NINE

Chad Tilly could have used another undertaker at exactly that moment. He had brilliantly outmaneuvered the Dodge Dart with its kamikaze old man rocking to country western. That round the funeral director had won without effort, but it had also been Tilly’s experience that when he was relaxed and not looking, he usually got his butt kicked. Tilly was creeping along again when he decided to light a cigar and fiddle with the radio at the same time.

Tilly did not notice the blond kid in uniform and no gun, suddenly halting the procession as, of all things, a Fourth of July–looking float appeared on the horizon, running the lead limo off the road. This was amazing. Sweet Jesus, this could not be so. Tilly slammed on brakes at the same moment his assistant’s inability to completely shut the hearse’s tailgate became known. The copper-tinted casket with deep satin lining slammed one way and ricocheted out the other like a lightweight alloy bullet. The casket and its occupant skittered over pavement and kept going, for as luck would have it, the procession was momentarily on a slight hill.

Brazil had not been trained to handle such a situation and was on his radio in a flash as yet a second float glided into view. This was awful. It was his intersection. He would be blamed. His armpits were soaked and his heart was out of control as he tried to contain the disaster of the world. Men in dark suits with lots of rings and gold crowns on their teeth were flying out of stretch limousines and chasing a runaway gaudy electroplated casket down the boulevard. Oh God. No. Brazil blew his whistle and stopped all traffic, including floats. He raced after the casket as it continued its lonely journey. People stared at the cop chasing it. They cheered.

“I’ll get it,” Brazil called out to men in suits, as he sprinted.

The foot pursuit was brief, order restored, and a dapper man who identified himself as Mr. Tilly formally thanked Brazil for all to hear.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” replied Brazil, the community-oriented cop.

“Yeah,” the funeral home director boomed. “Get them mother-fucking floats outa my way.”

Floats were pulled over to make room, and none moved an inch for an hour. Not one spectator went home, and others came as word traveled around. This was the best Freedom Day in the history of Charlotte.

Goode, head of patrol, did not share quite the same enthusiasm, since traffic control was her responsibility and a runaway casket was not something she wanted to hear about on the evening news. It was a matter she intended to resolve in person, but not until it was dark out. Then she packed up her slim, soft leather satchel and headed to the parking deck, where the city paid nineteen dollars a month for her reserved parking space. She preferred driving her personal car back and forth to work and got inside her black Miata.