Hornet's Nest jhabavw-1

by Patricia Cornwell

  "Who are you?" she asked, and the indirect light was an artist lovingly painting her face as she studied him.

  "Nobody special," Brazil said.

  Oh yes he was. She thought of her own horrible life, of the husband in there, where she lived. This one on the bench next to her understood.

  He appreciated her for who and what she was. He respected her power and wanted her as a woman at the same time. He was deeply interested in her thoughts, her ideas, her memories of childhood. Brazil traced her neck deep down into her plush white terry-cloth robe, slowing down, taking his time. He kissed her, tentatively until he was sure she was kissing him back, then he worked on her lower lip until their tongues became acquainted and were friends.

  When he woke up inside his locked bedroom, he wasn't finished yet and in agony. It was awful. Please Lord, why couldn't it be true? But it decidedly was not. It was a fact that he had sat in the tiny park staring at Hammer's house and she had come out to drift on her swing.

  It was not a fact that any of the rest of it had occurred, except in fractured dreams. She did not know that he was there in the dark, hearing her North Carolina flag snap in the wind, over her porch. She did not care. He had never touched his lips to hers, he had never caressed soft skin, and never would. He was terribly ashamed. He was frustrated and confused. She was probably thirty years older than Brazil. This was sick. Something must be terribly wrong with him.

  Brazil played the messages on his answering machine when he came home at quarter of three in the morning. There were four, all of them hang-ups. This only worsened his mood. He could not help but think that the pervert was after him because he, too, was some sort of deviant. There had to be reason a sick person would be drawn to him.

  Brazil was angry as he yanked on running clothes at dawn. He grabbed a tennis racquet, the hopper of balls, and trotted out the door.

  The morning was wet with dew, the sun already making its potent presence known. Magnolias were dense and heavy with waxy white blossoms that smelled like lemon as he passed beneath them. He cut through the Davidson campus, sprinting along the small road winding behind Jackson Court, heading to the track. He ran six fast miles, and furiously served tennis balls. He worked out with weights in the gym, sprinted several laps, and did pushups and sit-ups until his body's natural opiates kicked in.

  tw Hammer was preoccupied with her ruined morning. This was what she got for altering her routine and having lunch with West, who clearly could not keep out of trouble. Hammer had worn her uniform this day, which in itself was exceedingly unusual. She had not found it necessary to argue court dates with the district attorney in fifteen years, and wanted no problem here. She believed in the power of personal confrontations, and determined that the DA was about to have one. By nine a. m. " Hammer was inside the big granite Criminal Court Building, waiting in the reception area of the city's top prosecutor.

  Nancy Gorelick had been reelected so many times, she ran unopposed and most of the population would not have bothered to go to the polls were there not other officials to vote for or against. She and Hammer were not personal friends. The DA certainly knew very well who the chief was, and in fact had read about Hammer's heroics in the morning paper.

  Batman and Robin. Oh please. Gorelick was a ruthless Republican who believed in hanging first and sorting out later. She was tired of people who thought special excuses should be made for them, and there was no doubt in her mind about the reason for Hammer's impromptu visit.

  Gorelick made Hammer wait long enough. By the time the DA buzzed her secretary to say that the chief could be shown in. Hammer was pacing the reception area, looking at her watch, and getting more irritated by the se con The secretary opened a dark wooden door and Hammer strode past her.

  "Good morning. Nancy," the chief said., "Thank you." The DA nodded with a smile, hands folded on top of her neat desk.

  "What can I do for you, Judy?"

  "You know about the incident at the Greyhound bus station yesterday."

  "The whole world knows," said Gorelick.

  Hammer pulled a chair around to the side of the desk, refusing to sit directly across from Gorelick with a big block of wood between them.

  There was little more valuable than office psychology, and Hammer was master at it. Right now, the DA's setup was blatantly overpowering and unwelcoming. Gorelick was leaning forward with hands on the blotter, assuming a posture of superiority and dominance. She was visibly bothered that Hammer had rearranged the order, and was now facing the DA with nothing between them but crossed legs.

  "The Johnny Martino case," Gorelick said.

