“The pressure is appreciated,” the president said half-jokingly.
Casey saw no humor in the plan. “Mr. President, with all due respect, this plan may be the only way to get you reelected. You are in office at a very anxious time in our nation’s history. When people are anxious they get nervous about the future, and when they are nervous they start to consider change a very attractive alternative to an unknown path they are already on. And, believe it or not, the easiest change to make is in the man at the top. NFL coaches get fired all the time because the players aren’t performing. That can happen to you, too.”
“I get your point,” the president said, pausing for a moment and looking to Bud. “But I will not portray myself as a god of domestic policy at the expense of other important matters.” The president saw his NSA smile slightly, then turned back to Casey. “I will do what is needed to get reelected, Earl, as long as it is also right. And right is not convincing the American people that, for the purpose of one day in November, we are an island. I want you to broaden your plans for this campaign. This is not a one-issue world, and I am not a one-issue president.”
Let’s just hope you’re not a one-term president, Casey thought, drawing a long breath in. “Okay. I’ll work on it. But the speech remains as the starting point. Say what you want in it, but make it good. Make it the best one you’ve ever given.”
“Or it may be my last?” the president asked as an addition to the statement.
Casey didn’t answer the president directly. “Just make it good.”
There would be no body to bury, just an empty plot of earth next to his mother and a drab marker bearing the name of Luis Hidalgo, Jr. That hollow ceremony would be played out come Monday, privately, for the family of the dead firefighter. This day, first of two usually reserved for rest, was for the extended families of Hidalgo and his fallen comrades.
“And I thought cops did it up nice,” Art commented as he exited St. John’s Catholic Church and saw the endless line of fire engines jamming the street in the foothills above Pasadena. Red, yellow, white, green…all colors of rigs had come from across three states to honor the memories of their brethren killed at 1212 Riverside.
“They will,” Frankie said. That memorial service, in remembrance of the sheriffs deputies killed, would be on Monday, about the same time Luis Hidalgo, Jr., would be laid to rest…at least in spirit. “I can’t imagine having a funeral with nothing to put in the ground.”
Art pressed his way through the side of the moving crowd and stopped on the church’s front lawn. “I know that’s bothering Lou. It can’t be helped, though.”
“I know.” Frankie and her partner waited as the stream of firefighters filed past. At the end of the procession exiting St. John’s were the families of the men, being led out by the priest who had officiated at the service. “There’s Lou.”
Art watched as Hidalgo thanked the pastor and moved down the walkway with his children toward a waiting car. The A-SAC ushered his children into the vehicle with one of their aunts, then came over to speak with his agents.
“How are you, Lou?” Art asked, no verbal answer needed. The dark glasses and the puffy cheeks said all that was required.
Hidalgo nodded a bit. “Hanging in there.”
“Is there anything you need?” Frankie offered.
I need you to find the bastards that made this happen. “Thanks, no. How is it coming along?”
“Slow,” Art answered honestly.
“Royce?”
“Pretty much a wash on the surface,” Frankie said.
“We’ve got three teams working him and his company exclusively,” Art informed his grieving friend. “Looking for any link other than the job. Anything that smells bad.”
Again Hidalgo nodded. “What’s on the schedule for today?”
“Everything,” Art answered. “Everybody is in. Frankie and I are going back straight from here.”
“Good. You call me if you get anything,” Hidalgo directed. “Anything. All right?”
“We will, Lou,” Art promised. “Go home now.”
The A-SAC went to the waiting car and climbed in. It pulled away behind an escort of fire department battalion chiefs.
“What are we going to do, Art?” Frankie wondered. “Three days and this thing is going nowhere. No one knows Allen, or where he’s been, or who he’s been with, or anything. King is Kostin. Royce hasn’t done anything other than ‘try to help the country.’ We’re at a wall, partner.”
“You want to go around, over, or through?” Art asked, lightening the moment as much as possible. “ ‘Cause we’re getting to the other side one way or another.”
Art was a bull, Frankie knew. Through the wall it would be. “Back to work, partner?”
“That’s the only way.”
“I’m not doing it, Dad,” Moises Griggs yelled defiantly, wisely standing across the living room from his father. “I’m not going to some shrink just to make you feel better.”
“Lower your voice,” Darren insisted, looking toward the closed bedroom door. “Your mother is asleep.”
“She’s always asleep, Dad. Don’t you see that? There’s nothing left of her.”
“Shut up,” Darren said, his eyes going as wide as his son had ever seen them.
“She never comes out of that room, and you just tiptoe around her like she’s dead. You know why? Because she is. And so are you.”
“I said shut up!”
“You both are dead because some damn crackers killed Tanya,” Moises yelled, his face contorted as he challenged his father, the man he had once revered but now felt only contempt for. “And you’re afraid to do anything about it.”
Darren advanced toward Moises, backing him up. “You shut that foolish mouth before I—”
The right hook took Darren completely by surprise, knocking him back and sending him tumbling against the couch and end table, knocking a ceramic lamp to the floor in pieces.
“You sorry little fuck!”
“Come on, Dad,” Moises said, motioning like a bully for his father to rise up again. “I’m not afraid to fight. Not afraid of no one!”
Darren eased himself to a crouch, testing his jaw with one hand as the other struck like a coiled snake at his son’s midsection.
“Oooh!” Moises doubled over and gasped for air. His father had hit him!
Darren followed his strike with an open-hand slap across the face that spun Moises into the buffet. Pictures and the other family treasures cascaded off the heavy wood object.
“Mother fuck—”
This time the fist was closed, catching Moises from above and slightly behind. It hit him on the cheek like a sledge and drove him to the floor.
“You never talk like that in this house,” Darren screamed, his fist coming back again. “Do you hear—”
“STOP IT!”
Darren’s head swung left, toward the scream, his son’s coming up from a cower.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” Felicia Griggs stood in the opening to the hallway, a worn nightgown hanging from her wasting form like a burial shroud.