Hornet's Nest (3 page)

“Don’t you understand?” Brazil went on. “They’re just handling me. They’re just trying to use me for PR!”

Packer got up. He towered wearily over Brazil like a weathered tree gathering more shadow the older it grows.

“What can I say?” Packer said, and his shirt was untucked again. “We’ve never done this before. It’s what the cops, the city, are offering. You’ll have to sign a waiver.
Take notes. No pictures. No videotapes. Do what you’re told. I don’t want you getting shot out there.”

“Well, I’ve got to go back home to change into my uniform,” Brazil decided.

Packer walked off, hitching up his pants, heading to the men’s room. Brazil slumped back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling as if the only stock he owned had just crashed. Panesa watched him through glass, interested in how he was going to turn this around, and convinced he would. Systems analyst Brenda Bond blatantly glared at him from a nearby computer she was fixing. Brazil never paid her any mind. She was repulsive to him, thin and pale, with coarse black hair. She was hateful and jealous, and certain she was smarter than Brazil and all because computer experts and scientists were like that. He imagined Brenda Bond spending her life on the Internet inside chat rooms, because who would have her?

Sighing, Brazil got up from his chair. Panesa watched Brazil pick up an ugly red rose in a Snapple bottle, and the publisher smiled. Panesa and his wife had desperately wanted a son, and after five daughters it was either move to a larger home, become Catholic or Mormon, or practice safe sex. Instead, they had gotten divorced. He could not imagine what it must be like to have a son like Andy Brazil. Brazil was striking to look at, and sensitive, and though all the results weren’t in, the biggest talent ever to walk through Panesa’s door.

Tommy Axel was typing a big review of a new k.d. lang album that he was listening to on earphones. He was a goofball, sort of a Matt Dillon who wasn’t famous and never would be, Brazil thought. He walked up to Axel’s desk and clunked the rose next to the keyboard as Axel boogied in his Star Trek tee shirt. Surprised, Axel pushed the earphones down around his neck, faint, thin music leaking out. Axel’s face was smitten. This was the One for him. He had known it since he was six, somehow had a premonition that a divine
creature like this would overlap orbits with his when the planets were aligned.

“Axel,” Brazil’s heavenly voice sounded like a thunderclap, “no more flowers.”

Axel stared at his lovely rose as Brazil stalked off. Brazil didn’t mean it, Axel was certain, as he watched Brazil. Axel was grateful for his desk. He scooted his chair in closer and crossed his legs, aching for the blond god walking with purpose out of the newsroom. Axel wondered where he was going. Brazil carried his briefcase as if he wasn’t coming back. Axel had Brazil’s home phone number because he had looked it up in the book. Brazil didn’t live in the city, sort of out in the sticks, and Axel didn’t quite understand it.

Of course, Brazil probably didn’t make twenty thousand dollars a year, but he had a
bad
car. Axel drove a Ford Escort that wasn’t new. The paint job was beginning to remind him of Keith Richards’s face. There was no CD player and the
Observer
wouldn’t buy him one, and he planned to remind everyone there of that someday when he landed a job with
Rolling Stone
. Axel was thirty-two. He had been married once, for exactly a year, when he and his wife looked at each other during a candlelight dinner, their relationship the mystery of all time, she from one planet, he from another.

They, the aliens, agreeably left for new frontiers where no person had gone before. It had nothing to do with his habit of picking up groupies at concerts after Meatloaf, Gloria Estefan, Michael Bolton, had worked them into a lather. Axel would get a few quotes. He’d put the boys and their winking lighted shoes, shaved heads, dreadlocks, and body piercing, in the newspaper. They called Axel, excited, wanting extra copies, eight-by-ten photographs, follow-up interviews, concert tickets, backstage passes. One thing usually led to another.

While Axel was thinking about Brazil, Brazil was not thinking about him. Brazil was in his BMW and trying to calculate when he might need gas next since neither that gauge nor the speedometer had worked in more than forty thousand
miles. BMW parts on a scale this grand were, in his mind, aviation instrumentation and simply beyond his means. This was not good for one who drove too fast and did not enjoy being stranded on a roadside waiting for the next non–serial killer to offer a ride to the nearest gas station.

