Hornet's Nest (13 page)

“What does directing traffic have to do with anything?” Goode wanted to know.

“Point is, this guy works harder than most of your cops,” West replied to Goode. “And he’s just a volunteer. Doesn’t have to. Could have a real attitude problem but doesn’t.”

Hammer wondered if salt would hurt her much. Lord, how nice it would be to taste something and not end up looking like her husband.

“I’m in charge of patrol. That’s where he is right now,” Goode said, turning over lettuce leaves with her fork to see if anything good was left. Maybe a crouton or a walnut.

Brazil was sweating in his uniform and bright orange traffic vest. His feet were on fire as he blocked off a side street. He was turning cars around left and right, routing them the other way, blowing his whistle, and making crisp traffic motions. Horns were honking, and another driver began yelling rudely out the window for directions. Brazil trotted over to help, and was not appreciated or thanked. This was a terrible job, and he loved it for reasons he did not understand.

• • •

“So he relieves at least one sworn officer from traffic duty,” West was saying as Hammer chose to ignore both of her deputy chiefs.

Frankly, Hammer could take but so much of the bickering between the brass. It never ended. Hammer glanced at her watch and imagined Cahoon at the top of his crown. The fool. He would turn this city into the prick of America, peopled by yahoos with guns and USAir Gold cards and box seats for the Panthers and Hornets if someone did not stop him.

Cahoon had been stopped three times on his way to lunch on the sixtieth floor in the corporate dining room. Awaiting him amid linen and Limoges were a president, four vice-presidents, a chairman and a vice-chairman, and a top executive with the Dominion Tobacco Company, which over the next two years would be borrowing more than four hundred million dollars from USBank for a cancer research project. Computer printouts had been stacked high by Cahoon’s plate. There were fresh flowers on the table, and waiters in tuxedos hovered.

“Good afternoon.” The CEO nodded around the table, his eyes lingering on the tobacco executive.

Cahoon didn’t like the woman and wasn’t sure why, beyond his rabid hatred of smoking, which had begun seven years ago after he had quit. Cahoon had serious misgivings about granting such a huge loan for a project so scientific and secretive that no one could tell him precisely what it was about, beyond the fact that USBank would be instrumental in the development of the world’s first truly healthy cigarette. He had reviewed endless charts and diagrams of a long and robust cylinder with a gold crown around the filter. The amazing product was called
USChoice
. It could be smoked by all, would harm none, and contained various minerals, vitamins, and calming agents that would be inhaled and absorbed directly into the bloodstream. Cahoon was reminded of what his bank’s contribution would mean to humanity, as he reached for his bubbly water, and felt happy.

• • •

The people along Eastway Drive were also happy as they waited for the Freedom Parade. It was always full of hope and bounce, Shriners zigzagging on their scooters, waving at the crowd, reminding all of burn units and good deeds. Brazil was slightly concerned that other cops at other intersections seemed bored and restless. There were no floats. He scanned the horizon and saw nothing but a patrol car in a hurry heading his way. A horn blared and another driver yelled, this time an angry old woman in a Chevrolet. No matter how much Brazil tried to help, she was determined to be unpleasant and unreasonable.

“Ma’am,” he politely said, “you have to turn around and take Shamrock Drive.”

She flipped him a bird and roared off, as the frantic, irritated cop in the patrol car rolled up on Brazil’s intersection.

“The parade and a funeral somehow got routed through here at the same time,” the cop hastily explained.

“What?” Brazil asked, baffled. “How . . . ?”

But the patrol car sped off.

“Doesn’t matter who he relieves from traffic,” Goode was saying as she gave up on food in hopes it would give up on her. “I don’t want him. He’s a spy, CIA, KGB, whatever you want to call him.”

“Now how stupid is that?” West pushed her plate away. “For Chrissake.”

Hammer said nothing as she looked around the restaurant to see who else she recognized. The book columnist for the
Observer
and an editorial writer were eating lunch, but not together. Hammer trusted none of them. She had spent no time with Andy Brazil, but thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea. He sounded interesting.

