Brazil took two steps at a time and ran inside the Robins Center, dashing into the gym, where Bobby Feeley was working on defense and fouling imaginary Cavaliers.

“Mr. Feeley?” Brazil said from the sidelines.

Feeley dribbled the ball over to him. He started laughing.

“What is this? The inquisition? Or are you just looking for the track, man?”

“I’m with the Richmond Police Department, investigating the vandalism that occurred in Hollywood Cemetery last night,” Brazil explained.

“You always go to work dressed like that?” Feeley tried another jump shot and the ball didn’t even come close.

“I just happened to be out running when I saw Lelia Ehrhart drive off,” Brazil said.

“Now that’s a piece of work.” Feeley retrieved the ball. “How long’s she been on this planet?”

“Look, Mr. Feeley . . .”

“It’s Bobby.”

“Bobby, do you have any idea why someone would paint a statue to look like you?” Brazil said. “Assuming you didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t do it.” Feeley faked passes. “And although it’s very flattering to think there’s a statue of me in a historic white cemetery, I don’t think so.” He missed a layup. “I’m a pretty sorry basketball player and not likely to be anybody’s hero.”

“How’d you get on the team?” Brazil had to ask as he watched Feeley miss another layup.

“I used to be better than this,” Feeley said. “I pretty much ripped up the court in high school, got recruited a million places and decided on Richmond. So I get here and something goes haywire. I’m telling you, man, I started worrying that maybe I had lupus, muscular dystrophy, Parkinson’s.”

Feeley sat on the basketball, resting his chin in his hand, depressed.

“Doesn’t help that I’m wearing Twister Gardener’s jersey,” Feeley said despondently. “I’ve wondered if that’s part of it. Getting psyched out, you know, because everybody looks at my number twelve and remembers him.”

“I’m not from here.” Brazil sat beside him. “More into tennis than basketball.”

“Well, let me tell you,” Feeley said, “Twister was the best player this school’s ever seen. I got no doubt he’d be playing for the Bulls right now if he hadn’t got killed.”

“What happened?” Brazil asked as something started stirring deep in his mind.

“Car wreck. Some fucking drunk driver on the fucking wrong side of the road. Last August, right before his sophomore year.”

The story pained Brazil. It enraged him that an extraordinary talent could be completely annihilated in a second by someone who had decided to throw back a few more beers at the bar.

“I’m just glad I got to see him play. I guess you could say he was my hero.” Feeley got up and stretched his limber seven-foot frame.

“Pretty tough to wear your hero’s jersey,” Brazil commented as he got up, too.

Feeley shrugged. “It’s part of running with the big dogs.”

“Maybe you should get your number changed,” Brazil suggested.

Feeley was startled. His face got hard, eyes flashing.