His mother was still snoring in front of the TV. Brazil had learned to walk through his decaying home and the family life it represented without seeing any of it. He headed straight to his small bedroom, unlocked the door, and shut it behind him. He turned on a boom box, but not too loud, and let Joan Osborne envelop him as he went into his closet. Putting on his uniform was a ritual, and he did not see how he could ever get tired of it.

First, he always laid it out on the bed and indulged himself, just looking for a moment, not quite believing someone had given him permission to wear such a glorious thing. His Charlotte uniform was midnight blue, creased and new with a bright white hornet’s nest that seemed in motion, like a white twister, on each shoulder patch. He always put socks on first, black cotton, and these had not come from the city. Next he carefully pulled on summer trousers that were hot no matter how light the material, a subtle stripe down each leg.

The shirt was his favorite because of the patches and everything else that he would pin on. He worked his arms through the short sleeves, began buttoning in the mirror, all the way up to his chin, and clipped on the tie. Next was his name plate and whistle. To the heavy black leather belt he attached the holder with its Mag-Lite and his pager, saving room for the radio he would check out at the LEC. His soft Hi-Tec boots weren’t patent leather like the military type he had seen most of his life, but more like high-top athletic shoes. He could run in these if the need ever arose, and he hoped it would. He did not wear a hat because Chief Hammer did not believe in them.

Brazil inspected himself in the mirror to make sure all was perfect. He headed back downtown with the windows and sunroof open and propped his arm up whenever he could because he enjoyed the reaction of drivers in the next lane
when they saw his patch. People suddenly slowed down. They let him pass when the light turned green. Someone asked him directions. A man spat, eyes filled with resentment Brazil did not deserve, for he had done nothing to him. Two teenaged boys in a truck began making fun of him, and he stared straight ahead and drove, as if none of this were new. He had been a cop forever.

The LEC was several blocks from the newspaper, and Brazil knew the way as if he were going home. He pulled into the parking deck for visitors and tucked his BMW in a press slot, angling it the way he always did so people didn’t hit his doors. He got out and followed polished hallways to the duty captain’s office, because he had no idea where the investigative division was or if he could just stroll in without asking permission. In the academy, his time had been spent in a classroom, the radio room, or out on a street learning how to direct traffic and work nonreportable accidents. He did not know his way around this four-story complex, and stood in a doorway, suddenly shy in a uniform that did not include gun, baton, pepper spray, or anything helpful.

“Excuse me,” he announced himself.

The duty captain was big and old at his desk, and going through pages of mug shots with a sergeant. They ignored him. For a moment Brazil watched Channel 3 television reporter Brent Webb, perched over the press baskets, going through reports, stealing whatever he wanted. It was amazing. Brazil watched the asshole tuck the reports into his zip-up briefcase, where no other journalist in the city would ever see them, as if it were perfectly acceptable for him to cheat Brazil and everyone trying to report the news. Brazil stared at Webb, then at this sergeant and captain who did not seem to care what crimes were committed in plain view.

“Excuse me,” Brazil tried again, louder.

He walked in, rudely ignored by cops who had hated the paper so long they no longer remembered why.

“I need to find Deputy Chief West’s office.” Brazil would not be ignored.

The duty captain lifted another plastic-sheathed page of hard-boiled mugs up to the light. The sergeant turned his
back to Brazil. Webb stopped what he was doing, his smile amused, maybe even mocking as he looked Brazil up and down, assessing this unfamiliar guy playing dress-up. Brazil had seen Webb enough on television to recognize him anywhere and had heard a lot about him, too. Other reporters called Webb
The Scoop
, for reasons Brazil had just witnessed.

“So how do you like being a volunteer?” Webb was condescending and had no idea who Brazil was.

“Which way to investigations,” Brazil replied, as if it were an order, his eyes piercing.

Webb nodded. “Up the stairs, can’t miss it.”