  "Yes," Hammer said.

  "Also known as Magic the Man."

  "Thirty-three class D felony charges of robbery with a dangerous weapon," Gorelick went on.

  "He'll plea bar gain. We'll sock him with maybe ten, get him to agree to consolidate sentencing under five counts. Since he's a prior record level two, he's going to be out of circulation for so long, he'll turn into a skeleton."

  "When do you anticipate setting the court date. Nancy?" Hammer wasn't impressed, and frankly, believed not a word. This guy would get the minimum. They all did.

  "I've already set it." The DA picked up her big black date book and flipped pages.

  "Set for superior court, July twenty-second."

  Hammer wanted to kill her.

  "I'm on vacation that entire week. In Paris. It's been set for a year. I'm taking my sons and their families, and I've already bought the tickets, Nancy. That's why I came by this morning. Both of us are busy professionals with crushing schedules and responsibilities. You know perfectly well. Nancy, that police chiefs normally do not make arrests and end up in court. When was the last time that you heard of such a thing? I'm asking you to work with me on this."

  Gorelick didn't care who anybody was, especially not this chief of police, with her personal wealth and fame. All in Gorelick's courtroom had jobs waiting for them, busy schedules, and demands on their time, except the defendants, of course, who generally had nothing in their Day Timers but empty spaces to fill with trouble. Gorelick had never been especially fond of Judy Hammer. The chief was arrogant, competitive, power drunk, non collaborative and vain. She spent considerable money on designer suits and pearls and accessories, and, in a word, did not suffer from the same problems, such as body fat, adult acne, estrogen volatilities, and rejection, as others.

  "I was not elected to work with you or anyone," Gorelick stated.

  "It is my job to set trial dates that please the court, and that is what I have done. Vacation plans are not the business of the court, and you will have to make whatever adjustments are necessary. As will everyone else involved."

  Hammer noted that Gorelick was over buffed as usual. She had a penchant for short skirts, bright colors, and open necklines that were an invitation whenever she bent over to look at documents, dockets, or cases. She wore too much makeup, especially mascara. There were rumors about her many affairs, but Hammer had chosen to view these as unfounded until this moment. This was the woman the cops called the DA Whorelick. She was lower than dirt, and a slut. Office psychology dictated that Hammer should get up from her chair.

  She did, and leaned against the desk, helping herself to her opponent's domain, breathing all the air she wished, picking up a crystal paperweight of US Bank and fiddling with it. Hammer was very comfortable and in charge. She spoke rationally, softly, and sincerely.

  "The press, of course, has been calling me about yesterday's incident," Hammer confessed, and her fooling with the paperweight was clearly bothering Gorelick.

  "National press. The Washington Post, Time, Newsweek, CBS This Morning, Jay Leno, New York Times, Don Imus, Howard Stern." She began to pace, tapping the US Bank in her palm, as if it were a slapjack.

  "They'll want to cover the trial, I'm sure. It's a big story, I guess." She paced and tapped.

  "I suppose when you stop to think about it, when has something like this ever happened? That r
eminds me." She laughed.

  "Some studio and a couple producers from Hollywood called, too. Can you imagine?"

  Gorelick wasn't feeling well.

  "It is an unusual situation," she had to agree.

  "An amazing example of community policing, Nancy. People doing the right thing." Hammer paced and gestured with the little crystal building wearing a crown.

  "Your treating a chief and deputy chief just like anyone else, making no special considerations." She nodded.

  "I think all those reporters are going to like that. Don't you? "

  Gorelick would be ruined, would look like the dickhead she was.

  Someone would run against her next fall. She'd have to go work in a law firm as a lowly junior attorney to a bunch of overbearing partners who wouldn't want her to join their exclusive ranks.

  "I'm going to tell them all about it." Hammer smiled at her.

  "Right now. I guess the best thing would be a press conference."

  The court date was moved ahead a week, and landed on a day convenient for all, except Johnny Martino, aka Magic the Man, who was sitting in his jail cell, dejected in a blaze orange jumpsuit with DEPT OF CORR stenciled in on the back. Everybody in the Corr wore one, and now and then, when he gave much thought to the matter, he wondered what the hell the Corr was. As in Marine Corps, Peace Corps, CeyO RailRoad maybe? His old man worked for Amtrak, cleaning up cars after all those passengers got off.

