Cornwell, Patricia - The Hornet's Nest

VIP免费
2024-12-06 0 0 1.34MB 412 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
The Hornet's Nest
Patricia Cornwell
Synopsis:
Chapter One.
That morning, summer sulked and gathered darkly over Charlotte, and heat shimmered
on pavement. Traffic teemed, people pushing forward to promise as they drove through
new construction, and the past was bulldozed away. The US Bank Corporate Center
soared sixty stories above downtown, topped by a crown that looked like organ pipes
playing a hymn to the god of money. This was a city of ambition and change. It had
grown so fast, it could not always find its own streets. Like a boy in puberty, it was
rapidly unfolding and clumsy at times, and a little too full of what its original settlers had
called pride.
The city and its county were named for Princess Charlotte Sophia of Mecklenburg-
Strelitz before she became George Ill's queen. The Germans, who wanted the same
freedoms the Scotch-Irish did, were one thing. The English were another. When Lord
Cornwallis decided to come to town in 1780 and occupied what became known as the
Queen City, he was met with such hostility by these stubborn Presbyterians that he
dubbed Charlotte 'the hornet's nest of America. " Two centuries later, the swarming
symbol was the official seal of the city and its NBA basketball team and the police
department that protected all.
It was the white whirling dervish against midnight blue that Deputy Chief Virginia West
wore on the shoulders of her crisp white uniform shirt with all its brass. Most cops,
frankly, had not a clue as to what the symbol meant. Some thought it was a tornado, a
white owl, a beard. Others were certain it had to do with sports events in the coliseum or
the new two-hundredandthirty-million- dollar stadium that hovered downtown like an
alien spacecraft. But West had been stung more than once and knew exactly what the
hornet's nest was about. It was what awaited her when she drove to work and read the
Charlotte Observer every morning. Violence swarmed, and everybody talked at once.
This Monday, she was in a dark angry mood, ready to really stir things up.
The city police department recently had relocated to the new pearly concrete complex
known as the Law Enforcement Center, or LEC, in the heart of downtown on Trade
Street, the very road British oppressors long ago had followed into town. Construction in
the area seemed endless, as if change were a virus taking over West's life. Parking at the
LEC remained a mess, and she had not completely moved into her office yet. There were
plenty of mud puddles, and dust, and her unmarked car was new and a striking uniform
blue that sent her to the carwash at least three times a week.
When she reached the reserved parking spaces in front of the LEC, she couldn't believe it.
Occupying her spot was a drug dealer's set of chrome mags and parrot-green iridescent
paint, a Suzuki, which she knew people flipped over in more ways than one.
"Goddamn it!" She looked around, as if she might recognize the person who had dared
this perpetration.
Other cops were pulling in and out, and transporting prisoners in this constantly moving
department of sixteen hundred police and un sworn support. For a moment, West sat and
scanned, teased by the aroma of the Bojangles bacon and egg biscuit that by now was
cold. Settling on a fifteen-minute slot in front of sparkling glass doors, she parked and
climbed out, doing the best she could with briefcase, pocketbook, files, newspapers,
breakfast, a large coffee.
She slammed her door shut with a hip as the dude she was looking for emerged from the
building. He was jailing, jeans at low tide in that cool lockup look of six inches of pastel
undershorts showing. The fashion statement got started in jail when inmates had their
belts confiscated so they wouldn't hang themselves or someone else. The trend had
crossed over every racial and socioeconomic line until half of the city's pants were falling
off. West did not understand it. She left her car right where it was, fought with her
armload as the dude mumbled good morning, trotting past.
"Brewster!" Her voice halted him like a pointed gun.
"What the hell you think you're doing parking in my space!"
He grinned, flashing rings and a fake Rolex as he swept arms open wide, the pistol
beneath his jacket peeking out.
"Look around. Tell me what you see. Not one damn parking place in all of Charlotte."
"That's why important people like me are assigned one," she said to this detective she
supervised as she tossed him her keys.
"Bring them back when you've moved my car," she ordered.
West was forty-two, a woman who still turned heads and had never been married to
anything beyond what she thought she was here on earth to do. She had deep red hair, a
little unattended and longer than she liked it, her eyes dark and quick, and a serious body
that she did not deserve, for she did nothing to maintain curves and straightness in the
right places. She wore her uniform in a way that made other women want one, but that
was not why she chose police blues over plain clothes. She supervised more than three
hundred wiseass investigators like Ronald Brewster who needed every reminder of law
and order West could muster.