Webb studied the way Brazil was dressed and started laughing, as did the sergeant and duty captain. Brazil helped himself to the TV reporter’s briefcase and pulled out a handful of purloined offense reports. Brazil smoothed and shuffled them. He perused and stacked them neatly, taking his time, while everyone watched and Webb’s face turned red.

“Believe Chief Hammer might like to see
The Scoop
in action.” Brazil smiled at him.

Brazil’s boots were quiet as he walked off.

P
atrol was the largest division of the Charlotte Police Department, but investigations was the most treacherous, it was Virginia West’s belief. Citizens followed burglaries, rapes, and homicides with fearful eyes. They complained when violent offenders weren’t instantly snatched off the street, as if the Rapture had come. West’s phone had not stopped ringing all day.

The trouble started three weeks ago when Jay Rule, a businessman from Orlando, arrived in the Queen City for a textile meeting. Hours after Rule left the airport in a rental Maxima, the car was found abandoned in a dark, overgrown vacant lot off South College Street, in the heart of downtown. The interior bell was dinging its complaint that the driver’s door was open and headlights on. A briefcase and overnight bag had been gone through in the backseat. Cash, jewelry, portable phone, pager, and no one was quite sure what else, were gone.

Jay Rule, thirty-three, was shot five times in the head with a .45 caliber pistol loaded with a high-velocity, extremely destructive hollowpoint ammunition called Silvertips. His body was dragged fifteen feet into kudzu, his pants and undershorts pulled down to his knees, his genital area spray-painted bright orange in the shape of a large hourglass. No
one, including the FBI, had ever seen anything like this. Then the following week, it happened again.

The second homicide was less than two blocks from the first, just off West Trade Street, behind the Cadillac Grill, which wasn’t open at night, because of crime. Jeff Calley, forty-two, was a Baptist minister visiting Charlotte from Knoxville, Tennessee. His mission in the city was simple. He was moving his failing mother into a nursing home called The Pines and staying in the Hyatt while he did so. He never checked in. Late that night, his rental Jetta was found, driver’s door open, bell dinging, same modus operandi.

Week three, the nightmare repeated itself when fifty-two-year-old Cary Luby visited from Atlanta. West was discussing his case over the phone when Brazil appeared in her doorway. West did not notice him. She was too busy shuffling through large, gory scene photographs as she continued arguing with an assistant district attorney.

“That’s not correct, I don’t know where you got that, okay? He was shot multiple times in the head, contact. A .45 loaded with Silvertips. . . Yeah, yeah, exactly. All within several blocks of each other.” She was beginning to get annoyed. “Jesus Christ. Of course I’ve got people down there undercover, hookers, pimps, trolling, hanging out, whatever it takes. What do you think?”

She switched the phone to her other hand, wondering why she ever wore earrings, and irritated that anyone might question her ability to do her job. Checking her watch, she looked through more photographs, pausing at one that clearly showed the painted hourglass, which was rather much a solid orange figure eight. The base was over the genitals, the top over the belly. It was weird. The A.D.A. continued asking questions about the crime scene, and West’s patience was deteriorating. So far, this day had been shit.

“Just like the others,” she told him emphatically. “Everything. Wallet, watch, wedding band.” She listened. “No. No. Not credit cards, anything with the victim’s name. . . . Why? Because the killer’s smart, that’s why.” She sighed, her head beginning to throb. “Jesus friggin’ Christ. That’s my point, John. If we’re talking
carjacking
, then why wasn’t
his rental Thunderbird taken?
Not a single car has been
.”

She swiveled around in her chair and almost dropped the phone when she saw the young male volunteer cop standing in her doorway, writing as fast as he could in a reporter’s notepad. The son of a bitch was looking around West’s office, taking down every confidential word being said about the most sensational, scariest murders the city had ever known. So far, sensitive details had been kept out of the press as political pressure gathered and darkened and swarmed.

“Gotta go,” West abruptly said.

She slammed down the receiver, hanging up on the A.D.A. She pinned Brazil with her eyes.

“Shut the door,” she said in a quiet, hard way that would have terrified anyone who worked for her or was about to get arrested.