When the hearses slowly appeared, they were gleaming black, with headlights burning. Brazil watched their
formidable approach as he struggled to keep his side street blocked and continued to direct cars to turn away. The endless funeral procession crept past with precision and dignity, and hundreds of people waiting for Shriners and scooters drank sodas and watched and waved. This wasn’t exactly what they had expected when they’d headed out into the morning for a little free excitement, but they were here and would take whatever they could get.

Inside a black Lincoln Continental stretch limousine with white leather interior and a television and VCR, the bereft brother and the widow were dressed for Sunday and staring out tinted glass. They were impressed by all the spectators lining the street to pay last respects. A lot of them had brought snacks, drinks, kids, and small American flags. They were waving and cheering, which was the way it ought to be, a celebration, as one crosses over to the other side, into the loving arms of Jesus.

“I had no idea Tyvola had so many friends,” the brother marveled, waving back.

“And all these police came out.” The widow shyly waved, too.

Brazil blew his whistle and almost got run over by an old man in a Dodge Dart who didn’t seem to understand that a policeman holding out both palms was a hint that the driver might want to stop. The unbroken caravan of stretch limousines, town cars, hearses, all black with lights on, didn’t seem to send any direct message to Howie Song in his Dart. By now, Song was halfway out into the intersection with a line of cars bumper to bumper behind him. It was not possible he could back up unless everyone else did.

“Don’t you move!” Brazil warned the impatient old man, who had his radio turned up as high as it would go, playing a country western tune.

Brazil set three traffic cones in front of the Dart. They scattered like bowling pins the instant Brazil stepped back to
direct other cars to back up. Song in his Dart helped himself to the Boulevard, certain the lumbering funeral cars would let him through so he could get to the hardware store.

That’s what you think
, thought Chad Tilly, director of the Tilly Family Mortuary, which was famous for its air-conditioned building, plush slumber parlors, and quality caskets. His big ad on page 537 of the Yellow Pages was unfortunately positioned directly next to Fungus and Mold Control. Tilly’s secretary was forever telling people who called that although they had similar concerns in the funeral business, they could not help with basement moisture problems or sump pumps, for example.

Tilly had driven in more funeral processions than he could remember. He was a formidable businessman who hadn’t gotten his fine suits and rings by being a pushover. He not only didn’t let that little piece of law-breaking banged-up blue Dodge shit through, but Tilly got on his two-way radio. He raised his lead car on the air.

“Flip,” he said to his number-two man in the company.

“Coming at ya, boss.”

“Put the brakes on up there,” Tilly told him.

“You sure?”

“Always am,” said Tilly.

This stopped the entire line of black cars with lights burning. The Dart could not get across the boulevard now, and Song was momentarily confused. He stopped, too, long enough for a cop to yank open his door and get the crabby old man out of the car.

“Flip.” Tilly was back on the air. “Move along.” He chuckled.

Hammer was not amused as she applied lipstick after lunch and listened to her two female deputy chiefs bickering like rival siblings.

“I’m in charge of patrol,” Goode announced inside the
Carpe Diem, as if the restaurant’s name applied to her. “And he’s not riding with us. God only knows what will end up in the newspaper. You’re so hot on him, let him ride with your people.”

Hammer got out her compact and glanced at her watch.

“Investigations doesn’t have ride-alongs. Ever,” West replied. “It’s against department policy and always has been.”

“And what you’re proposing isn’t?” Goode demanded.

“Ride-alongs, volunteers, have been riding with patrol for as long as I’ve been here,” West reminded her in a strained voice.

Hammer got out her wallet and studied the bill.

“I’m wondering if there’s some personal agenda here,” Goode went on.

West knew exactly what the bitch was implying. It had been duly noted around the department that Andy Brazil was rather good to look at, and West had never been famous for dating. The current theory circulating was that she had found a boy toy because she couldn’t get a man. Long ago, she had learned to ignore such gossip.

“The bigger issue,” Goode was saying, “is that volunteers don’t routinely ride with a deputy chief who hasn’t made an arrest or written a ticket in fifty years. He’s probably not even safe out there with someone like you.”

“We’ve handled some situations a lot better than patrol did,” West let her know.

