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    Macklin didn't even notice.
    Stocker stepped back among the mourners, sliding past a big bear of a man whose appearance caused a rustle in the press corps huddled a few yards away on the access road.
    Lucas Breen was unmistakable. There wasn't a face anywhere like his.
    His thick, blond eyebrows, sideburns, mustache, and beard were one, nearly hiding his bright, beady eyes and full-lipped mouth. At times, under a certain light, all you could see of his face was this mass of hair with a long, narrow piece of flesh sticking out of the middle. It was no wonder every reporter and underpaid city worker in town called him Prickface.
    Breen had stepped out of his lair to pay his respects to a slain officer of the law. It was an expression of his deepest feelings, feelings he shared with his gubernatorial campaign manager, who figured a graveside appearance and some sympathetic words to the barbecued cop's family were good for a few headlines in the Los Angeles Times . If Breen brought along his starlet squeeze, the one whose acting abilities rested in her 38D cups, maybe a second or two on Entertainment Tonight .
    California's regional golden bear flashed his famous smile, though a bit restrained under the circumstances, to the mourners and the Nikons. "The cruelty of the human soul knows no bounds." Breen's voice had a natural echo, rising deep out of a neck seemingly carved out of granite. "Sometimes it makes one wonder whether there is any goodness left . . ."
    Macklin tightened up, unknowingly squeezing his daughter's shoulder until her aggravated squirming snapped him out of it.
    ". . . JD Macklin was a good man, an honest man, a man devoted to the happiness and well-being of his fellow man. JD Macklin made you believe in the power of goodwill and neighborly respect. The insidious disease which claimed his life . . ."
    Insidious disease? Shaw groaned. He stole a glance at Macklin, the pilot's face an expressionless mask to everyone but the black detective, who knew Macklin well enough to see the anger struggling to break free.
    Shaw wouldn't have been surprised if a hairline crack split the side of Macklin's head and a fanged, bloody dragon clawed its way out.
    ". . . can still be beaten. We need more men like JD, men with foresight and courage, men with a heart and vision. We need them on the streets and in the highest positions in the land. It's a battle JD Macklin fought every day, a battle that he dedicated his life to. If JD Macklin's death is to mean anything, we must carry on. We must win! "
    Breen stared at the flag-draped coffin and then cast his face to the sky. "JD, we'll fight. And like you, we'll fight with everything we've got." Macklin saw tears stream down many of the faces he didn't recognize. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was vomit. Breen ambled aside for the reverend, who said a few words while two officers folded up the flag into a neat triangle and handed it to Corinne, who took the flag uncertainly, as if it held her grandfather's spirit.
    Brooke stroked Corinne's hair and glanced at Macklin. He smiled reassuringly as the gunshot salute rang out behind them. The coffin slowly descended into the ground.
    The mourners stood awkwardly around the grave, the echoes from the gunshots slowly fading. Then, in groups of two and three, the mourners began to dribble away towards the access road, where the press waited, hungry for quotes.
    Stocker approached Macklin, reaching for his hand, "Your father was a damn good officer, Brett. We're going to feel the loss."
    Macklin wanted to wrap his hands around Stocker's neck and squeeze it until the chief's eyes popped out. The funeral was a show and Macklin was being forced to play along, an unwilling actor in a mediocre melodrama staged to boost Stocker's image and Breen's gubernatorial chances. Stocker missed Brett's father like he missed contracting AIDS.
    "Thanks," Macklin said, shaking Stocker's hand. Their eyes met, just long enough to establish contact and short