Brazil was unflinching as he got closer to the desk. He was not about to be intimidated by this big-shot bureaucrat who had sold him down the river. He dropped Webb’s stolen offense reports in front of her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” West demanded.

“I’m Andy Brazil with the
Observer
,” he said with cool politeness. “Webb’s swiping reports out of the press basket. In the off chance you might care. And I’m going to need to check out a radio. I was supposed to meet you at four.”

“And what? Eavesdrop?” West shoved back her chair, got up. “Looks to me like you already got your story.”

“I’m going to need a radio,” Brazil reminded her again, for he couldn’t imagine being out on the street and not having a lifeline to the dispatchers.

“No you’re not. Trust me,” West promised him.

She angrily stuffed files into her briefcase and snapped it shut. She grabbed her pocketbook and stalked out. Brazil was on her heels.

“You’ve got your nerve,” she went on furiously, as if she had been mad at this young man in uniform all of her life. “Just like every other asshole out there. Give ’em a little, want more. Can’t trust anybody.”

West wasn’t at all what Brazil had expected. He didn’t know why he’d assumed the deputy chief would be
overweight and overbearing, flat-chested, with a square, masculine face, and overprocessed hair. But no. She was maybe five-six, five-seven, with dark red hair barely brushing her collar, and very good bones. She was almost handsome, and buxom, and not the least bit fat, but he didn’t care and would never be interested. She was unkind and unattractive to him.

West shoved open glass doors leading into the parking lot. She dug into her pocketbook, heading to her unmarked Crown Victoria.

“I told everyone what a bad idea this was. Would they listen?” She fumbled with keys.

“Would you?” Brazil demanded.

West paused, looking at him. She yanked open the door, and Brazil blocked it.

“It might be nice if I got a fair trial.” He shoved his notepad at her, flipping through scribbles he had made while West was on the phone. “I was describing your office and you,” he announced much like the A.D.A. West had just been talking to on the phone.

She didn’t have to skim much to know she’d made a wrong assumption. She sighed, stepping back, looking volunteer officer Brazil up and down, wondering how it could be possible that a reporter was dressed like this. What had policing come to? Hammer had lost her mind. Brazil should be arrested for impersonating an officer, that was the reality of things.

“Where do you live?” West asked him.

“Davidson.”

This was good. At least the next hour and a half would be spent in the commute. West might even be able to stretch it out. The longer she could keep him off the street, the better. She almost smiled as she climbed into her car.

“We’ll go there first so you can change clothes,” she gruffly said.

For a while, they did not speak as scanner lights blinked, and dispatchers and cops cut in and out on the radio like Rollerbladers. The Mobile Data Terminal (MDT) beeped as it logged calls and displayed addresses and messages on its computer screen. West and Brazil drove through the city as
rush hour peaked. It looked like it might rain. Brazil was staring out his window. He felt stupid and mistreated as he took off his police tie and unbuttoned his collar.

“How long you been with the
Observer?
” West asked him, and she felt a tug around her chest, as if her bulletproof vest were rubbing her wrong, except she wasn’t wearing one. She felt a little sorry for this ride-along.

“A year,” Brazil answered, hateful toward Deputy Chief West and wondering if she were going to let him ride with her again.

“How come I’ve never heard of you before now?” she asked.

“I didn’t get the police beat until I finished the academy. That was the deal.”

“What deal?”

“My deal.” Brazil continued to stare sullenly out the window.

West tried to change lanes but the jerk next to her wasn’t cooperative. She gestured angrily back at him. “Same as you, drone!” She stopped at a red light and looked at Brazil. “What do you mean,
deal?
”

“I wanted the cop shop, told them I’d make it worth their while.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I want to know cops. So I can write about them. I want to get it straight.”

West didn’t believe him. Reporters always said shit like that, lied with pretty tongues, no different than people in general, really. She drove on, got out a cigarette, and lit it.

“If you’re so curious about us, how come you didn’t become a cop for real?” she challenged him.

“I’m a writer,” Brazil said simply, as if this were his race, his religion, or family name.

“And we all know cops can’t write.” West blew out smoke. “Can’t even read unless there’s pictures.”

