The morning got no better. Brazil drove fifteen minutes through the police department deck, and finally left his BMW in a press space, even though he really wasn’t on official press business. The day was lovely, but he took the tunnel from the deck to the first level of police headquarters because he was feeling especially antisocial. Whenever he had encounters with his mother, he got very quiet inside. He wanted to be alone. He did not want to talk to anyone.

At the Property Control window, he checked out a radio and was handed keys for the unmarked vehicle he would be driving in the Charlie Two response area between Tryon and Independence Boulevard for the annual Freedom Parade. It was a modest celebration sponsored by local Shriners in their tasseled hats and on their scooters, and Brazil could not have been assigned a worse car. The Ford Crown Victoria was dull, scratched black and had been driven hard for a hundred and sixteen thousand miles. The transmission was going to drop out any moment, providing the damn thing started, which it didn’t seem inclined to do.

Brazil flipped the key in the ignition again, pumping the accelerator as the old engine tried to turn over. The battery supplied enough juice to wake up the scanner and radio, but forget about going anywhere, as the car whined and Brazil’s frustration soared.

“Shit!” He pounded the steering wheel, accidentally blaring the horn. Cops in the distance turned around, staring.

Chief Hammer was causing her own commotion not too far away inside the Carpe Diem restaurant on South Tryon, across the street from the Knight-Ridder building. Two of her deputy chiefs, West and Jeannie Goode, sat at a quiet corner table, eating lunch and discussing problems. Goode was West’s age and jealous of any female who did anything in life, especially if she looked good.

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Goode was saying as she poked at tarragon chicken salad. “He shouldn’t be out with us to begin with. Did you get a load of the headline this morning? Implying we caused the accident, that Johnson was pursuing the Mercedes? Unbelievable. Not to mention, skid marks indicate it wasn’t us who ran the red light.”

“Andy Brazil didn’t write the headline,” West said, turning to Hammer, her boss, who was working on cottage cheese and fresh fruit. “All I’m asking is to ride routine patrol with him for maybe a week.”

“You want to respond to calls?” Hammer reached for her iced tea.

“Absolutely,” West said as Goode looked on with judgment.

Hammer put down her fork and studied West. “Why can’t he ride with regular patrol? Or for that matter, we’ve got fifty other volunteers. He can’t ride with them?”

West hesitated, motioning to a waiter for more coffee. She asked for extra mayonnaise and ketchup for her club sandwich and fries, and returned her attention to Hammer as if Goode were not at the table.

“No one wants to ride with him,” West said. “Because he’s a reporter. You know how the cops feel about the Observer. That won’t go away overnight. And there’s a lot of jealousy.” She looked pointedly at Goode.