Brazil’s house hadn’t been painted in too long to tell the color. Maybe it had been pale yellow once, maybe eggshell or white. Mostly now it was gray and flaking and peeling, like a sad old woman with a skin condition. An ancient, rusting white Cadillac was parked in the drive, and West decided that whoever lived here didn’t have taste, money, or time for repairs and yard work. Brazil angrily pushed open the car door, gathering his belongings as he got out, and halfway tempted to tell this deputy chief to get the hell out of here and not come back. But his BMW was still in Charlotte, so that might pose a problem. He bent over, peering inside at her.

“My dad was a cop.” He slammed the door shut.

West was typical brass, typical anybody who had power, Brazil fumed as he strode up the walk. She didn’t give a shit about helping somebody else get started. Women could be the worst, as if they didn’t want anybody else to do well because no one was nice to them when they were coming along, or maybe so they could pay everybody back, persecute innocent guys who’d never even met them, whatever. Brazil imagined West at the net, a perfect lob waiting for his lethal overhead smash. He could ace her, too.

He unlocked the front door of the house he had lived in all his life. Inside, he unbuttoned his uniform shirt and looked around, suddenly conscious of a dim, depressing living room of cheap furniture and stained wall-to-wall carpet. Dirty ashtrays and dishes were wherever somebody had forgotten them last, and gospel music swelled as George Beverly Shea scratched How Great Thou Art for the millionth time. Brazil went to the old hi-fi and impatiently switched it off.

“Mom?” he called out.

He began tidying up, following a mess into a slovenly old kitchen where milk, V8 juice, and cottage cheese had been left out by someone who had made no effort to clean up or hide the empty fifth of Bowman’s cheap vodka on top of the trash. Brazil picked up dishes and soaked them in hot sudsy water. Frustrated, he yanked out his shirttail and unbuckled his belt. He looked down at his name tag, shiny and bright. He fingered the whistle on its chain. For an instant, his eyes were filled with a sadness he could not name.

“Mom?” he called out again. “Where are you?”

Brazil walked into the hallway, and with a key that no one else had a copy of, he unlocked a door that opened onto the small room where he lived. It was tidy and organized, with a computer on a Formica-topped desk, and dozens of tennis trophies and plaques and other athletic awards on shelves, furniture, and walls. There were hundreds of books in this complicated person’s simple, unassuming space. He carefully hung up his uniform and grabbed khakis and a denim shirt off hangers. On the back of the door was a scarred leather bomber jacket that was old and extra large and looked like it might have come from some earlier time. He put it on even though it was warm out.