Union, CCB, BB&T, First Citizens Bank, or Wachovia, it could catch up with Cahoon and hurt him. It could become an epidemic, infecting the big, healthy investors, like a computer virus, Ebola, salmonella, hemorraghic fever.
“The problem, damn it, is Panesa,” opined the mayor.
Cahoon felt a fresh wave of outrage. He would not soon recover from the publisher’s Sunday editorial with its comment about throwing stones. Panesa had to go, too. Gaboon’s brain raced through his formidable network, contemplating allies in the Knight-Ridder chain.
This would have to come from on high, at the level of chairman or president. Cahoon knew them all, but the media was a goddamn centipede. The minute he gave it a prod, it curled up tight and took care of its own.
“The only person who can control Panesa is you,” the mayor said to Cahoon.
“I’ve tried. He won’t listen to me. It’s like trying to talk sense to Hammer. Forget it.”
Both the publisher and the police chief were unreasonable. They had agendas, and had to be stopped. Andy Brazil was becoming a problem, as well. Cahoon had been around the block enough times to know exactly where he would attack.
“Talk to the boy,” Cahoon said to the mayor.
“He’s probably been trying to get quotes from you anyway, right?”
“They all do.”
“So let him come see you, Chuck. Pull him over to our side, where he belongs,” Cahoon said with a smile as he gazed out at the hazy summer sky.
W Brazil had turned his attention to the Black Widow killings, which he was certain would not stop. He had become obsessed with them, determined that somehow he would uncover that one detail, that important insight or clue that might lead police to the psychopath responsible.
He had gotten FBI profiler Bird on the phone, and had written a chillingly accurate but manipulative story. Last night, Brazil had returned to the train tracks on West Trade Street, to explore the razed brick building, his flashlight shining on crime-scene tape stirred by the wind. He had stood still, looking around that forsaken, frightening place, trying to read the emotion of it. He tried to imagine how the senator had stumbled upon the place.
It was possible the senator had plans to meet someone, back in the dark overgrowth where no one would see. Brazil wondered if the autopsy had revealed drugs. Did the senator have a secret vice that had cost him his life? Brazil had cruised South College Street, looking out at the hookers, still not sure which were men or vice cops. The young one he had seen many times before, and it was obvious that she now recognized him in his BMW as she languidly strolled and boldly stared.
Brazil was tired this morning. He could barely finish four miles at the track and didn’t bother with tennis. He hadn’t seen much of his mother, and she punished him by not speaking on those rare occasions when she was awake and up. She left him notes of chores she needed done, and was more slovenly than usual. She coughed and sighed, doing all she could to make him miserable and stung with guilt. Brazil continued to think of West’s lecture to him about dysfunctional relationships. He heard her words constantly in his head. They pounded with each step he ran, and blinked in the night as he tried to sleep.
He had not seen or talked to West in days and wondered how she was, and why she never called to go shooting or to ride or just to say hi.
He felt out of sorts, moody and introverted, and had given up trying to figure out what had gotten into him. He did not understand why Hammer hadn’t contacted him to say thanks for his profile. Maybe something in it had pissed her off. Maybe he had gotten a fact wrong.
He had really put his heart into that story, and had worked himself almost sick. Panesa seemed to be ignoring him, also, now that Brazil was making a list. Brazil told himself that if he were as important as any one of these powerful people, he would be more sensitive. He would try to think of the little person’s feelings, and make that person’s day by picking up the phone, or sending a note, or maybe even flowers.