Hammer had heard enough. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” she spoke. “Virginia, I’m going to approve your riding patrol with him. It’s an interesting idea. We might learn something new. I probably should have done the same thing a long time ago.”

She put money on the table. West and Goode did the same. Hammer nailed Goode with a look.

“You’ll do everything you can to help,” Hammer said to her.

Goode was cold as she got up and turned to West for one last remark. “Hope there’s no problem. Remember, your rank is unclassified.”

“As is yours,” Hammer said to Goode. “I can fire you without cause. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers and wished Goode had gone into some other profession. Maybe undertaking.

C
had Tilly could have used another undertaker at exactly that moment. He had brilliantly outmaneuvered the Dodge Dart with its kamikaze old man rocking to country western. That round the funeral director had won without effort, but it had also been Tilly’s experience that when he was relaxed and not looking, he usually got his butt kicked. Tilly was creeping along again when he decided to light a cigar and fiddle with the radio at the same time.

Tilly did not notice the blond kid in uniform and no gun, suddenly halting the procession as, of all things, a Fourth of July–looking float appeared on the horizon, running the lead limo off the road. This was amazing. Sweet Jesus, this could not be so. Tilly slammed on brakes at the same moment his assistant’s inability to completely shut the hearse’s tailgate became known. The copper-tinted casket with deep satin lining slammed one way and ricocheted out the other like a lightweight alloy bullet. The casket and its occupant skittered over pavement and kept going, for as luck would have it, the procession was momentarily on a slight hill.

Brazil had not been trained to handle such a situation and was on his radio in a flash as yet a second float glided into
view. This was awful. It was his intersection. He would be blamed. His armpits were soaked and his heart was out of control as he tried to contain the disaster of the world. Men in dark suits with lots of rings and gold crowns on their teeth were flying out of stretch limousines and chasing a runaway gaudy electroplated casket down the boulevard. Oh God. No. Brazil blew his whistle and stopped all traffic, including floats. He raced after the casket as it continued its lonely journey. People stared at the cop chasing it. They cheered.

“I’ll get it,” Brazil called out to men in suits, as he sprinted.

The foot pursuit was brief, order restored, and a dapper man who identified himself as Mr. Tilly formally thanked Brazil for all to hear.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” replied Brazil, the community-oriented cop.

“Yeah,” the funeral home director boomed. “Get them mother-fucking floats outa my way.”

Floats were pulled over to make room, and none moved an inch for an hour. Not one spectator went home, and others came as word traveled around. This was the best Freedom Day in the history of Charlotte.

Goode, head of patrol, did not share quite the same enthusiasm, since traffic control was her responsibility and a runaway casket was not something she wanted to hear about on the evening news. It was a matter she intended to resolve in person, but not until it was dark out. Then she packed up her slim, soft leather satchel and headed to the parking deck, where the city paid nineteen dollars a month for her reserved parking space. She preferred driving her personal car back and forth to work and got inside her black Miata.

Goode opened her satchel, dug for Obsession, and strategically sprayed. She dry-brushed her teeth. She worked on her hair a bit, and threw the car in reverse, loving the engine throbbing beneath her. She headed out to Myers Park, the wealthiest, oldest neighborhood, where huge mansions with slate roofs gathered their cobblestone skirts around them lest
they be splashed by the dirtier elements of the city.

Myers Park Methodist Church was gray stone and rose from the horizon like a castle. Goode had never been to a service here, but the parking lot she knew very well, for she worshiped in it regularly. Brent Webb was on his break after the six o’clock news, his Porsche idling beneath a large magnolia tree in a far corner. He shut down the engine as his other one got going. He got out of his car, looking each way, as if about to cross traffic, and slid inside Goode’s Miata.

Rarely did they talk, unless she had a scoop he must know. Their lips locked, sucked, bit, probed, and invaded, as did tongues and hands. They drove each other further than either had ever been, each time more primitive and special, each frenzied by the other’s power. Webb had secret fantasies of Goode in uniform, whipping out her handcuffs, and her gun. She liked to watch him on TV, when she was alone at home, savoring his every syllable as he alluded to her and secretly quoted her to the world.

