He looked puzzled. “What script?”

She drank. “Heard it all before. Seen that rerun.”

So had Bubba’s wife, Mrs. Rickman, whose first name had ceased to be important when she had gotten married twenty-six years ago in the Tabernacle Baptist Church. This had been down the road in Mount Mourne where she worked every day at the B&B, known for the best breakfast in town. The B&B’s hot dogs and burgers were popular, too, especially with Davidson students, and of course, with other Bubbas on their way for a day of fishing at Lake Norman.

When gun cleaning was completed and Brazil suggested to West that they stop for a bite to eat, neither of them had a way to know that the overweight, tired woman waiting on them was Bubba’s wretched wife.

“Hi, Mrs. Rickman,” Brazil said to the waitress.

He gave her his bright, irresistible smile and felt sorry for her, as he always did when he came to the B&B. Brazil knew how hard food service was, and it depressed him to think of what it had been like for his mother all those years when she could still get out and go anywhere. Mrs. Rickman was happy to see him. He was always so sweet.

“How’s my baby?” she chirped, setting plastic laminated menus in front of them. She eyed West. “Who’s your pretty lady friend?”

“Deputy Chief Virginia West with the Charlotte police,” Brazil made the mistake of saying.

So it was that Bubba would learn the identities of his attackers.

“My, my.” Mrs. Rickman was mighty impressed as she got an eyeful of this important woman sitting in a B&B booth. “A deputy chief. Didn’t know they had women that high up. What’ll be? The pork barbecue’s extra good tonight. I’d get it minced.”

“Cheeseburger all the way, fries, Miller in the bottle,” West said. “Extra mayonnaise and ketchup. Can you put a little butter on the bun and throw it on the grill?”

“Sure can, honey.” Mrs. Rickman nodded. She didn’t write down anything as she beamed at Brazil.

“The usual.” He winked at her.

She walked off, her hip killing her worse than yesterday.

“What’s the usual?” West wanted to know.

“Tuna on wheat, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Slaw, limeade. I want to ride patrol with you. In uniform,” he said.

“In the first place, I don’t ride patrol. In the second place, in case you haven’t noticed, I have a real job, nothing important. Just the entire investigative division. Homicide. Burglary. Rape. Arson. Fraud. Auto theft. Check theft,” she said. “White collar, computer, organized crime, vice. Juvenile. Cold case squad. Of course, there’s a serial killer on the loose, and it’s my detectives on the case, getting all the heat.”

She lit a cigarette and intercepted her beer before Mrs. Rickman could set it down. “I would prefer not to work twenty-four hours a day, if it’s all the same to you. You know how my cat gets? Won’t touch me, won’t sleep with me? Not to mention, I haven’t gone out to a movie, to dinner, in weeks.” She drank. “I haven’t finished my fence. When was the last time I cleaned my house?”