Cops greeted her on her way in. She turned right, headed to offices where Chief Judy
Hammer decided everything that mattered in law enforcement in this hundred-mile area
of almost six million people.
West loved her boss but right now didn't like her. West knew why she had been called in
early for a meeting, and it was a situation beyond reason or her control. This was insane.
She walked into Hammer's outer office, where Captain Fred Horgess was talking on the
phone. He held his hand over the receiver and shook his head in a there's nothing I can
do way to West as she walked up to the dark wooden door, where Hammer's name was
announced brightly in brass.
"It's not good," he warned with a shrug.
"Why is it I didn't need you to tell me that?" West irritably said.
Balancing her burdens, she knocked with the toe of her Bates hi-gloss black
shoe and nudged up the door handle with a knee, coffee almost spilling but caught in
time. Inside, Hammer sat behind her overwhelmed desk, surrounded by framed
photographs of children and grand babies her mission statement, Prevent the Next Crime,
on the wall behind her.
She was early fifties, in a smart hounds tooth business suit, her
telephone line buzzing relentlessly, but she had more important matters on her mind at
the moment.
West dumped her load on one chair and sat in another one near the brass Winged Victory
award the Inter national Association of Chiefs of Police had presented to Hammer last
year. She had never bothered to get a stand or give it an honored place. In fact, the
trophy, which was three feet high, continued to occupy the same square of carpet next to
her desk, as if waiting for a ride to someplace better. Judy Hammer won such things
because she wasn't motivated by them. West removed the lid off her coffee, and steam
wafted up.
"I already know what this is about," she said, 'and you know what I think. "
Hammer gestured to silence her. She leaned forward, folding her hands on top of her
desk.
"Virginia. At long last I have gotten the support of city council, the city manager, the
mayor," she started to say.
"And every one of them, including you, is wrong," West said, stirring cream and sugar
into her coffee.
"I can't believe you've talked them into this, and I can tell you right now, they're going to
find some way to screw it up because they don't really want it to happen. You shouldn't
want it to happen, either. It's a damn conflict of interests for a police reporter to become
a volunteer cop and go out on the street with us."
Paper crackled as West unwrapped a greasy Bojangles biscuit that Hammer would never
raise to her lips, not even back in the old days when she was underweight and on her feet
all day long, working the jail, juvenile division, crime analysis, records, inspections, auto
theft, all those exciting assignments women got back in the days when they weren't
allowed in patrol. She did not believe in fat.
"I mean, come on!" West said after a bite.
"The last Observer cop reporter screwed us so bad you sued the newspaper."
Hammer did not like to think about Weinstein, the worthless wonder, a criminal, really,
whose MO was to walk into the duty captain's office or the investigative division when
no one was around. He stole reports right off desks, printers, and fax machines. This
collaborative behavior culminated in his writing a front-page Sunday profile about
Hammer, claiming she commandeered the police helicopter for personal use. She
ordered off-duty cops to chauffeur her and do domestic jobs around her house. When her
daughter was picked up for drunk driving, Hammer had the charges fixed. None of it was
true. She did not even have a daughter.
Hammer got up, clearly frustrated and disturbed by the mess the world was in. She
looked out a window, hands in the pockets of her skirt, her back to West.
"The Charlotte Observer, the city, think we don't understand them or care," she started
her evangelism again.
"And I know they don't understand us. Or care."
West crumpled breakfast trash, and scored two points in disgust.
"All the Observer cares about is winning another Pulitzer Prize," she said.
Hammer turned around, as serious as West had ever seen her.
"I had lunch with the new publisher yesterday. First time any of us have had a civilized
conversation with anyone from there in a decade, at least.
A miracle. " She began her habitual pacing, gesturing with passion. She loved her
mission in life.
"We really want to try this. Could it blow up in our faces? Absolutely." She paused.
"But what if it worked? Andy Brazil ..."
"Who?" West scowled.
"Very, very determined," Hammer went on, 'completed our academy for volunteers,
highest marks we've ever had. Impressed the hell out of the instructors. Does that mean
he won't burn us, Virginia? No, no. But what I'm not going to have is this young
reporter out there screwing up an investigation, getting the wrong view of what we do.
He's not going to be lied to, stonewalled, hit on, hurt. "
West put her head in her hands, groaning. Hammer returned to her desk and sat.
"If this goes well," the chief went on, 'think how good it could be for the department, for
community policing here and around the world.