“I assume you know about the casket problem.” Goode could barely talk.

“Whose?” asked Webb, who never knew anything unless the information was stolen or leaked.

“Never mind.”

They were breathing heavily, the Pointer Sisters jumping on the radio. They made out in the front seat, maneuvering around the stick shift as best they could. Through the front windshield the lit-up city skyline was close, the USBank Corporate Center very much a symbol of Webb’s good mood. He unfastened her bra, never sure why he bothered, and he imagined her tie, her police belt, and his excitement grew.

Officer Jenny Frankel was typically excited, as well, for she was young and still enthusiastic about her job. She looked for trouble, begged, and even prayed for it, so when she noticed two vehicles pulled off in a remote corner of the Myers Park Methodist Church parking lot, she had to check it out. In the first place, choir practice was yesterday and AA
didn’t meet until Thursday. Plus, there were drug dealers everywhere, threatening to take over. Fuck no, was her position. She would take the city back, return it to decent, hard-working men and women if it was the last thing she did in life.

She pulled into shadows and stopped, now close enough to notice movement in the front seat of a late-model black Miata that looked vaguely familiar, for some reason. Frankel suspected the active silhouettes were two men, based on the hair. She typed plate numbers into her MDT and patiently waited as the two guys kissed, fondled, and sucked. When Deputy Chief Goode’s and Brent Webb’s Department of Motor Vehicle information returned to the video display, Frankel rapidly left the area. Other than her sergeant, with whom she went out drinking several times a week, Frankel told no one what she had observed this night. The sergeant also told only one person, and this discreetly went on.

Brazil’s day had been long, but he did not want to go home. After working traffic, he had changed his clothes and done his eight hours for the
Observer
. Now it was almost one
A
.
M
. The late shift had been slow. For a while he had hung around the press room watching newspapers race toward their final destination of puppy crates and recycling bins. He had stood, mesmerized, unable to see his byline this time because all he had been able to bring in was a local metro story about a pedestrian run over in Mint Hill. The victim was a known drunk and night editor Cutler didn’t think the story merited more than three inches.

Brazil got in his BMW and headed back toward Trade Street. This was not a safe thing to do, and no one needed to tell him that. He rumbled past the stadium and the Duke Power transfer station, stopping at a dead end at West Third where the old crumbling building seemed even more haunted and menacing at this hour. Brazil sat and stared, imagining murder, and believing there was a person who had heard the gunshots and spraying of paint. Somewhere, someone knew.
Brazil left his engine running, the Sig Sauer between the front seats and within reach.

He began walking around, probing with a flashlight, his eyes nervous, as if he feared he was being watched. Old blood on pavement was black, and an opossum was working on it, eyes white in the flashlight as it spied the intrusion and scuttled off. The woods teemed with restless insects, and fireflies winked. A far-off train rumbled down rusty tracks, and Brazil was chilled, his attention darting around like static. He felt murder in this place. He sensed a sinister energy that bristled and coiled and waited to claim more. These killings were common and cold, and Brazil believed that the monster was known by the people of the night, and fear kept identity hidden.

Brazil did not believe prostitution was right. He did not think that anyone should have to pay for such a thing. He did not believe that anyone should have to sell such a thing. All of it was depressing, and he imagined being a homely middle-aged man and accepting that no woman would want him without his wallet. Brazil imagined a woman worrying about servicing the next client in order to feed her child or herself or avoid another beating from her pimp. A horrid slavery, all of it dreadful and hard to imagine. This moment, Brazil entertained little hope about the human condition when he considered that heartless behavior had evolved not one level higher since the beginning of time. It seemed that what had changed, simply, was the way people got around and communicated, and the size of the weapons they used against each other.

