Free Hornet's Nest by Patricia Cornwell

problems here. She had never really contemplated the possibility of what Mildred’s interest might mean about West, or West’s family, or of West’s possibilities in the afterlife. Plus, Mildred grabbed West no differently than a guy would. Mildred didn’t even ask, and this was unfortunate, since West was in camouflage, at least in her mind. West turned into the LEC parking deck for visitors.
    “You can’t do anything with that,” West said to Brazil in an accusing tone.
    “With what?” Brazil asked in a measured voice.
    “You know what . In the first place, you had no business talking to a witness,” West said.
    “That’s what reporters do,” he replied.
    “In the second place, the hourglass is something only the killer knows. Got it? So you don’t put that in the paper. Period.”
    “How can you say for a fact the killer’s the only one who knows about it?” Brazil was about to lose his temper. “How do you know it won’t trigger information from somebody out there?”
    West raised her voice and wished she had never met Andy Brazil. “You do it, and the next homicide in this city’s going to be you.”
    “Yours,” he helped her out.
    “That’s it.” West turned into the police deck. She was not going to have this squirt correct her grammar one more time. “You’re dead.”
    “I believe you just threatened me.” Brazil drew attention to it.
    “Oh no. Not a threat,” West said. “A promise.” She jammed the car into park. “Find someone else to ride with.” She was the maddest she’d ever been. “Where are you parked?”
    Brazil yanked up the door handle in a murderous reply. “Well, guess what?” he said. “Fuck you.”
    He got out and slammed the door. He stalked off into the dark, early morning. He managed to write his stories in time for the city edition, and he pulled off I-77 on his way home and bought two tallboy Miller Lites. He managed to drink both as he drove very fast. Brazil had a frightening habit of pushing his car as far as it would go. Since his speedometer didn’t work, he could only guess how fast he was going by the RPMs. He knew he was flying, going close to a hundred miles an hour, and it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Sometimes he wondered if he were trying to die.
    At home, he checked on his mother. She was unconscious in bed, and snoring with her mouth open. Brazil leaned against the wall in the dark, the night-light a sad dim eye. He was depressed and frustrated. He thought about West and wondered why she was so heartless.
     
    West walked into her own small house and tossed keys on her kitchen counter as Niles, her Abyssinian cat, appeared. Niles was on her heels, much like Brazil had been all day, and West flicked on her sound system and Elton John reminded her of the night. She hit another button, changing to Roy Orbison. She walked into the kitchen, popped open a beer, and felt maudlin and didn’t know why. She went back into the living room and turned on the late-night news. It was all about the killing. She plopped on the couch at the same time Niles decided she should. He loved his owner and waited for his turn as the TV played bad news about a dreadful death in the city.
    “Believed to be another out-of-town businessman simplyin the wrong place at the wrong time,” Webb said into the camera.
    West was restless, worn out, and disgusted, all at the same time. She wasn’t happy with Niles, either. He had climbed up her bookcases while she was out. She could always tell. How hard was it? He leapt up three shelves, just high enough to knock down bookends and a vase. As for the framed picture of West’s father on the farm, well, what did Niles care about that? That cat. West hated him. She hated everyone.
    “Come here, Sweetsy,” she said.
    Niles made his ribs rattle, knowing how much it pleased her. It worked every time. Niles wasn’t stupid. He reached around and licked his hindquarters because he could. When he looked at the lady who