“I told everyone what a bad idea this was. Would they listen?” She fumbled with keys.
“Would you?” Brazil demanded.
West paused, looking at him. She yanked open the door, and Brazil blocked it.
“It might be nice if I got a fair trial.” He shoved his notepad at her, flipping through scribbles he had made while West was on the phone.
“I was describing your office and you,” he announced much like the ADA West had just
been talking to on the phone.
She didn’t have to skim much to know she’d made a wrong assumption.
She sighed, stepping back, looking volunteer officer Brazil up and down, wondering how
it could be possible that a reporter was dressed like this. What had policing come to?
Hammer had lost her mind. Brazil should be arrested for impersonating an officer, that
was the reality of things.
“Where do you live?” West asked him.
“Davidson.”
This was good. At least the next hour and a half would be spent in the commute. West
might even be able to stretch it out. The longer she could keep him off the street, the
better. She almost smiled as she climbed into her car.
“We’ll go there first so you can change clothes,” she gruffly said.
For a while, they did not speak as scanner lights blinked, and dispatchers and cops cut in
and out on the radio like Rollerbladers.
The Mobile Data Terminal (MDT) beeped as it logged calls and displayed addresses and
messages on its computer screen. West and Brazil drove through the city as rush hour
peaked. It looked like it might rain.
Brazil was staring out his window. He felt stupid and mistreated as he took off his police
tie and unbuttoned his collar.
“How long you been with the Observer^’ West asked him, and she felt a tug around her
chest, as if her bullet proof vest were rubbing her wrong, except she wasn’t wearing one.
She felt a little sorry for this ride-along.
“A year,” Brazil answered, hateful toward Deputy Chief West and wondering if she were going to let him ride with her again.
“How come I’ve never heard of you before now?” she asked.
“I didn’t get the police beat until I finished the academy. That was the deal.”
“What deal?”
“My deal,” Brazil continued to stare sullenly out the window.
West tried to change lanes but the jerk next to her wasn’t cooperative. She gestured
angrily back at him.
“Same to you, drone!”
She stopped at a red light and looked at Brazil.
“What do you mean, deal?”
“I wanted the cop shop, told them I’d make it worth their while.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I want to know cops. So I can write about them. I want to get it straight.”
West didn’t believe him. Reporters always said shit like that, lied with pretty tongues, no
different than people in general, really. She drove on, got out a cigarette, and lit it.
“If you’re so curious about us, how come you didn’t become a cop for real?” she
challenged him.
“I’m a writer,” Brazil said simply, as if this were his race, his religion, or family name.
“And we all know cops can’t write.” West blew out smoke.
“Can’t even read unless there’s pictures.”
“There are pictures.”
She threw up her hands and laughed.
“See?”
Brazil was silent.
“So why do you live way the hell in Davidson?” she asked.
“I went to school there.”
“I guess you must be smart.”
“I get by,” he told her.
The gleaming Crown Victoria turned onto Main Street, which was what its name
suggested in this charming college town. Homes were genteel, white frame and brick,
with ivy and sprawling porches and swings. West had grown up outside of Charlotte,
too, but heading a different direction, where there wasn’t much but red clay and
fathomless farmland. She couldn’t have afforded to go to a college like Davidson, and
doubted her SATs would have impressed anybody in a positive way.
Brazil’s college was sort of like Princeton and other places West had only read about.
“While we’re on the subject,” she said, “I don’t remember any police stories by you.”