How many times have I heard you say, "If only every citizen could ride just one night
with us" "
"I'll never say it again." West meant it.
Hammer leaned over her desk, pointing her ringer at a deputy chief she admired and
sometimes wanted to shake for thinking too small.
"I want you out on the street again," she ordered.
"With Andy Brazil. Give him a dose he won't forget."
"Goddamn it, Judy!" West exclaimed.
"Don't do this to me. I'm up to my ears decentralizing investigations. The street crime
unit's all screwed up, two of my captains out. Goode and I can't agree on anything, as
usual ..."
Hammer wasn't listening. She put on reading glasses, and began reviewing a memo.
"Set it up today," she said.
Andy Brazil ran hard and fast. He blew out loudly, checking the time on his Casio watch
as he sprinted around the Davidson College track, in the small town of the same name,
north of the big city. It was here he had grown up and gone to school on tennis and
academic scholarships. He had lived at the college all his life, really, in a dilapidated
frame house on Main Street, across from a cemetery that, like the recently turned coed
school, was older than the Civil War.
Until several years ago, his mother had worked in the college food service, and Brazil
had grown up on the campus, watching rich kids and Rhodes scholars on their way in a
hurry. Even when he was about to graduate magna cum laude, some of his classmates,
usually the cheerleaders, thought he was a townie. They flirted with him as he ladled eggs
and grits on their plates. They were always startled in a dense sort of way when he
trotted past in a hallway, loaded with books and afraid of being late to class.
Brazil had never felt he belonged here or anywhere, really. It was as if he watched
people through a pane of glass. He could not touch others no matter how hard he tried,
and they could not touch him, unless they were mentors. He had been falling in love with
teachers, coaches, ministers, campus security, administrators, deans, doctors, nurses since
he could remember. They were accepting, even appreciative, of his unusual reflections
and solitary peregrinations, and the writings he shyly shared when he visited after hours,
usually bearing limeades from the M&M soda shop or cookies from his mother's kitchen.
Brazil, simply put, was a writer, a scribe of life and all in it. He had accepted his calling
with humility and a brave heart.
It was too early for anybody else to be out this morning except a faculty wife whose
lumpy shape would never be transformed by anything but death, and two other women in
baggy sweats breathlessly complaining about the husbands who made it possible for them
to be walking while most of the world worked. Brazil wore a Charlotte Observer T-shirt
and shorts, and looked younger than twenty-two. He was handsome and fierce, with
cheekbones high, hair streaked blond, body firm and athletically splendid. He did not
seem aware of how others reacted to the sight of him, or perhaps it didn't matter. Mostly,
his attention was elsewhere.
Brazil had been writing ever since he could, and when he had looked for a job after
graduating from Davidson, he had promised Observer publisher Richard Panesa that if
Panesa would give Brazil a chance, the newspaper would not be sorry. Panesa had hired
him as a TV Week clerk, updating TV shows and movie blurbs. Brazil hated typing in
programming updates for something he did not even watch. He did not like the other
clerks or his hypertensive, overweight editor. Other than a promised cover story one of
these days, there was no future for Brazil, and he began going to the newsroom at four in
the morning so he could have all of the updates completed by noon.
The rest of the day he would roam desk to desk, begging for garbage-picking stories the
seasoned reporters wanted to duck. There were always plenty of those. The business
desk tossed him the scoop on Ingersoll-Rand's newest air compressor. Brazil got to cover
the Ebony fashion show when it came to town, and the stamp collectors, and the world
championship backgammon tournament at the Radisson Hotel. He interviewed wrestler
Rick Flair with his long platinum hair when he was the celebrity guest at the Boy Scout
convention. Brazil covered the Coca-Cola 600, interviewing spectators drinking beer
while stock cars blasted past.
He turned in a hundred hours' overtime five months in a row, writing more stories than
most of Panesa's reporters. Panesa held a meeting, gathering the executive editor,
managing editor, and features editor behind closed doors to discuss the idea of making
Brazil a reporter when his first six months were up. Panesa couldn't wait to see Brazil's
reaction, knowing he would be thrilled beyond belief when Panesa offered him general
assignment. Brazil wasn't.
Brazil had already applied to the Charlotte Police Department's academy for volunteers.
He had passed the background check, and was enrolled in the class that was to start the
following spring. In the meantime, his plan was to carry on with his usual boring job
with the TV magazine because the hours were flexible. Upon graduation, Brazil hoped
the publisher would give him the police beat, and Brazil would do his job for the paper
and keep up his volunteer hours at the same time. He would write the most informed and
insightful police stories the city had ever seen. If the Observer wouldn't go along with
this, Brazil would find a news organization that would, or he would become a cop. No
matter how anybody looked at it, Andy Brazil would not be told no.
