

"Calm down. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Of course you don't."

Maybe she was a lesbian, or bisexual, anyway, with a grating Midwestern accent. He reached for a red pen, getting excited over his art. It was an atom with orbits of little molecules that looked weirdly like eggs. Birth. This was seminal.

To make matters ever so much worse this morning, West had to go to the morgue. North Carolina didn't have the best system, it was West's opinion. Some cases were taken care of locally, by Dr. Odom and the police forensic labs. Other bodies were sent to the Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hill. Go figure. It was probably all about sports again. Hornets fans stayed in town, Tarheels got their lovely Y-incision in the big university town.

The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner's office was on North College Street, across from the award- winning new public library. West was buzzed in at the glass entrance. She had to give the place credit. The building, which was the former Sears Garden Center, was brighter and more modern than most morgues, and had added another cold room the last time US Air had crashed another plane around here. It was a shame that North Carolina didn't seem inclined to hire a few more MEs for the great state of Mecklenburg, as some sour senators were inclined to disparage the state's fastest-growing, most progressive region.

There were only two forensic pathologists to handle more than a hundred homicides a year, and both of them were in the necropsy room when West arrived. The dead businessman didn't look any better now that Dr. Odom had started on him. Brewster was at the table, wearing a disposable plastic apron and gloves. He nodded at her as she tied a gown in back, because West didn't take chances. Dr. Odom was splashed with blood, and holding the scalpel like a pencil as he reflected back tissue. His patient had a lot of fat, which always looked worse inside out.

The morgue assistant was a big man who was always sweating. He plugged an autopsy saw into the overhead cord reel, and started on the skull.

This West could do without. The sound was worse than the dentist's drill, the bony smell, not to mention the idea, awful. West would not be murdered or turn up dead suspiciously in any form or fashion. She would not have this done to her naked body with people like Brewster looking on while clerks passed around her pictures and made comments.

"Contact wounds, entrances here behind the right ear." Dr. Odom pointed a bloody gloved finger, mostly for her benefit.

"Large caliber. This is execution style."

"Exactly like the others," Brewster remarked.

"What about cartridge cases?" Dr. Odom asked.

"Forty-fives, Winchester, probably Silvertips," West replied, thinking about Brazil's article again and all that he had revealed.

"Five each time. Perp doesn't bother picking them up, doesn't care. We need to get the FBI on this."

"Fucking press," Brewster said.

West had never been to Quantico. Her dream had always been to attend the FBI's National Academy, which was rather much the Oxford University of police training. But she'd been busy. Then she kept getting promoted. Finally, the only thing she was eligible for was executive training up there, for God's sake. That meant a bunch of big-bellied chiefs, assistant chiefs, and sheriffs, out on the firing range trying to make the transition from. 38 specials to semiautomatic pistols. She'd heard the stories. All these guys blasting away, dumping brass into their hands, and taking the time to stuff it neatly in their pockets. Hammer offered to send West last year. Forget it.

West didn't need to learn a thing from the FBI.

"I'd like to know what their profilers would have to say," West said.

"Forget it," Brewster said, chewing a toothpick and swiping Vicks up his nose.

Dr. Odom picked up a big sponge, and squeezed water over organs. He grabbed a tan rubber hose, and suctioned blood out of the chest cavity.

"He smells like he was drinking," said Brewster, who could no longer smell anything except childhood memories of colds.

"Maybe on the plane," Odom agreed.

"What about those guys at Quantico?" He eyed Brewster, as if West had never brought up the subject.

"Busy as jumping beans," Brewster replied.

"Like I said, forget it.

They got what? Ten, eleven profilers and are about a thousand cases behind? Think the government's going to fund shit? Shit no. Too damn bad, too.

"Cause those profilers are damn good."

Brewster had applied to the FBI early on, but forget that, too. They weren't hiring, or maybe it had to do with the polygraph test he wasn't about to take. He sniffed more Vicks. God, he hated death. It was ugly and it stunk. It was a tattletale. Like this fellow's dick, for example. The guy looked like a balloon with this little knot, so all his air didn't get out.