“
There are
pictures.”

She threw up her hands and laughed. “See?”

Brazil was silent.

“So why do you live way the hell in Davidson?” she asked.

“I went to school there.”

“I guess you must be smart.”

“I get by,” he told her.

The gleaming Crown Victoria turned onto Main Street, which was what its name suggested in this charming college town. Homes were genteel, white frame and brick, with ivy and sprawling porches and swings. West had grown up outside of Charlotte, too, but heading in a different direction, where there wasn’t much but red clay and fathomless farmland. She couldn’t have afforded to go to a college like Davidson and doubted her SATs would have impressed anybody in a positive way. Brazil’s college was sort of like Princeton and other places West had only read about.

“While we’re on the subject,” she said, “I don’t remember any police stories by you.”

“This is my first day on the beat.”

She couldn’t suppress her growing dismay over what she had been saddled with this night. A dog barked and began chasing her car. Suddenly, it was raining hard.

“So what’d you do for a year?” she investigated further.

“The TV magazine,” Brazil added to his resume. “A lot of overtime, a lot of stories nobody wanted.” He pointed, releasing his shoulder harness. “It’s that one.”

“You don’t take your seatbelt off until I’ve stopped the car. Rule number one.” West pulled into a rutted, unpaved driveway.

“Why are you making me change clothes? I have a right . . .” Brazil finally spoke his mind.

“People wearing what you got on get killed out here,” West cut him off. “Rule number two. You don’t have a right. Not with me. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re a cop. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re my partner. I don’t want to be doing this, got it?”

Brazil’s house hadn’t been painted in too long to tell the color. Maybe it had been pale yellow once, maybe eggshell or white. Mostly now it was gray and flaking and peeling, like a sad old woman with a skin condition. An ancient,
rusting white Cadillac was parked in the drive, and West decided that whoever lived here didn’t have taste, money, or time for repairs and yard work. Brazil angrily pushed open the car door, gathering his belongings as he got out, and halfway tempted to tell this deputy chief to get the hell out of here and not come back. But his BMW was still in Charlotte, so that might pose a problem. He bent over, peering inside at her.

“My dad was a cop.” He slammed the door shut.

West was typical brass, typical anybody who had power, Brazil fumed as he strode up the walk. She didn’t give a shit about helping somebody else get started. Women could be the worst, as if they didn’t want anybody else to do well because no one was nice to them when they were coming along, or maybe so they could pay everybody back, persecute innocent guys who’d never even met them, whatever. Brazil imagined West at the net, a perfect lob waiting for his lethal overhead smash. He could ace her, too.

He unlocked the front door of the house he had lived in all his life. Inside, he unbuttoned his uniform shirt and looked around, suddenly conscious of a dim, depressing living room of cheap furniture and stained wall-to-wall carpet. Dirty ashtrays and dishes were wherever somebody had forgotten them last, and gospel music swelled as George Beverly Shea scratched
How Great Thou Art
for the millionth time. Brazil went to the old hi-fi and impatiently switched it off.

“Mom?” he called out.

He began tidying up, following a mess into a slovenly old kitchen where milk, V8 juice, and cottage cheese had been left out by someone who had made no effort to clean up or hide the empty fifth of Bowman’s cheap vodka on top of the trash. Brazil picked up dishes and soaked them in hot sudsy water. Frustrated, he yanked out his shirttail and unbuckled his belt. He looked down at his name tag, shiny and bright. He fingered the whistle on its chain. For an instant, his eyes were filled with a sadness he could not name.

“Mom?” he called out again. “Where are you?”

Brazil walked into the hallway, and with a key that no one else had a copy of, he unlocked a door that opened onto the small room where he lived. It was tidy and organized, with a computer on a Formica-topped desk, and dozens of tennis trophies and plaques and other athletic awards on shelves, furniture, and walls. There were hundreds of books in this complicated person’s simple, unassuming space. He carefully hung up his uniform and grabbed khakis and a denim shirt off hangers. On the back of the door was a scarred leather bomber jacket that was old and extra large and looked like it might have come from some earlier time. He put it on even though it was warm out.