It was a simple fact that the best cops, Marines, Airmen, National Guardsmen, fire fighters, and military people in general who were women did not need men personally. Hammer had commanded many such independents. She would pick them without question, as long as they weren’t so much like the men they did not need that they had completely adopted bad male habits, such as getting into fights rather than not, or being clingy and demanding and domineering. What Hammer had concluded after all these years was that she had an overweight, neurotic, nonworking wife who did nothing but bitch. Judy Hammer was ready for change.

Thus it was that she made a tactical error this very early morning, in her long clean robe. She decided to go out on her wraparound porch and sit on the swing, sipping chardonnay, alone with her thoughts, for a spell.

Brazil was mesmerized when she emerged, a vision, a god glowing in lamplight, all in white and shimmering. His heart rolled forward at such a pitch that he could not catch up with it. He sat very still on the cold cement bench, terrified she would see him. He watched every small thing she did, the way she pushed forward and let go, the bend of her wrist as she lifted the tapered glass, her head leaning back against the swing. He saw the slope of her neck as she rocked with eyes shut.

What did she think? Was she a person just like him, with those darker shades, those lonely, cold corners of existence that no one knew? She swung slowly and alone. His chest ached. He was drawn to this woman and had no clear idea why. It must be hero worship. If he had a chance to touch her, he really wouldn’t know what to do. But he did want to, as he stared in the night at her. She was pretty, even at her age. Not delicate but fascinating, powerful, compelling, like a collector’s car, an older BMW in mint condition, with chrome instead of plastic. She had character and substance, and Brazil was certain that her husband was quite the contender, a Fortune 500 man, a lawyer, a surgeon, someone capable of holding an interesting conversation with his wife during their brief, busy interfaces with each other.

Chief Hammer pushed the swing again and sipped her wine. She would never be completely devoid of street sense, no matter her station in life. She goddamn knew when she was being watched. Abruptly, she stood, feet firmly planted on her porch. She searched the night, detecting the vague silhouette of someone sitting in that annoying little park right slam next to her house. How many times had she told the neighborhood association that she didn’t want a public area adjacent to her domicile? Did anyone listen? To Brazil’s horror, she walked down porch steps and stood amidst pachysandra, staring right at him.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

Brazil could not speak. Not a fire or a Mayday could have pried a word loose from his useless tongue.