Cahoon thought of Mrs. Mauney III, whom he had met only superficially at parties.
"Someone's got to call Polly," he said.
"Mauney's wife.
I'd like to do that, if you have no objections. "
Hammer got up and smiled at him.
"You know some thing, Sol? You're nowhere near as rotten as I thought."
"That works both way, Judy." He got up.
"It certainly does."
"You hungry?"
"Starved."
"What's open at this hour," he wondered.
"You ever been to the Presto Grill?"
"Is that a club?" He grabbed his car keys.
"Yes," she said.
"And guess what, Sol? It's about time you became a member."
Chapter Twenty-six.
ji^^/ For the most part, only people up to no good were out this hour, and as West drove seedy "' " Newsroom," an unfamiliar voice answered.
"Andy Brazil," West said.
"He's not in."
"Has he been in at all the last few hours?" West asked, frustration in her tone.
"Have you heard from him?"
"Not that I know of."
West hit the end button, and tossed the phone on the seat. She pounded the steering wheel.
"Damn you, damn you, Andy!" she exclaimed.
As she cruised, her phone rang, startling her. It was Brazil. She was sure of it as she answered. She was wrong.
"It's Hammer," her chief said.
"What in the world are you doing still out?"
"I can't find him."
"You certain he's not home or at the paper?"
"Positive. He's out here courting trouble," West said rather frantically.
"Oh dear," Hammer said.
"Cahoon and I are about to have breakfast, Virginia. Here's what I want you to do. No information about this case, and no identification until I tell you otherwise. For now, the case is pending. We need to buy some time here because of this other situation."
"I think that's wise," West said, checking her mirrors, looking everywhere.
tw She had missed Brazil by no more than two minutes, and in fact, unwittingly had done so a number of times during the past few hours.
She would turn onto one street just before he drove past where she had been. Now, he was cruising by the Cadillac Grill on West Trade Street, and staring out at boarded-up slums haunted by the rulers of the night. He saw the young hooker ahead, leaning inside a Thunderbird, talking to a man looking for a good investment. Brazil wasn't in a shy mood, and he pulled up closer, watching. The car sped off, and the hooker turned hostile, glazed eyes on Brazil, not at all happy with the intrusion. Brazil rolled down his window.
"Hey!" he called out.
Poison, the prostitute, stared at the one known on the street as Blondie, mockery in her eyes. She started strolling again. This pretty-boy snitch followed her everywhere, had a thing about her, and was still working up his nerve, maybe thought he was going to get something more to leak to the police and the newspaper. She thought it was funny. Brazil unfastened his seatbelt. He reached to roll down the passenger's window. She wasn't going to get away from him this time.
No sir, and he tucked the . 380 out of sight beneath his seat, as he crept forward, calling out to her.
"Excuse me! Excuse me, ma'am!" he said again and again.
"I need to talk to you!"
^Sy Hammer was rolling past at this very moment, Cahoon following in his Mercedes 600S V-12 sedan, black with parchment leather interior.
He wasn't entirely within his comfort zone in this part of the city, and he checked his locks again as Hammer got on her police radio and told the dispatcher to ten-five Unit 700. Immediately, she and West were on the air.
"The subject you're looking for is at West Trade and Cedar," Hammer said on the air to West.
"You might want to head this way in a hurry."
"Ten-four!"
Officers in the area were perplexed, even a little lost, as they overheard this transmission between their highest leaders. They were still mindful of their chief's feelings about being followed and harassed. Maybe it was wise to sit this one out for a minute or two, until they had a better idea about what exactly was going down. West gunned the engine, racing back toward West Trade.
v9 Poison stopped and slowly turned around, seduction smoldering in her eyes as she entertained notions this snitch in the BMW couldn't even begin to imagine.
'% Hammer wasn't so sure this was the right time to introduce Cahoon to the Presto Grill. Trouble seemed to rise from the street like heat, and she had not gotten where she was in life by ignoring her instincts. Only in her personal life had she looked the other way, turned the volume down low, and denied. She swung off into the All Right parking lot across from the grill, and motioned out her window for Cahoon to follow. He stopped by her unmarked car and his window hummed down.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Park and get in," she said.
