The Hornet’s Nest. Patricia Cornwell

the mystery of all time, she from one planet, he from another.

They, the aliens, agreeably left for new frontiers where no person had gone before. It had

nothing to do with his habit of picking up groupies at concerts after Meatloaf, Gloria

Estefan, Michael Bolton, had worked them into a lather. Axel would get a few quotes.

He’d put the boys and their winking lighted shoes, shaved heads, dreadlocks, and body

piercing, in the newspaper. They called Axel excited, wanting extra copies, eight-by-ten

photographs, followup interviews, concert tickets, backstage passes. One thing usually

led to another.

While Axel was thinking about Brazil, Brazil was not thinking about him. Brazil was in

his BMW and trying to calculate when he might need gas next since neither that gauge

nor the speedometer had worked in more than forty thousand miles. BMW parts on a

scale this grand were, in his mind, aviation instrumentation and simply beyond his means.

This was not good for one who drove too fast and did not enjoy being stranded on a

roadside waiting for the next non-serial killer to offer a ride to the nearest gas station.

His mother was still snoring in front of the TV. Brazil had learned to walk through his

decaying home and the family life it represented without seeing any of it. He headed

straight to his small bedroom, unlocked the door and shut it behind him. He turned on a

boom box, but not too loud, and let Joan Osborne envelop him as he went into his closet.

Putting on his uniform was a ritual, and he did not see how he could ever get tired of it.

First, he always laid it out on the bed and indulged himself, just looking for a moment,

not quite believing someone had given him permission to wear such a glorious thing. His

Charlotte uniform was midnight blue, creased and new with a bright white hornet’s nest

that seemed in motion, like a white twister, on each shoulder patch. He always put socks

on first, black cotton, and these had not come from the city. Next he carefully pulled on

summer trousers that were hot no matter how light the material, a subtle stripe down each

leg.

The shirt was his favourite because of the patches and everything else that he would pin on. He worked his arms through the short sleeves, began buttoning in the mirror, all the

way up to his chin, and clipped on the tie. Next was his name plate and whistle. To the

heavy black leather belt he attached the holder with its Mag-Lite, and his pager, saving

room for the radio he would check out at the LEG. His soft Hi-Tee boots weren’t patent

leather like the military type he had seen most of his life, but more like high-top athletic

shoes. He could run in these if the need ever arose, and he hoped it would. He did not

wear a hat because Chief Hammer did not believe in them.

Brazil inspected himself in the mirror to make sure all was perfect.

He headed back downtown with the windows and sunroof open, and propped his arm up

whenever he could because he enjoyed the reaction of drivers in the next lane when they

saw his patch. People suddenly slowed down. They let him pass when the light turned

green. Someone asked him directions. A man spat, eyes filled with resentment Brazil

did not deserve, for he had done nothing to him. Two teenaged boys in a truck began

making fun of him, and he stared straight ahead and drove, as if none of this was new.

He had been a cop forever.

The LEC was several blocks from the newspaper, and Brazil knew the way as if he were

going home. He pulled into the parking deck for visitors, and tucked his BMW in a press

slot, angling it the way he always did so people didn’t hit his doors. He got out and

followed polished hallways to the duty captain’s office, because he had no idea where the

investigative division was or if he could just stroll in without asking permission. In the

academy, his time had been spent in a classroom, the radio room, or out on a street

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