The morning was hot and steamy, and sweat was streaming as he began his sixth mile,
looking at graceful antebellum buildings of ivy and brick, at the Chambers classroom
building with its dome, and the indoor tennis center where he had battled other college
students as if losing meant death. He had spent his life fighting for the right to move
ahead eighteen miles, along 1-77, to South Tryon Street, in the heart of the city, where he
could write for a living. He remembered when he first started driving to Charlotte when
he was sixteen, when the skyline was simple, downtown a place to go. Now it seemed an
over achieving stone and glass empire that kept growing. He wasn't sure he liked it much
anymore. He wasn't sure it liked him, either.
Mile eight, he dropped in the grass and began plunging into push-ups.
Arms were strong and sculpted, with veins that gracefully fed his strength. Hair on wet
skin was gold, his face red. He rolled over on his back and breathed good air, enjoying
the afterglow. Slowly, he sat up, stretching, easing himself into the vertical position that
meant getting on with it.
Andy Brazil trotted back to his twenty-five year-old black BMW 2002 parked on the
street. It was waxed, and shellacked with Armor All, the original blue and white emblem
on the hood worn off forever ago and lovingly retouched with model paint. The car had
almost a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it, and something broke about once a
month, but Brazil could fix anything. Inside, the interior was saddle leather, and there
was a new police scanner and a two-way radio. He wasn't due on his beat until four, but
he rolled into his very own spot- at noon. He was the Observer's police reporter and got
to park in a special spot near the door, so he could take off in a hurry when trouble blew.
The instant he entered the lobby, he smelled newsprint and ink the way a creature smells
blood. The scent excited him like police lights and sirens, and he was happy because the
guard in the console didn't make him sign in anymore. Brazil took the escalator, trotting
up moving rhetal stairs, as if he was late somewhere. People were statues coming down
the other side. They glanced curiously at him. Everyone in the Observer newsroom
knew who Brazil was, and he had no friends.
The newsroom was big and drab, filled with the sounds of keys clicking, phones ringing,
and printers grabbing fast-breaking stories off the wire. Reporters were intense in front of
computer screens, flipping through notepads with the paper's name on cardboard covers.
They walked around, and the woman who covered local politics was running out the door
after a scoop. Brazil still could not believe he was a player in this important, heady
world, where words could change destinies and the way people thought. He thrived on
drama, perhaps because he had been fed it since birth, although not generally in a good
way.
His new desk was in the metro section, just beyond the glass-enclosed office of the
publisher, Panesa, who Brazil liked and was desperate to impress. Panesa was a
handsome man, with silver-blond hair, and a lean look that had not become less striking
as he had skated beyond forty.
The publisher stood tall and straight in fine suits dark blue or black, and wore cologne.
Brazil thought Panesa wise but had no reason to know it yet.
Each Sunday, Panesa had a column in the Sunday paper, and women in the greater
Charlotte area wrote fan letters and secretly wondered what Richard Panesa was like in
bed, or at least Brazil imagined this was so. Panesa was in a meeting when Brazil sat
behind his desk and covertly glanced into the publisher's transparent kingdom as Brazil
tried to look busy opening notepads, drawers, glancing at old printouts of long-published
stories. It did not escape Panesa's notice that his boyish, intense police reporter had
arrived four hours early his first day on his new beat. Panesa was not surprised.
The first item on Brazil's agenda was that Tommy Axel had left another 7-Eleven rose on
Brazil's desk. It had the sad, unhealthy complexion of the people who shopped in
establishments that sold dark red, tightly furled passion at the counter for a dollar ninety-
eight. It was still wrapped in clear plastic, and Axel had stuck it inside a Snapple bottle
filled with water. Axel was the music critic, and Brazil knew he was watching this very
minute from not very far away, in features. Brazil slid a cardboard box out from under
his desk.
He had not finished moving in, not that the task was especially formidable. But he had
been assigned nothing yet and had finished the first draft of a self-assigned piece on what
it had been like to go through the volunteer police academy. He could add and cut and
polish only so many times, and was terrified by the thought of sitting in the newsroom
with nothing to do. He had made it a habit to scan all six editions of the newspaper from
wooden spools near the city directories. He often read the bulletin board, checked his
empty mailbox, and had been meticulous and deliberately slow in moving his
professional possessions the very short distance of forty-five feet.