On Highway 277, he saw one of these very sad creations on the shoulder, walking languidly, in tight jeans and no bra, her chest thrust out. The young hooker was pointed and tattooed, in a skimpy white knit shirt. He slowed, meeting bold, mocking eyes that didn’t know fear. She was about his age and missing most of her front teeth, and he tried to imagine talking to her, or picking her up. He wondered if the appeal was stolen fire, some sort of mythical thing, an ill-gotten rush that made people feel powerful, her over him, him over her, if only for a dark, degrading moment. He imagined her
laughing at her johns and hating them as much as she hated herself and all. He followed the young hooker in his rearview mirror as she stared back at him, with a slight, quizzical smile, waiting for the boy to make up his mind. She could have been pretty once. Brazil sped up as a van cruised close to her and stopped.

The next night, Brazil was out on the street again, and reality seemed different and odd, and at first, he thought it was his imagination. From the moment he left the
Observer
in his BMW, he saw cops everywhere in spotless white patrol cars. They were watching and following him, and he told himself this could not be true, that he was tired and full of fantasy. The evening was slow, with no good reports in the press basket, unless Webb had already stolen them. There were no good calls over the scanner until a fire broke out. Brazil didn’t waste time. The blaze was huge and he could see it against the night sky in Adam One, close to where Nations Ford and York Roads met. Brazil’s adrenaline flooded him with nervous energy. He was focused on getting to the scene and not getting lost, when suddenly a siren sounded behind him, and he checked his rearview mirror.

“Shit,” he said.

Moments later, he was in the passenger’s seat of a police cruiser, getting a ticket as the distant fire burned without him.

“My speedometer is broken.” Brazil tried that shopworn line.

“Get it fixed.” The officer was unfriendly and taking her time.

“Could you please hurry with that, ma’am?” Brazil then politely said. “I’ve got to get to my story.”

“You should have thought about that before you broke the law.” She was not nice about it.

A half hour later, Brazil was talking on the two-way radio, and leaving the fire scene, where an abandoned building was still fully involved. Flames danced from the roof, as fire fighters on cranes blasted water through broken windows.
News helicopters hovered nearby. Brazil was telling a metro editor what he’d found.

“Unoccupied, an old warehouse. No injuries,” he said into the mike.

In the rearview mirror, a patrol car was following him. He couldn’t believe it. Another cop was staring right at him.

“Just do a couple graphs,” the editor told him over the air.

He would get to it. Right now, Brazil had more important concerns. This was not an imagined threat, and he could afford no more tickets or points on his record. He started driving the way he played tennis, serving up this and that, slicing, sending a ball top-spinning over his opponent’s head. Asshole, he thought, as the same car bird-dogged him. Like anybody else, Brazil could and would take but so much.

“That’s it,” he snapped.

The patrol car was behind him in the right lane. Brazil continued at a steady speed and took a left on Runnymede Lane. The cop stayed on Brazil’s bumper, and they slowed to a stop at a red light. Brazil did not look over or acknowledge in any way that he was aware of the problem. He was cool in his saddle-leather seat, preoccupied with adjusting the radio, which had been silent for years. At the last second, he swerved into the left lane, and the officer pulled up beside him, with an icy smile that Brazil returned. The ruse was up. They were squared off. This was war. There was no turning back. Brazil thought fast. Officer Martin, with his .40 caliber pistol, shotgun, and 350 V8, didn’t need to think.

The light turned green and Brazil threw his old car into neutral, gunning it like he was going to blast off like the space shuttle. Officer Martin gunned his car, too, only the big horsepower Ford was in drive. It was already through the intersection by the time Brazil had finished his U-turn, flying the other way on Barclay Downs. He caromed off on Morrison and cut a tangled path that ended in a dark alleyway in the heart of Southpark Mall, next to a Dumpster.

His heart was hammering as he turned off headlights and sat, his thoughts frantic and frightened. He was trying to figure out what might happen if the cop found him again.
Would the officer arrest Brazil for trying to elude, for resisting arrest? Would the cop show up with other goons and beat the shit out of Brazil in a place like this, remote and dark, with no chance of discovery by a citizen with a video camera? Brazil gasped as a burglar alarm suddenly sounded like a clanging jackhammer, shattering the absolute quiet. At first, he thought it was a siren that was somehow related to his fugitive status, then a back door swung open and slammed against brick. Two young males hurried out, loaded down with electronics they had just stolen from Radio Shack.