  No way young Martino was ever doing shit work like that. No fucking way. He couldn't believe how bad his leg hurt from where that bitch kicked him. The guns people carried these days, women especially. Both of them pointing forty-fucking-caliber semiautomatics at his head. Now where the hell did that come from? Fucking Mars?

  These ladies beam down, or something? He was still stunned, and had sat up on his narrow bunk this morning thinking yesterday on the bus didn't happen.

  Then he focused on the steel toilet bowl that he had not bothered to flush last night. His shin was throbbing so bad, and had a lump on it the size of an orange, the skin broken in the middle, like a navel, where that pointy metal toe had connected. Now that he explored the situation a little further, he should have been suspicious of two rich ladies like that getting on the Greyhound. No way people like them take the bus. Some of the guys were talking and laughing up and down the cells, going on and on about him getting his ass kicked by some old woman with a big pocketbook, everybody making fun of Martino. He got out a cigarette, and thought about suing. He thought about getting another tattoo, might as well while he was here.

  Brazil's day was not going especially well, either. He and Packer were editing another self-initiated, rather large piece Brazil was doing on mothers alone in a world without men. Brazil continued to come across typos, spaces, blank lines that he knew he had not caused.

  Someone had been breaking into his computer basket and going through his files. He was explaining this to his metro editor, Packer, as they rolled through paragraphs, inspecting the violation.

  "See," Brazil was hotly saying, and he was in uniform,

  ready for yet another night on the street.

  "It's weird. The last couple days I keep finding stuff like this."

  "You sure you're not doing it? You do tend to go through your stories a lot," Packer said.

  What the editor had observed about Brazil's remarkable productivity had now reached the level of not humanly possible. This kid dressed like a cop frightened Packer. Packer didn't even much want to sit next to Brazil anymore. Brazil wasn't normal. He was getting commendations from the police, and averaging three bylines every morning, even on days when he supposedly was off. Not to mention, his work Was unbelievably good for someone so inexperienced who had never been to journalism school. Packer suspected that Brazil would win a Pulitzer by the time he was thirty, possibly sooner. For that reason, Packer intended to remain Brazil's editor, even if the job was exhausting, intense, and unnerving, and caused Packer to hate life more with each passing day.

  This morning was a typical example. The alarm had buzzed at six, and Packer did not want to get up. But he did. Mildred, his wife, was her typical cheery self, cooking oatmeal in the kitchen, while Dufus, her purebred Boston Terrier puppy, skittered around sideways and walleyed and looking for something else to chew, or pee or poop on. Packer was tucking in his shirt all the way around as he entered this domestic scene, trying to wake up, and wondering if his wife was losing what marbles she had left.

  "Mildred," he said.

  "It's summer. Oatmeal is not a good hot-weather food."

  "Of course it is." She happily stirred.

  "Good for your high blood pressure."

  Dufus jumped and fussed at Packer, dancing around his feet, trying to climb him, grabbing cuffs in snaggly teeth. Packer never touched his wife's puppy if he could help it, and had refused any input into its development beyond naming it, over objections from Mildred, who had made it a condition of their marriage that she would never be without one of these ugly little dogs from her childhood. Dufus did not see very well. From his perspective, Packer was a very big and unfriendly tree, a utility pole, some other edifice, maybe a fence. Whenever Packer came within scent, Dufus was airborne and in grass and squatting and relieving other basic functions that meant nothing to Dufus. He untied both of Packer's shoelaces.

  Packer made his way across the newsroom as if he saw no color in the world, only gray. He was tucking in his shirt, heading to the men's room, feeling like he had to go and knowing nothing would happen again, and reminded that next Wednesday at two p. m. " he had an appointment with his urologist.

  Vft Brazil was running down the escalator, deciding to take matters into his own hands. He pushed through several sets of doors, finally entering the rarified, air- conditioned space where Brenda Bond ruled the world from an ergonomically-correct green fabric chair with rollers. Her feet were on an adjustable footrest, her valuable hands poised over a contoured keyboard designed to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome.

