The Snow Angel (13 page)

Ralph and Billy had attended St. Mike's for a couple of years, between two of their many moves around the city. He remembered a kindly nun who once asked him about the bruises. Kane hadn't thought of that nun in years, and he could not recall her name. He wondered what had become of her, and of St. Michael's itself. The church was old and rundown even then.

Kane pulled into the church parking lot. He put the blue Kojak light on the dashboard, even though he was legally parked and didn't need it. He scanned the parking lot and his eyes stopped at the life-sized statue of St. Michael the Archangel.

Funny, he'd forgotten that stupid statue. All these years later, the celestial warrior was still standing atop his pedestal, keeping watch over the church, the picture of military bearing—ramrod straight, wings spread, right hand clutching his sword, sheathed in the cross-draw position. Michael, the first policeman—the patron saint of policemen. Kane remembered a priest once describing Michael as “God's personal guardian angel.”

Or some bullshit like that.
That's what those old Irish priests used to say. Half of them had fathers, brothers or uncles who were cops. Cops and priests, that's what Irish homes used to turn out.
So they made up this crap about what a holy and noble profession it was. All based on bullshit. Why would
God
need a guardian angel?
Kane laughed at the absurdity of it all. He stepped out of the car onto the ice, tested his footing, and walked into St. Michael's Church.

B
ell drove through the ghetto, peering through the windshield wipers, silently cursing the weather. Clusters of poor people huddled in storefronts, waiting for buses. He thought about the whites in his new neighborhood. They all had fancy cars and never had to suffer like this.

Bell passed the family's old house of worship, The First Church of God's Messenger, and felt his anger rise again. He thought of his children. Vera's sister had agreed to watch the kids during the daytime for the rest of the week, thank God. Bell hoped all this time in day care wouldn't damage them. During his career, he had seen hundreds of kids damaged by the lack of loving supervision.

For the fourth time, the citywide frequency cut in with an urgent request for a specific Central Holdup unit. Bell surmised that a stickup somewhere must have resulted in a shooting.
That'll sure mess up someone's Christmas.

Once again, reflecting on the confrontation with Malik Karanga, Bell turned his anger on himself. A suspension was the last thing he needed, money as tight as it was. He prayed the federal agents would be stand-up if Internal Affairs got involved. But that one fed sounded as if he could be a prick.

On the other hand, no one in law enforcement was in love with the BLF, that was for sure. And the Malik Karangas of this world don't go complaining to the NAACP or the ACLU, much less the white media.

So, if the feds did ignore the incident, the only people Bell needed to worry about were those civilian onlookers. They certainly would have no problem identifying him.

Worry about it later. That's all you can do.

Bell realized he had a far bigger problem. Anger was consuming him. He felt himself in spiritual danger. He also felt an urge for a drink. He needed to do something about that.

He found a coffee shop, parked the Ford and went inside, bringing along his briefcase. He stomped the snow off his boots, sat down in a booth and ordered coffee.

When the waitress was gone, Bell opened the briefcase and took out a leather-bound Bible. He lay it on the seat next to him, so no one could
see what he was doing. He put on his reading glasses and scanned the book of his namesake, Isaiah. His eyes stopped at the passage he was seeking:

“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them…”

Suddenly, Bell felt his eyes fill with tears. He could not even see the text. The big policeman removed his glasses and closed the book, hoping no one could see him. He brushed away the tears and asked God to remove the hatred from his heart.

Kane sat in the last pew of St. Michael's, trying to will himself sober. The place smelled exactly as he remembered, a musty mix of incense and candles. And, along with the aromas, the old church feelings washed over him, feelings long since forgotten.

Was it here or at St. Mary's where he had been an altar boy? Kane couldn't remember now, the family had moved around so much. And his religious phase hadn't lasted long, that was for sure. His father had ridiculed him for that, too. The only reason the old man sent him and Billy to parochial school was to teach them obedience. That, and their mother's insistence. Blanche didn't ask for very much, but she did get her way on that issue. Catholic schools were required for the salvation of the souls of her two boys.

Now, drunkenly, Kane tried to calculate how long it had been since he had last sat in this building. Thirty-five, forty years? And what was that nun's name? She had hugged him once, told him that whatever was bothering him, the baby Jesus understood. That had embarrassed him, and he'd pulled away from her.
She knew. She knew what I felt. She must have gone through it herself.

Then his mind jumped to that last conversation with Angela, the night they had said goodbye. She said she would pray for him. The comment had filled him with contempt. How could a reasonable adult think like that? But now, suddenly, he longed to see her again.

He got up and began walking slowly around the drafty old church. It wasn't as big as he remembered. There were water stains in the plaster
around the brightly-colored windows. His eyes followed the Stations of the Cross around the walls, depicting the gruesome execution of Christ, graphically portrayed, every step of the way.

What morbid shit. No wonder Catholics are fucked up.

Still, there was something comforting about being here. He remembered coming here as a child, all alone, when the church was empty. He would just sit in the back by himself, right there in the last pew, talking to the baby Jesus, seeking His friendship.

Fat lot of good that did. What a weird-assed kid I was.

But now he found himself kneeling before the altar, gazing up at the cross. “If You exist,” he challenged under his breath, “help us find that little boy.”

This was not what he had come here for. Kane stood up, holding the communion rail for support. As he turned he was startled by an aged priest walking toward him. “May I help you?” the priest asked.

