“Right.”
“This adds a little more sophistication to things, partner,” Frankie observed as Hal left the office. Outside a line of yellow tape and two sheriffs’ black-and-whites kept the lookie-loos at bay.
Art looked at the barren desktop, tapping it with a stiff finger. “Allen couldn’t have thought this up. Kostin either. And Royce?” His head shook.
“Barrish,” Frankie said.
“There is a link,” Art insisted. “There has to be. Something we can use to get around the constitutional booby traps.”
“Give Hal and Omar a while to piece this place into things,” Frankie suggested.
“A day here and a day there, partner. Time’s our enemy.”
It was a true analysis, Frankie knew, one that bothered her the entire drive back over the mountains into the City of Angels.
“That was the best meal I have had in years!” Art said, leaning back in his chair. The eyes of Felicia Griggs said “thank you,” while those of his significant other expressed a quite different sentiment. “The best healthy meal, hon. I mean…”
“Stop before that hole gets any deeper,” Anne suggested with a stern, motherly look. She turned to Felicia. “I’m from the meat and potatoes school of cooking. You know. Fat and cholesterol.”
Felicia laughed softly as she removed the plates from the dining room table. “Well, Darren said you had mentioned that Art was partial to…this kind of food. I have to admit I’m a pot roast chef at heart, but I figured I could come up with something fairly healthy.”
“Why do I feel like an alien?” Art asked, laughing fully after a second. “It’s not like I eat dirt.”
“Close enough,” Anne responded. “But this was delicious, Felicia. The snow peas were wonderful. How do you get them crisp without burning them?”
“A secret from a Chinese restaurant we…that we’ve gone to.” She picked up a few more dishes. “Come on in the kitchen and I’ll share the secret.”
Anne gathered the remaining plates and followed Felicia through a set of swinging saloon doors, leaving the menfolk at the table.
“I could eat like that every night,” Art commented.
“Yeah,” Darren agreed softly. He was feeling emotion. Not overpowering, just enough to remind him how wonderful normal really was. “Trust me, though, you can put on the weight real easy with her regular meals. Me, I could weigh twice as much if I let myself. Sometimes I slap a burger on the grill just to eat light.”
Art chuckled. “Twice a year I get my treats. A bacon chili cheese dog from—”
“Pinks.”
Art beamed. “A kindred spirit.”
“Have you ever had that thing they wrap up in two big tortillas? Two hot dogs, I think, and chili.”
“And everything else. Yeah.” Art glanced toward the kitchen and lowered his voice. “Treat time is coming up in a few weeks. I’ve got my partner hooked on the cuisine now. You’re welcome to join us.”
“You’re on,” Darren said with his own mischievous look toward the kitchen. A sound from the front room, though, drew his attention away.
Moises Griggs stopped a few feet inside the house, his eyes going left toward the dining room. Who the hell are you?
“Moises,” Darren said, loud enough that Felicia was passing him in a split second.
“Moises!” Felicia stopped a foot from her son and reached gingerly for him, laying a hand on his dirty jacket.
Darren swallowed hard, wanting to both cry and scream. But he could do neither. There was only one thing he could do. “It’s good to have you home, son.”
Moises looked away from his father, and avoided his mother’s stare altogether. He did, however, give the two strangers in the dining room a curious look. But there was no time for introductions, and no need for them. “I’m not staying long. I just came to get some clothes.”
“No!” Felicia shrieked. “Moises!” Her hands grabbed at the soiled collar of his jacket. “You can’t!”
Anne pressed past the two men and came up on Felicia easily from behind, easing two hands on her shoulders. The stare of the young man fell on her as he peeled his mother’s hands from his clothing.
Darren glared at his son. You little bastard. If I…
“Felicia, come on,” Anne said as the woman’s head dropped, tears already dropping to the floor.
Darren started to step forward, but a hand pressed firmly on his chest. He looked left into the eyes of Art Jefferson. They were pained. Filled with a sort of rage, even, but in control. Control. That was what was needed now.
Moises left the front room and headed for his bedroom down the hall. Art was a few steps behind.
“Are you an actor?”
Moises jerked his head back from where he knelt next to his dresser. “What?”
“Nice performance out there,” Art commented, stepping into the boy’s room. “It takes a good actor to put on a tough-guy show like that. Especially for your mother.”
Moises looked away and stuffed assorted pieces of clothing into a large gym bag.
“Are you a tough guy?”
“Fuck yourself.”
Anatomically impossible, Art thought, and so common as an insult that it no longer held even the slightest sting. “Tough guys are an interesting bunch, you know? They can talk up anything. Make themselves sound tougher than stone. But that’s all words, son.”
“Excuse me?” Moises said caustically. “Were you talking?” And I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son.
Art reached under his jacket and unclipped his shield from his belt, tossing it on the bed close at the boy’s side. “I know tough.”
Moises paused and looked at the badge, shifting only his eyes to do so. FBI?
“You wanna know tough? I can tell you tough.” Art walked forward and picked up his shield.
“Look, I’m getting outta here. Okay? I just gotta go.” Moises continued his packing. “I just gotta…”
“Those people out there care about you, and I barely know them. I can see it.”
They’re weak.
“They’ve been through a lot.”
Tanya went through more.
“They just want to help.”
They just want to forget. I can’t. Moises took a little cash that he had stashed in a drawer and shoved it in his pocket before zipping up the gym bag. He stood and turned to leave, but Art Jefferson was blocking his path. “You can’t make me stay.”
“This isn’t the way, son,” Art said, recognizing the look in the boy’s eyes. He knew what came from that kind of look.
Moises pushed his way past the much taller man and headed back toward the front room, a loud cry from his mother preceding the slamming of the front door by just a second.
“Dammit,” Art said to himself. If there was one thing the world didn’t need it was another black kid gone over the edge to waste his life. But he was witness to just that occurrence. He knew it. And he was powerless to stop it. “Goddammit.”
ELEVEN
Creatures Not Stirring
Thirty .45-caliber rounds spat from the fat, suppressed barrel of the Ingram M-11 in less than two seconds, chewing up the squat trunk of the felled juniper.
“Whoa,” Moises exclaimed calmly, though clearly enamored of the power projected by the compact submachine gun.
Darian ejected the spent magazine as smoke wafted from the business end of the Ingram and inserted a full one. He held it out to Moises. “Here. Try it.”
Moises took hold of the weapon by its pistol grip, which ran perpendicular to the box-shaped body indicative of the Ingram and that doubled as the magazine housing. His off hand held the cylindrical suppressor, which was covered by a pad intended to dissipate the thermal energy radiated during firing. “I pull this back, right?”