"What?"
She furtively scanned their surroundings. Something bad was out there.
She could feel its foulness, detect the scent of the beast. There was no time to waste.
"I can't leave my car here," Cahoon reasonably pointed out, because the Mercedes would be the only car in the lot, and possibly the only vehicle within fifty miles, that cost roughly one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
Hammer got the dispatcher on the air.
"Send a unit to the All Right parking lot, five hundred block West Trade, to watch a late-model black Mercedes until I give further notice."
W Radar, the dispatcher, was none too fond of Hammer, for she, too, was female. But she was the chief, and he, at least, had the good sense to be afraid of the bitch. Radar had no idea what she was doing out on the street, especially at this hour. He sent two units while Poison smiled knowingly and took her time reaching the passenger's window of Brazil's car. She leaned inside like she did all the time, and took an inventory of the groomed leather interior. She noted the briefcase, pens, Charlotte
Observer notepads, old black leather bomber jacket, and, most of all, the police scanner and two-way radio.
"You police?" she drawled, a little confused about just who the hell Blondie was.
"A reporter. With the Observer," Brazil said, because he was not police anymore. West had made that clear.
Poison appraised him with dangerous flirtation. A reporter's money was as good as any, and now she knew the truth. Blondie wasn't a snitch.
He was the one writing those stories that had Punkin Head so cranky and out of control.
"What you trading, little boy?" she asked.
"Information." Brazil's heart was thudding hard.
"I'll pay for it."
Poison's eyes gleamed, her lips parting in an amused, gap-toothed smile. She slinked around to his side of the car, and leaned in his window. Her fragrance was cloying, like incense.
"What kind you want, little boy?" she asked.
Brazil was wary but intrigued. He'd never dealt with anything like this, and he imagined experienced, worldly men and their secret pleasures. He wondered if they were scared when they let someone like this in their car. Did they ever ask her name or want to know anything about her?
"What's been going on around here," he nervously went on.
"The murders. I've seen you around, in the area, I mean. For a while. Maybe you know something."
"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't," she said, trailing a finger down his shoulder.
^ iy West was driving fast, passing the same bad places Brazil had moments earlier. Hammer wasn't too far behind her, Cahoon riding shotgun, wide-eyed as he surveyed a reality far removed from his own.
vsy "Will cost you fifty, little boy," Poison said to Brazil.
He didn't have that much in the bank, and wasn't about to let her know.
"Twenty-five," he negotiated, as if he did it all the time.
Poison backed up, appraising
him and thinking about Punkin Head in its van, watching. It had yelled at her and slapped her around this morning. It had hurt her in places no one could see, because of what Blondie had put in the paper. Poison started feeling hateful about it, and made a decision that perhaps wasn't very wise, considering she and Punkin Head had already whacked one rich dude tonight, meeting their quota for the week, and cops were all around.
She seemed amused by something Brazil didn't know, and she pointed.
"See that corner there, little boy?" she said. That old apartment building? Nobody in it no more. Meet you back there, 'cause we can't be talking here. "
Poison stared into a dark alleyway across the street, where Punkin Head watched from inside its windowless van in dark shadows. It knew what she was up to, and was aroused by it, and in a mood to murder, since it was taking less and less time for it to cool down and get the tension again. Punkin Head felt an insatiable rage toward Blondie that was more exciting than sex. It couldn't wait to watch that fucking snitch soil his fancy jeans and beg on his knees before the almighty Punkin Head. It had never wanted to ruin anything more in its despicable, low, nasty, hate-filled life, and its excitement mounted unbearably.
H^ West spotted Brazil's car up ahead. She saw the hooker walking off as Brazil drove to the corner and took a right. She saw the old, windowless van slide out of the dark alleyway, like an eel.
"Christ!" West panicked.
"Andy, no!"
She grabbed the radio and slammed down the accelerator, flipping on strobing lights.
"Seven hundred requesting backups!" she screamed on the air.
"Two hundred block West Trade. Now!"
vy Hammer heard the broadcast, too, and sped up.
"Shit," she said.
"What the hell's going on?" Cahoon was on red alert, in military mode, ready to take out the enemy.
