W Brenda Bond also was alert to the uproar as she worked on a computer that had gone down three days in a row because the idiot garden columnist had a knack for striking combinations of keys that somehow locked him out or translated his files into pi signs. Bond had a strange sensation as she went into System Manager. She found it hard to concentrate.
tw West was standing behind her desk, struggling to pack up her briefcase, and snap the lid back on her coffee, and wrap up the biscuit she didn’t have time to eat. She looked worried and frantic as Panesa talked to her on the phone.
“You have any idea where he went?” West inquired.
“Home, maybe?” Panesa said over the line.
“He lives with his mother.”
West looked hopelessly at the clock. She was supposed to be in Hammer’s office in ninety seconds, and there was no such thing as putting the chief on hold, or being late, or not showing up, or forgetting. West shut her briefcase, and slid her radio into the case on her belt. She was at a loss.
“I’ll do what I can,” she promised Panesa.
“Unfortunately, I’ve got court this morning. My guess is he’s just blowing off steam. As soon as he cools down, he’ll be back. Andy’s not a quitter.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“If he hasn’t shown up by the time I get back, I’ll start looking,” West said.
“Good idea.”
West hoped that Johnny Martino would plead guilty. Hammer didn’t. She was in a mood to cause trouble. Dr. Cabel had done her a favor, really.
He had ignited a few sparks of anger, and the brighter they got, the more the mist of depression and malaise burned off. She was walking the fastest West had ever seen her, a zip-up briefcase under an arm, sunglasses on. Hammer and West made their way through the sweltering piedmont morning to the Criminal Court Building, constructed of granite in 1987, and therefore older than most buildings in Charlotte.
Hammer and West waited in line with everyone else at the X-ray machine.
“Quit worrying.” West tried to reassure her boss as they inched forward behind some of the city’s finer citizens.
“He’ll plead.” She glanced at her watch.
“I’m not worried,” said Hammer.
West was. There were a hundred cases on the docket today. In truth, this was a bigger problem than whether Martino pled guilty versus taking his chances before a jury of his peers. Deputy Octavius Able eyed the two women getting closer in line and was suddenly alert and interested in his job. West had not passed through his X-ray machine since it resided in the old courthouse. Never had Able so much as laid eyes on Hammer in person. He had never had complete control over her.
West was in uniform, and walked around the door frame that was beeping every other second as pagers, change, keys, good luck charms, and pocket knives, went into a cup.
Hammer walked around, too, assuming the privilege of her position.
“Excuse me, ma’am!” Deputy Able said for all to hear.
“Ma’am! Please step through.”
“She’s the chief of police,” West quietly told him, and she knew damn well it went without saying.
“Need some identification,” the powerful deputy said to Hammer.
A long line of restless feet stopped, all eyes on the well-dressed lady with the familiar face. Who was that? They’d seen her somewhere, Maybe she was on TV, the news, a talk show? Oh heck. Then Tinsley Owens, six deep in line, here for reckless driving, got it. This lady in pearls was the wife of someone famous, maybe Billy Graham. Hammer was nonplussed as she dug through her pocketbook, and this made Deputy Abie’s assertion of self not quite as rewarding. She smiled at him, holding up her badge.
“Thanks for checking.” She could have knocked him over when she said that.
“In case anybody had any doubts about the security of our courthouse.” She leaned close to read his nameplate.
“O.T. Able,” she repeated, committing it to memory.
Now the deputy was dead. She was going to complain.
“Just doing my job,” he weakly said as the line got longer, winding around the world, the entire human race witnessing his destruction.