“No lights on,” she said over the air. “Closing in.”

She drew her pistol. Brazil was inches behind her and wished he were in front, as furtive officers they could not see closed in on a unit scarred by graffiti. Trash was everywhere, caught on rusting fences and in the trees, and the cops drew their guns as they reached the door.

One of them spoke into his radio, giving West, their leader, an update. “We got the front.”

“Police!” his partner threatened.

Brazil was concerned about the uneven terrain, and clotheslines hanging low enough to choke someone, and broken glass everywhere in the tar-black night. He was afraid West might hurt herself and turned on his Mag-Lite, illuminating her in a huge circle of light. Her sneaking silhouette with drawn pistol was bigger than God.

“Turn that fucking thing off!” she whipped around and hissed at him.

Charlotte police caught no one on that call. West and Brazil were in a bad mood as they rode and the radio chattered. She could have gotten shot. Thank God her officers hadn’t seen what this idiot reporter had done. She couldn’t wait to give Hammer a piece of her mind and was halfway tempted to call her boss at home. West needed something to give her a boost and pulled into the Starvin Marvin on South Tryon Street. Before she had shifted the car into park, Brazil was pulling up his door handle.

“You ever heard of looking before you leap?” she asked, like a severe schoolteacher.

Brazil gave her an indignant, disgusted look as he undid his seatbelt. “I can’t wait to write about you,” he threatened.

“Look.” West nodded at the store, at the plate glass in front, at customers prowling inside and making purchases. “Pretend you’re a cop. That should be easy for you. So you get out of your cop car? Don’t check? Walk in on a robbery in progress? And guess what?” She climbed out and stared inside at him. “You’re dead.” She slammed the door shut.

Brazil watched Deputy Chief West walk into the convenience store. He started to make notes, gave up, and leaned back in the seat. He did not understand what was happening. It bothered him a lot that she did not want him around, even though he was convinced he didn’t give a rat’s ass. No wonder she wasn’t married. Who would want to live with somebody like that? Brazil already knew that if he were ever successful, he wouldn’t be mean to people new at life. It was heartless and said everything about West’s true character.

She made him pay for his own coffee. It cost a dollar and fifteen cents, and she hadn’t bothered to ask him how he drank it, which wasn’t with Irish cream and twenty packs of sugar. Brazil could barely swallow it but did the best he could as they resumed patrolling. She was smoking again. They began to cruise a downtown street, where prostitutes clutching washcloths strolled languidly along the sidewalk, following them with luminous, empty eyes.