“I'm a policeman,” Kane said.

The priest waited. “Yes?” he finally asked. Kane knew the priest could smell the liquor on his breath.

He reached into his coat and took out a folded picture of Darryl Childress. “This little boy's been kidnapped. We're looking for him. His name is Darryl.”

“How dreadful!” The priest examined the photograph. “I'm afraid I haven't seen him. Why would you think he's around here?”

“No reason,” Kane said. “Just doing everything we can.”

“Of course.” The priest smiled gently. “My brother's a policeman. In Wisconsin. Officer, would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you. I have to get back to work.”

“Well, good luck.”

Kane gave the priest a little salute and walked down the aisle, hoping he wouldn't stagger. Then he stopped and turned around. “Do me a favor, Father.”

“What sort of a favor?”

“Pray for this kid, this Darryl.”

“I had planned to do just that.”

“Good. Pray he doesn't suffer.” Kane turned and walked back out into the snow.

T
he ransom demand finally came just as Easterly was in her office finishing what passed for lunch.

Faye Yang had been located interviewing witnesses to a filling station heist. Now she was down the hall working gently on Mrs. Loh. Easterly decided to leave them alone. The fewer non-Asian faces around the better.

So, while she waited, Easterly had Jablonski bring in a pizza, and they split it. Then she noticed that the lunch was from a Pizza King, little Darryl's television employer, and her stomach suddenly turned sour. She ate one piece, then put her half of the pizza in the little refrigerator.

Despite the investigative saturation, and despite the citywide Patrol alert, nothing had turned up. Ralph Kane had phoned in the results of his meeting with Eric Klemmer. It was hopeful. But she knew better than to expect anything from the White Brotherhood. And Isaiah Bell had informed her that his BLF contact had flatly refused to help.

So Easterly was fighting despair. She also was feeling her age. She reminded herself that the human body can produce only so much adrenaline before it takes a toll. Her body had pumped enough for two lifetimes.

She was just closing the refrigerator when the hotshot line rang. Jablonski grabbed it. He beckoned to Easterly. “Saul Epstein,” he said. She picked up the extension.

Saul Epstein was one of Easterly's CCB investigators; they didn't come any better. He was whispering into his cell phone. “Boss, I'm at the Childress house.”

“Let me have it, Saul.”

“The bad guys called. The kid's alive.”

Easterly closed her eyes. “Thank God!”

“They put the boy on the phone to his mother. The Feebees taped it. They want a hundred thousand bucks. The feds are dummying up a package. The drop's set for fifteen hundred.”

“Where?”

“They won't tell us.”

“What?”

“The feds won't tell us. Operational security, they're calling it.”

”Good God! Let me talk to their ranking agent!”

“Skipper, it won't do any good. Their SAC is here personally. He's been talking to Mosely. Mosely agrees with him. He's turned the entire operation over to the FBI.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” Easterly felt her knees weaken. She sat down. This stupidity was beyond comprehension.

I
ke Bell stopped at the eighth-floor Gang Intelligence Unit to pick up his paycheck. Payday was last Friday, but Bell had been out in the field. An hour ago Vera called his cell phone to remind him that they needed the money in the checking account.

The bullpen was vacant. The GIU lieutenant, Sammy Grimes, was alone in the office, sitting in his glass cubicle that had been decorated with a fake Christmas wreath. Lieutenant Grimes, a wiry African American, seemed like an old man to Bell. Bell was always startled to remember that he actually was older than Grimes. He wondered how he himself appeared to the younger cops, and winced.

Bell thought back to the old days, when he and Sammy were young patrolmen in what was then one of the most racist police departments in the nation. There was nothing good about the good old days, at least for black cops.
What do these kids just coming on the job know about what we went through?

Bell opened the pay envelope and shook his head at the meager net. This was the pay period when union dues and the pension came out.

Grimes spotted him and came out of his cubicle. “You hear the news?” he asked.

“What news?”

“There's been a ransom demand.”

“God!” Bell exclaimed. “The kid?”

“Still alive. Talked to his mama, in fact. You'd better get downstairs.”

Bell shoved the paycheck in his coat and hurried to the elevator. He waited a few seconds, then raced for the stairwell. He ran down two stairs at a time, then hurried into the gym. Several officers were standing
around a coffee urn. “What's going on?” Bell asked.

McEwan from the CCB looked up. “The FBI's setting up a ransom drop. They won't tell us where.”

Bell was stunned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Forrest, McEwan's partner, just shook his head. “They're afraid of us screwing things up. Can you believe that shit?”

Bell stared in horror. “And we're sitting still for that?”

“What choice do we have?” Forrest said.

“Jesus! What else do we know?”

“Nothing,” McEwan said. “The federal radio frequency is encrypted.”

“A Bureau friendly told Saul Epstein the kid was pleading with his mother to help him,” Forrest said. “They haven't hurt him yet. But the poor little bugger is scared shitless.”

Bell shut his eyes tight, not wanting to visualize that, or the anguish of the parents.

“They want a hundred grand,” Forrest continued. “They'll make another call to a specific phone booth with further instructions. The feds are putting together a package. They'll try to grab the fuckers at the drop.”

“But there are two of these guys—at
least!”

McEwan nodded cynically. “The federal geniuses think one will act as a scout while the other makes the pickup.”