"Don't know, but it's not good." She threw on her lights, whelping her siren as she passed people.
"You got an extra gun handy?" Cahoon asked.
He was in the Marines again, launching grenades at North Koreans, crawling through the blood of his buddies. Nobody went through that and came out the same. Nobody messed with Cahoon, because he knew something they didn't. There were worst things than dying, the fear of it being one of them. He unfastened his seatbelt.
Vft "Put that back on," Hammer told him as they flew.
West was trying to find a place to do a U-turn, and finally gave up.
She bumped and slammed over the concrete median, rubber squealing as she headed the other way. She had lost sight of Brazil, the hooker and the van. West was as frantic and frightened as she had ever been.
"Please God, help!" she fervently said.
"Oh please God!"
^-y tw* Brazil turned behind haunted ruins of graying old wood, and broken windows gaping ragged and black, where there was no sign of life. He stopped and sat in silence. He looked around, increasingly jumpy. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He dug in a pocket of his jeans, and was taking an inventory of crumpled bills, when suddenly the young hooker filled his window, smoking a cigarette, holding a washcloth, and smiling in a way that increased Brazil's misgivings. It was the first time he'd noticed how crazed her eyes were, or maybe something was different now.
"Get out," she said, motioning to him.
"I see the money first."
Brazil opened his door and stepped out as an engine roared in from the rear. A dark, old van with no windows bumped toward them at a high rate of speed. Brazil was shocked. He scrambled back inside his BMW, throwing it into reverse. But it was too late. The van blocked him, and there was nothing ahead but a thicket and a deep gully. Trapped, Brazil watched the driver's door open. He took in the big, ugly shim with pumpkin-colored hair woven in cornrows close to its skull. It jumped out, its smile serpentine as it walked towards Brazil, a large-caliber pistol in one hand, the other rattling a can of spray paint.
"We got us a sweet one," Punkin Head said to Poison.
"Might have some fun. Teach him what we do with snitches."
"I'm not a snitch," Brazil let Punkin Head know.
"He's a reporter," Poison said.
"A reporter," it mocked, its anger raging out of control as memories of Black Widow stories unfurled and flashed and infuriated all over again.
Brazil's stories were the furthest thing from his mind as he thought fast. Poison laughed. She zipped open a switchblade.
"Get out of the car and give me the keys," Punkin Head moved closer to its prey, a . 45 caliber pistol pointed between Blondie's eyes.
"All right. All right. Please don't shoot." Brazil knew when to cooperate.
"We got us a beggar." Punkin Head made a harsh, horrid sound that was supposed to be a laugh.
"Please don't shoot," it mimicked.
"Let's cut him first." Poison waited outside the BMW's door, knife ready to carve this reporter boy where it hurt.
Brazil turned off the engine. He fumbled with the keys, dropping them to the floor. He groped for them as West squealed around the corner, turning behind the abandoned apartments. Gunshots exploded. BAM BAM and BAM-BAM. Her siren screamed and screamed as a gun fired four more times. Hammer turned in four seconds after West, hearing the gunshots, too, flipping on her siren, while backups closed in from all directions of the Queen City, the night a red-and-blue flashing war zone.
West had her gun drawn as she bolted out of her car. Hammer, her partner, was right behind West, pistol racked back and ready. The two women scanned the parked van with running engine. They took in the two bloody bodies not breathing near an open switchblade and a can of spray paint. They locked on Brazil clenching the borrowed . 380, as if his victims might hurt him, the gun jumping in his locked hands.
Cahoon walked closer to the crime scene, staring at the dead, and then all around at the lit-up skyline, where his building towered.
West went to Brazil. She carefully took the gun from him and enclosed it in a plastic evidence bag, along with spent cartridge cases.
"It's okay," she said to him.
He blinked, shivering, as his shocked eyes met hers.
"Andy," she said.
"This is very traumatic. I've been through it, know all about it, and I'm going to help you every step of the way, okay?
I'm here for you now. Got it? "
She took him in her arms. Andy Brazil dug his fingers in her hair. He shut his eyes and held her hard.
Patricia Cornwell, Hornet's Nest
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