Brazil would be twenty-three next May, and the urges had not lessened with time. He had been faithful to Dr. Rush, who, according to local gossip, was not faithful to his wife and never had been. Brazil thought about his sexuality as he ran a few sprints before trotting home. It seemed to him that love and sex were connected but maybe shouldn't be. Love made him sweet and thoughtful. Love prompted him to notice flowers and want to pick them. Love crafted his finest poetry, while sex throbbed in powerful, earthy pentameters he would never show to anyone or submit for publication.
He hurried home and took a longer than usual shower. At five past eight, he was moving through the cafeteria line in the Knight-Ridder building. He was in jeans, pager on his belt, people staring curiously at the boy wonder reporter who played police and always seemed alone.
Brazil selected Raisin Bran and blueberries as the intercom piped in WBT's wildly popular and irreverent Don't Go Into Morning show, with Dave and Dave.
"In a fast-breaking story last night," Dave was saying in his deep radio voice, 'it was revealed that even our city's mayor won't go downtown at night right now. "
"Question is, why would he anyway?" quipped Dave.
"Same thing Senator Butler should have asked."
"Just checking on his constituents, Dave.
Trying to be of service. "
"And the eensy weensy spider crawled up his water spout…"
"Whoa, Dave. This is getting out of control."
"Hey, we're supposed to be able to say anything on this show. That's in the contract." Dave was his usual witty self, better than Howard Stern, really.
"Seriously. Mayor Search is asking everybody to help catch the Black Widow Killer," Dave said.
"And next up is Madonna, Amy Grant, and Rod Stewart…"
Brazil had stopped in the middle of the line, frozen as the radio played on and people made their way around him. Packer was walking in, heading straight towards him. Brazil's world was Humpty Dumpty off the wall, cracks happening everywhere at once. He paid for his breakfast, and turned around to face his ruination.
"What's going on?" he said before his grim editor could tell him.
"Upstairs now," Packer said.
"We got a problem."
Brazil did not run up the escalator. He did not speak to Packer, who had nothing more to say. Packer wanted no part of this. He wasn't going to insert his foot in his mouth. The great Richard Panesa could fix this one. That's why Knight-Ridder paid Panesa those big bucks.
Brazil had been marched to the principal's office only twice during his early school years. In neither case had he really done anything wrong. The first time he had poked his finger into the hamster cage and had gotten bitten. The second time of trouble occurred when he inserted his finger into the hole at the top of his clipboard and had gotten stuck.
Mr. Kenny used wire cutters to free young Brazil, who had been humiliated and heartbroken. The blue Formica clipboard with its map of the United States was destroyed. Mr. Kenny threw it into the trash while Brazil stood bravely by, refusing to cry, knowing his mother could not afford to buy him another one. Brazil had meekly asked if he could stay after school for a week, dusting erasers on back steps, to earn enough to buy something new to hold notebook paper and write on. That had been okay with all.
Brazil wondered what he could offer to Panesa to make up for whatever he had done to cause such a problem. When he walked into the publisher's intimidating glass office, Panesa was sitting behind his mahogany desk, in his fine Italian suit and leather chair. Panesa didn't get up or acknowledge Brazil directly, but continued reading a printout of the editorial for the Sunday paper, which slammed Mayor Search for his glib, albeit true, comment about his reluctance to travel downtown these nights.
"You might want to shut the door," Panesa quietly said to his young reporter.
Brazil did and took a seat across from his boss.
"Andy," he said, 'do you watch television? " His confusion grew.
"I rarely have time…"
"Then you may not know that you are being scooped right and left."
The dragon inside Brazil woke up.
"Meaning?" Panesa saw fire in his eyes. Good. The only way this sensitive, brilliant young talent was going to last in this criminal world was if he were a fighter, like Panesa was. Panesa wasn't going to give him a breath of comfort. Andy Brazil, welcome to Hell School, the publisher thought as he picked up a remote control from his mighty desk.
"Meaning' - Panesa hit a button, and a screen unrolled from the ceiling 'that the last four or five major stories you've done have been aired on television the night before they ran in the paper, usually on the eleven o'clock news." He pressed another button, and the overhead projector turned on.
"Then the radio stations pick them up first thing in the morning. Before most people get a chance to read what we've plastered on the front page of our paper."
Brazil shot up from his chair, horrified and homicidal.
"That can't be! No one's even around when I'm out there!" he exclaimed, fists balled by his sides.
Panesa pointed the remote control, pressed another but ton, and instantly Webb's face was huge in the room.
'. in a Channel Three exclusive interview said she returns to the scene of the crash late at night and sits in her car and weeps.
Johnson, who turned in her badge this morning, said she wishes she had been killed, too. "
Panesa looked at Brazil. Brazil was speechless, his fury toward Webb coalescing into hatred for all. Moments passed before the young police reporter could gather his wits.
"Was this after my story?" Brazil asked, though he knew better.
"Before," Panesa replied, watching him carefully, and assessing.
"The night before it ran. Like every other one that's followed. Then this bit with the mayor. Well, that clinched it. We know that was a slip on Search's part and not something Webb could know unless he's got the mayor's office bugged."
"This can't be!" Brazil boiled over.
"It's not my fault!"
"This is not about fault." Panesa was stern with him.
"Get to the bottom of it. Now. We're really being hurt."
Panesa watched Brazil storm out. The publisher had a meeting, but sat at his desk, going through memos, dictating to his secretary while he observed Brazil through glass. Brazil was angrily opening desk drawers, digging in the box under it, throwing notepads and other personal effects into his briefcase. He ran out of the newsroom as if he did not plan on coming back. Panesa picked up the phone.
"Get Virginia West on the line," the publisher said.
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.
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.
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.