“Please don’t make a scene or I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” West, the deputy chief, stated.

Enraged and hurt, Brazil realized the truth. “You’re not going to let me ride with you anymore.”

West hesitated, trying to ease him into this. “Andy,” she said, “it couldn’t go on forever. You’ve always known that. Jesus Christ.” She blew out in frustration. “I’m old enough to. . .I’m. . .”

Brazil backed up, staring at her, the traitor, the fiend, the hard-hearted tyrant, the worst villain ever to touch his life. She didn’t care about him. She never had.

“I don’t need you,” he cruelly said.

Brazil wheeled around and ran. He ran as fast as he could back to his BMW.

“Oh for God’s sake,” West exclaimed as Hammer suddenly was at her side.

“Problem?” Hammer stared after Brazil, her hands in her pockets.

“More of the same.” West wanted to kill him. “He’s going to do something.”

“Good deduction.” Hammer’s eyes were sad and tired, but she was full of courage and support for the living.

“I’d better go after him.” West started walking.

Hammer stood where she was, strobing lights washing over her face as she watched West duck reporters and trot off to her car. Hammer thought about new love, about people crazy for each other and not knowing it as they fought and ran off and chased. The ambulance beeped as it backed up, carrying away what was left of a person whom Hammer, in truth, did not feel especially sorry for at this point. She would never have wished such horrendous violence upon him, but what a piece of shit he was, stealing, hurting, and more than likely perpetuating the drug trade. Hammer was going to take this investigation into her own hands, and if need be, make an example of Blair Mauney III, who had planned to screw the bank and a hooker during the same trip.

“People die the way they lived,” she commented to Detective Brewster, patting his back.

“Chief Hammer.” He was loading new film in his camera. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

“So am I. In more ways than you’ll ever know.” She ducked under the tape.

Brazil must have been speeding again, or perhaps he was hiding in another alleyway. West cruised West Trade Street, looking for his old BMW. She checked her mirrors, seeing no sign of him, the scanner a staccato of more problems in the city. She picked up the portable phone and dialed the number for Brazil’s desk at the Observer. After three rings, it rolled over to another desk and West hung up. She fumbled for a cigarette and turned onto Fifth Street, checking cars driven by men checking the late night market. West whelped her siren and flashed her lights, messing with those up to no good. She watched hookers and sh’ims scatter as potential clients sped away.

“Stupid bastards,” West muttered, flicking an ash out the window. “Is it worth dying for?” she yelled at them.