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.
V9 The only flowers West had in her life this moment were the ones Niles had shredded
all over the dining-room table. This was after he had scattered litter in the bathroom
while his owner was in the shower, her wet bare feet about to step on grit and unpleasant
things coated in it. West’s mood was volatile, anyway. She was incensed over the storm
of controversy surrounding her beloved boss, and fearful of where it all might end. The
day Goode became acting chief was the day West moved back to the farm. West knew
all about Brazil following Hammer into very private rooms that not even West had
entered.
It was all so typical, she thought as she cussed Niles, rinsed her feet and cleaned up the
bathroom floor. Brazil used West to gain a foothold with the chief. Brazil had acted like
a friend, then the moment he got a chance to ingratiate himself with a higher power.
West didn’t hear a word from him ever again. Wasn’t that the way things went? The son
of a bitch. He hadn’t called to go shooting, to ride, or even to make sure she was still
alive. West discovered what was left of the blood lilies from her garden as Niles darted
under the couch.
}/^