West was angry, her face hard, as she stared at the fleshy nude body opened up from neck to navel, and blaze orange paint no amount of scrubbing would wash away. She thought of his wife and family. No human should ever have to come to such a grim place and be put through something like this, and she felt fresh anger toward Brazil.

She was waiting for him when he trotted out of the Knight-Ridder building, his notepad in hand as he headed to his car and a story.

West, in uniform, climbed out of her unmarked Ford, and she strode toward Brazil like she might tackle him. She wished she could have bottled that dead smell and sprayed it in Brazil's face, and rubbed his nose in the reality West had to live with every day. Brazil was in a hurry and had a lot on his mind. A Honda was on fire in the Mental Health parking lot, according to the scanner. Possibly, it was nothing, but what if someone was in it? Brazil stopped. He was startled as West jabbed a finger into his breastbone.

"Hey!" He grabbed her wrist.

"So how's the Black Widow reporter today?" West coldly said.

"I just came from the morgue, you know, where reality's laid out and carved up? Bet you've never been there. Maybe they'll let you watch someday.

What a good story that would be, right? A man not old enough to be your daddy. Red hair, hundred and ninety-seven pounds. Guess what his hobby was. "

Brazil released West's arm. He groped for words but didn't have any.

"Backgammon, photography. He wrote the newsletter for his church, wife's dying of cancer. They got two kids, one grown, other a freshman at UNC. Anything else you want to know about him? Or is Mr. Parsons nothing but a story to you? Little words on paper?"

Brazil was visibly shaken. He started walking off to his old BMW as the Honda in the Mental Health parking lot burned and he no longer cared. West wasn't going to let him off so easy. She grabbed his arm.

"Get your goddamn hands off me," Brazil said. He jerked his arm free, unlocked his car door, and got in.

"You screwed me, Andy," West told him.

Brazil cranked the engine, and squealed out of the parking deck. West returned to the LEG and didn't go straight to investigations because she had a few of her own. She stopped off at the Records Room, where women in their own special uniforms ruled the world. West really had to court these girls, especially Wanda, who weighed somewhere between two-fifty and three hundred pounds and could type a hundred and five words a minute. If West needed a record or to send a missing- person report off to NCIC, Wanda was either a hero or hell on earth, depending on when she was fed last. West brought in a bucket of KFC once a month, and sometimes Girl Scout or Christmas cookies, depending on what was in season. West approached the counter, and whistled at Wanda, who loved West. Wanda secretly wished she was a detective and worked for the deputy chief.

"Need your help," West said, and her police belt was making her lower back ache, as usual.

Wanda scowled at a name West had scribbled on a slip of paper.

"Lord have mercy," she said, shaking her head.

"If I don't remember that like it was yesterday."

West couldn't be certain, but thought Wanda had gained more weight.

God help her. Wanda took up two lanes of traffic.

"You sit on down." Wanda pointed with her chin, as if she were Chinese.

"I'll get the microfilm."

While Wanda's minions typed, stacked, and racked, West went through microfilm. She had her glasses on and was hurt by what she saw when she got to old articles about Brazil's father. His name, too, was Andrew, but people had called him Drew. He had been a cop here when West was a rookie. She had forgotten all about him, and had never made the connection. Christ, but now that she was looking at it, the tragedy came back to her and somehow put Brazil's life in focus.

Drew Brazil was a thirty-six-year-old robbery detective when he made a traffic stop in an unmarked car. He was shot close range in the chest, and died instantly. West took a long time looking at articles, and staring at his picture. She headed upstairs to her division and pulled the case, which no one had looked at in a decade, because it had been exceptionally cleared, and the dirtbag was still on death row. Drew Brazil was handsome. In one photograph, he wore a leather bomber jacket that West had seen before.

The scene photographs clubbed her somewhere in her chest. He was dead in the street, on his back, staring up at the sun on a spring Sunday morning. The. 45 caliber bullet had almost ripped his heart in half, and in autopsy photographs, Odom had two thick fingers through the hole to demonstrate. This was something young Andy Brazil need never see, and West had no intention of talking to him ever again.