Patricia Cornwell - Hornet's Nest

"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 ADA 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.

"Every thing.

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 ADA. 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 over weight and overbearing, flat-chested, with a square, masculine face, and over processed 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 ADA 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 bullet proof 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 to 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 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."