operand!
Week three, the nightmare repeated itself when fifty- two-year-old Gary Luby visited
from Atlanta. West was discussing his case over the phone when Brazil appeared in her
doorway. West did not notice him.
She was too busy shuffling through large, gory scene photographs as she continued
arguing with an assistant district attorney.
“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.