  Bond was surrounded by IBM and Hewlett Packard mainframes, multiplexor, modems, cabinets containing huge tape reels, decoders, and a satellite feed from the Associated Press. It was her cockpit, and he had come. She could not believe that Brazil was standing before her, had sought her out, and wanted to be with her and no one but her this very second in time and space. Her face got hot as she looked him up and down. God almighty, was he built, and he knew it, and was already showing his contempt for her.

  "I think someone's getting into my basket and going through my files," Brazil announced.

  "Impossible," Bond, the genius, arrogantly told him.

  "Unless you've given out your password."

  "I want it changed," he demanded.

  She was studying his uniform trousers and the way they fit him, particularly in the area of his zipper, appropriating, and full of her superiority. Brazil made a big point of looking where she was looking, as if there must be something on his pants.

  "What? I spill something?" he said, walking off.

  twIt was not that his trousers were too tight, nor were they provocative in any way. Brazil never wore anything for the purpose of drawing attention to himself or impressing others. For one thing, shopping had never been an option. The entirety of his wardrobe could be accommodated by two dresser drawers and about twenty coat hangers.

  Mostly, he had uniforms, and tennis clothes supplied by the tennis team, and by Wilson, which had put him on a free list when he was in high school and consistently ranked in the top five juniors in the state. Brazil's uniform trousers were, in truth, baggy, if anything.

  Yet people like Brenda Bond still stared. So did Axel.

  When Brazil was in midnight blue and black leather, he had no idea what effect it had on others. If he had paused to analyze the matter, he might have discovered that uniforms were about power, and power was an aphrodisiac. Axel knew this for a fact. He got up and trotted out of the newsroom, in pursuit. Brazil was notorious for his sprints d
own the escalator, and into the parking deck. Axel worked out in the Powerhouse Gym every early morning, and was rather spectacularly sculpted.

  Axel drank Met-Rx twice a day, and was very much admired when he was gleaming with sweat, and in a tank top and a weight belt, pumping, veins standing out, in his skimpy shorts. Other fit people stopped what they were doing, just to watch. He had been stalked several times by residents of his apartment complex. In truth. Tommy Axel could have anybody, and probably had at any given time. But he was not into aerobic exercise, because it was not a spectator sport. He got winded easily.

  "Shoot," Axel said when he burst through glass doors leading into the parking deck, as Brazil was driving his old BMW out of it.

  Publisher Panesa had a black-tie dinner this night and was going home unusually early. The publisher was starting his silver Volvo, with its unrivaled safety record and two airbags, and was witness to Axel's shameless behavior.

  "Christ," Panesa muttered, shaking his head as he pulled out of his reserved space in the center of the best wall, no more than twenty steps from the front glass doors. He rolled down a window, stopping Axel cold.

  "Come here," Panesa told him.

  Axel gave his boss a crooked, sexy Matt Dillon smile, and strolled over. Who could resist?

  "What's going on?" Axel said, moving in a way that showed muscle to its best advantage.

  "Axel, leave him alone," Panesa said.

  "Excuse me?" Axel touched his chest in pure hurt innocence.

  "You know exactly what I mean." Panesa roared off, fastening his shoulder harness, locking doors, checking mirrors, and snapping up the mike of his private frequency two-way radio to let the housekeeper know he was en route.

  The longer Panesa had worked in the newspaper business, the more paranoid he had become. Like Brazil, Panesa had started out as a police reporter, and by the time he was twenty-three, knew every filthy, nasty, cruel, and painful thing people did to one another. He had done stories on murdered children, on hit and runs, and husbands in black gloves and knit caps stabbing estranged wives and friends before cutting their throats and flying to Chicago. Panesa had interviewed women who lovingly seasoned home cooking with arsenic, and he had covered car wrecks, plane crashes, train derailments, skydiving gone bad, scuba diving gone worse, bungee jumping by drunks who forgot the cord, and fires, and drownings. Not to mention other horrors that did not end in death. His marriage, for example.