"Of course I will not get up in front of reporters and spread such crap," the chief said.
"I won't."
"Well, it can't hurt to remind the public that we are following leads and are on the case," said the public information officer.
"What leads?" said West, who headed investigations, and should be privy to such things.
"If we get any, we'll follow them," said Hammer.
"That's the point."
"You can't say that, either," worried the PIO.
"We have to leave out the;/ we get any part of…"
Hammer impatiently cut her off.
"Of course, of course. That goes without saying. I didn't mean literally. Enough of this. Let's move on. Here's what we're going to do. A press release." She regarded the PIO over reading glasses.
"I want it on my desk by ten-thirty and out to the press by midafternoon so they can meet their deadlines. And I will see if I can get up with Cahoon, talk him down from this."
This was very much like securing an audience with the Pope. Hammer's secretary and another assistant traded phone calls with Gaboon's people for most of the day. Finally, the meeting was barely arranged for late that afternoon, sometime between four-fifteen and five, depending when a gap appeared in the CEO's impossible schedule. Hammer had no choice but to show up at the early end of this interval and hope for the best.
At four she left her police department and walked through downtown on a lovely afternoon that, before this moment, she had not noticed. She followed Trade to Tryon to the corporate center, with its eternal torch and sculptures. Inside a huge lobby of polished stone, she walked briskly, her heels clicking over marble as she passed rich wood paneling and famous fresco paintings depicting the Shingon philosophy of chaos, creativity, making, and building. She nodded at one of the guards, who nodded back and tipped his cap. He liked that lady chief, and had always thought she walked like she knew how, and she was nice and didn't disrespect anyone, whether they were a real cop or not.
Hammer boarded a crowded elevator and was the last to get off at the top of the crown, which at this dizzying level, really was aluminum pipes. Hammer had visited Cahoon before. Rarely a month went by that he didn't summon her to his suite of mahogany and glass overlooking his city. As was true of Hampton Court Palace, visitors were required to pass through many outer layers and courts to get to the king.
Should a crazed gunman decide to carry out his mission, by the time he reached the throne, many secretaries and assistants might be dead, but Cahoon, quite likely, would not have heard the noise.
Several outer offices later, Hammer entered the-one occupied by the executive secretary, Mrs. MullisMundi, also known as M amp;M by those who did not like her, which was virtually all. She was candy-coated, but with nuts. She would melt in the mouth and break teeth. Hammer, frankly, had no use for this perky young thing who had gotten married and kept her name while appropriating that of her husband, Joe Mundi.
Mrs. Mullis-Mundi was bulimic, and had breast implants and long dyed blond hair. She wore size four Anne Klein. Her cologne was Escada. She worked out daily in Gold's Gym. She did not wear slacks, and was simply biding time before she sued for sexual harassment.
"Judy, great to see you." The executive secretary stood and offered her hand with the same lilting style that Hammer had observed in devout bowlers.
"Let me see how he's doing."
A half hour later. Hammer remained seated on a buttery-soft ivory leather couch. She was reviewing statistics memos, and attending to the armies marching restlessly inside her briefcase. Mrs. Mullis-Mundi never got off the phone or grew tired of it. She took one earring off, then the other, then rotated the phone again to a hand less tired, as if to emphasize the painful demands of her career. Often she looked at her large scratch-proof Rado watch, and sighed, flipping her hair. She was about to die to smoke one of her skinny menthol cigarettes that had flowers around the filter.
Cahoon was able, at last, to fit the chief in at precisely thirteen minutes past the hour. As usual, his day had been long, with far too much in it, and all insisting that they could speak to no one but him.
In truth, he had never been in a hurry to let Hammer into his office, regardless of the minor fact that it was he, versus her, who had demanded a meeting. She was ornery and opinionated, and had treated him like a bad dog the first time they'd met. As a result, he was one without fail and consistently, when dealing with her. One of these days, he would send her down the road and bring in a progressive man, the sort who snapped open a briefcase with the Wall Street Journal and a Browning Hi-Power inside. Now, that was Gaboon's idea of a chief, someone who knew the market, would shoot to kill, and showed a little respect to leaders of the community.
Hammer's first thought whenever she was face to face with the ruler of the city was that he had made his fortune on a chicken farm and had attributed his history to someone else by another name. Frank Purdue, she almost believed, was an alias. Holly Farms was a front. Solomon Cahoon had made his millions off plump breasts and thighs. He had gotten rich off fryers and fat roasters and their little thermometers that popped up at precisely the right time when things were heating up. Clearly, Cahoon had dovetailed these experiences and resources into banking. He had been wise enough to realize that his past might pose a credibility problem for one securing a mortgage through US Bank if this person happened to see the CEO smiling on chicken parts at Harris-Teeter.
Hammer couldn't blame him for coming up with an alias or two, if this was what he had in fact done.
His desk was hurled maple, not old but magnificent, and much more expansive than the ninety-six inches of wood veneer, including a return, that the city furnished her. Cahoon was creaking in an apple green English leather chair with brass studs and the same hurled armrests, talking on the phone, looking out spotless glass, and beyond aluminum pipes. She sat across from him, and was on hold again. It really didn't bother her all that much anymore, for Hammer could transport herself just about anywhere. She could solve problems, make decisions, come up with lists of matters to be investigated, and deliberate what would be good for dinner and who should cook it.
To her, Cahoon always looked naked from the neck up. His hair was a bristly silver fringe he wore like a crown. Cropped short, it stood up straight in different lengths, and was shaped like a crescent moon in back. He was perpetually tan and wrinkled from his passion for sailboats, and he was vital and distinguished in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and Fendi silk tie filled with gold and deep red clocks.
"Sol," she politely greeted him, when he eventually hung up the phone.
"Judy, thanks so much for fitting me in," he said in his soft southern voice.
"So what are we going to do about these gay bashings, these queer kinin's? These fag-fisher-queens trolling in our city? You understand the false impression all of it is giving to other corporations and companies thinking of relocating here? Not to mention what it does to business in town as usual."
"Fag-fisher-queens," Hammer slowly, thoughtfully repeated
"Trolling."
"Yes, ma'am." He nodded.
"You want some Perrier or something?"
She shook her head, and measured her words.
"Gay bashings. Queer killings. This came from where?" She was not on his same planet, and that was her choice.
"Oh come on." He leaned forward, propping elbows on his rich desk.
"We all know what this is about. Men come to our city. They cut loose, give in to their perversion, think no one will be the wiser. Well, the angel of death for these sickos is swooping in." He nodded deeply.
"Truth, justice, and the American way. God putting his foot down."
"Synonymous," she said.