This included a Rolodex with few meaningful phone numbers, for how to reach television
networks and various shows, and stamp collectors or Rick Flair, was of little importance
now. Brazil had plenty of notepads, pens, pencils, copies of his stories, city maps, and
almost all of it could fit in the briefcase he had found on sale at Belk department store
when he had been hired. It was glossy burgundy leather with brass clasps, and he felt
very proud when he gripped it.
He had no photographs to arrange on his desk, for he was an only child and had no pets.
It entered his mind that he might call his house to check on things. When Brazil had
returned from the track to shower and change, his mother had been doing the usual,
sleeping on the couch in the living room, TV loudly tuned in to a soap opera she would
not remember later. Mrs. Brazil watched life every day on Channel 7, and could not
describe a single plot. Television was her only connection to humans, unless she counted
the relationship with her son.
Half an hour after Brazil appeared in the newsroom, the telephone rang on his desk,
startling him. He snatched it up, pulse trotting ahead as he glanced around, wondering
who knew he worked here.
"Andy Brazil," he said very professionally.
The heavy breathing was recognizable, the voice of the same pervert who had been
calling for months. Brazil could hear her lying on her bed, sofa, fainting couch, wherever
she got the job done.
"In my hand," the pervert said in her low, creepy tone.
"Got it.
Sliding in, out like a trombone . "
Brazil dropped the receiver into its cradle and shot Axel an accusing glance, but Axel was
talking to the food critic. This was the first time in Brazil's life that he had ever gotten
obscene phone calls. The only other situation to come even close was when he was
blasting his BMW at the Wash & Shine in nearby Cornelius one day and a pasty-faced
creep in a yellow VW bug pulled up and asked him if he wanted to earn twenty dollars.
Brazil's first thought was he was being offered a job washing the guy's car since Brazil
was doing such a fine job on his own. This had been wrong. Brazil had turned the high
pressure wand on the guy for free. He had memorized the creep's plate number and still
had it in his wallet, waiting for the day when he could get him locked up. What the man
in the VW bug had proposed was a crime against nature, an ancient North Carolina law
no one could interpret. But what he had wanted in exchange for his cash had been clear.
Brazil could not fathom why anyone would want to do such a thing to a stranger. He
wouldn't even drink out of the same bottle with most people he knew.
Brazil was not naive, but his sexual experiences at Davidson had been more incomplete
than those of his roommate, this he knew. The last semester of his senior year, Brazil had
spent most nights in the men's room inside Chambers. There was a perfectly comfortable
couch in there, and while his roommate slept with a girlfriend, Brazil slept with books.
No one was the wiser, except the custodians, who routinely saw Brazil coming out of, not
going into, the building around six o'clock every morning as he headed back to the
second floor of the condemned building he and his roommate shared on Main Street.
Certainly, Brazil had his own small private space in this dump, but walls were very thin
and it was difficult to concentrate when Jennifer and Todd were active. Brazil could hear
every word, everything they did.
Brazil dated Sophie, from San Diego, on and off during college. He did not fall in love
with her, and this made her desire uncontrollable. It more or less ruined her Davidson
career. First she lost weight. When that didn't work, she gained it. She took up smoking,
and quit, got mononucleosis and got better, went to a therapist and told him all about it.
None of this turned out to be the aphrodisiac Sophie had hoped, and their sophomore
year, she stabilized and slept with her piano teacher during Christmas break. She
confessed her sin to Brazil.
She and Brazil started making out in her Saab and her dorm room.
Sophie was experienced, rich, and premed She was more than willing to patiently explain
anatomical realities, and he was open to research he really did not need.
At one p. m. " Brazil had just logged onto his computer and gone into his basket to
retrieve his police academy story, when his editor sat next to him. Ed Packer was at least
摘要：

TheHornet'sNestPatriciaCornwellSynopsis:ChapterOne.Thatmorning,summersulkedandgathereddarklyoverCharlotte,andheatshimmeredonpavement.Trafficteemed,peoplepushingforwardtopromiseastheydrovethroughnewconstruction,andthepastwasbulldozedaway.TheUSBankCorporateCentersoaredsixtystoriesabovedowntown,toppedb...

展开>> 收起<<
Cornwell, Patricia - The Hornet's Nest.pdf

共412页,预览10页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：412 页 大小：1.34MB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-06

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 动力学连接体 力的合成 配电装置 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 412
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注