The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

on coming back. Panesa picked up the phone.

“Get Virginia West on the line,” the publisher said.

tw Tommy Axel was staring after Brazil’s wake, wondering what the hell was going on,

and at the same time suspicious. He knew about Webb, and had heard about the leaks,

and didn’t blame Brazil for being out of his mind. Axel couldn’t imagine the same thing

happening to him, someone stealing brilliant thoughts and analyses from his music

columns. God. Poor guy.

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

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