The Snow Angel (14 page)

“Leaving the kid where?”

“Who knows? Tied up somewhere, that's their guess.”

“How did they come up with that information?”

“From their crystal ball,” said McEwan. “They issue them to all FBI supervisors.”

Bell felt nauseous. “So all we can do is sit here and wait?”

“Wait and pray,” McEwan said.

A mile away, in the disguised storefront where the Organized Crime Intelligence Bureau was housed, a half-sober Kane sat with his feet on his desk, seething about these latest developments. Three other OCI officers were typing reports into their computers and ignoring him.

The college-boy lieutenant, Van Horn, stood next to a Christmas tree across the room, watching him. Kane knew Van Horn would love nothing better than to get him fired. And, at this precise moment, he didn't give a
flying fuck.

Van Horn had volunteered for OCI just to get his career ticket punched; Organized Crime looks good in an ambitious policeman's personnel file. It had nothing to do with the job. It had been the same way with half the officers running the war in Vietnam. Like them, this slick little asshole was beneath contempt.

Now, sure enough, Van Horn beckoned to him.
Here we go, the big reprimand.
He swung his feet off the desk and sauntered over to Van Horn.

“You rang?”

“Your breath stinks,” the kid said. “You'd think someone as close as you are to a pension would be more concerned.”

“Lieutenant, if they shitcanned every detective who drank on the job, they wouldn't have anyone left.” He smiled disdainfully. “Any
real
detectives, that is.”

“Does the captain know you drink on duty?”

“Kid, what the hell do you think an OCI cop does? The people I deal with don't hang out in the Mormon Tabernacle.”

“Don't call me ‘kid'!”

“You are a kid. I was doing this work when you were in elementary school.”

“I want to see your activity log. I'm sure you entered all these, quote, ‘people you deal with.'”

“Go fuck yourself.” Kane realized his voice had carried. The other guys in the unit were looking.

“What did you say, Detective?”

“I'm on detached duty, answering directly to Inspector Roberta Easterly of the Major Crimes Division.”

“I know that.”

“Then you also know I don't need an activity log, and I don't need to account to you.”

He walked back to his desk and grabbed his overcoat. Van Horn stared at him murderously as he headed out of the office. “You've just killed your career!” Van Horn shouted.

Kane laughed out loud as he opened the door. If the little prick only knew what he was planning.

Then another thought hit him:
When I shoot myself, they'll blame it on the boo%e. ‘Just another alcoholic cop,' that's what they'll say. The dumb bastard wasn't in his right mind.'

The idea sickened him.

E
asterly leaned against a wall in Mosely's plush office, clenching her jaw, trying not to explode. Demarest, the FBI chief, was justifying his hijacking of the Childress case: “We've had far more experience in these matters than any local police department. And we operate on a need-to-know basis. The more people involved in an urgent operation the greater the chance of a security breach…”

“Security breach!” shouted Byron Slaughter, his face red. “We're not talking about some goddamned espionage case!”

“That's enough!” snapped Mosely.

Demarest was growing increasingly defensive. “Human life is at stake here!”

“You're telling us something we don't know?” Slaughter countered. “How many kidnappings have you personally worked? I've worked at least a dozen.”

“Then you know that involving too many people increases the chance of something going wrong!”

“Let's hope to God you people don't get that boy killed!” Slaughter shot back, clenching his fist.

“Chief, I said that's enough!” Mosely shouted.

Easterly was proud of Slaughter. She wished she could do something to hurt Demarest, badly, right then. She forced herself to remember that this was not about her, or about this police department, but a terrified little boy, alone and desperate for their help.

Easterly checked her watch and tried to speak calmly. “The drop's in half an hour,” she said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Nothing,” Demarest said. ‘Having all those officers out there can only screw things up. Your Captain Georgiades is over at our shop. We'll keep him briefed. He can report to you as soon as something happens.”

“What do we know about the suspects?” Easterly asked.

“The voice on the phone had a southern accent. There's disagreement among our agents whether it's the white guy or the black guy talking. Our tech people are doing voiceprints.”

“What
difference
does it make which one it is? “ Slaughter persisted. “They're in it together!”

“Just to get everything straight, for when we go to court,” said
Demarest. He sounded downright smug.

“Let's hope we get someone in court,” Easterly said bitterly to Mosely.
“Federal
court. Because that'll mean the kid's been recovered safely.”

Then she turned to Demarest, no longer caring what Mosely thought. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Demarest: If this thing goes bad, I'm taking this entire investigation back. And I won't care a bit if the press finds out how you commandeered it.”

She turned and walked out of the chief's office, leaving the three men standing in silence. She walked back to her own office, fast, fearing that she had just cut her own throat.

For the next hour, police headquarters nearly shut down as every detective in the building awaited the outcome of the ransom drop. The collective frustration was palpable. These people were not accustomed to inaction. But the federal radio encryption prevented them from even monitoring unfolding events.

By agreement with Mosely, the news embargo would end the moment the FBI reported back—whichever way things went. So the media now were assembled in the Public Information Office.

Easterly waited with Jablonski in her office. She called David twice, just needing a measure of comfort. As always, he gave it to her.

Bell waited in the gym with clusters of detectives detailed to the task force. Some of the cops played cards, others read. Most just sat there, talking quietly. A few violated the city-mandated no-smoking rule. Bell soon was among them. He found himself chain-smoking, and cursed himself for doing so.

Kane had nowhere to go. He didn't feel like being with cops. And he didn't feel like driving in the snow any more.

So he went out to the illegally parked Pontiac, furtively fired up another joint and let himself get stoned again. Then he boarded a downtown shuttle bus and rode it to the retail business district, ten blocks away.

Kane got off the shuttle and walked slowly through the snow. The air had grown bitterly cold but he found it sensuous, somehow cleansing. Must be the weed, he figured.

He found himself walking through Silverton's, the huge downtown department store. He felt as if he were in a dream. He stopped before a group of children waiting to talk to Santa Claus and stood there watching them, as if expecting to find Darryl Childress in line with them. A little Asian girl looked over at him, and for a moment she looked exactly like that girl in Saigon.
I'm going mad. I'm going batshit crazy.

Kane walked back out of the store. Out on the sidewalk, he stood in the bracing air, silently commanding himself to get his act together. Then he got back on the shuttle and returned to headquarters. As he walked back into the warm building, he checked his watch. An hour had passed. He needed to relieve himself. He entered the men's room adjacent to the gym.

There at the washbasin stood Isaiah Bell, his face grim. The old enemies caught sight of each other in the mirror. They stood there for a long moment, sizing each other up. Finally Bell spoke: “The FBI screwed up the drop. The bad guys escaped.”

That news slugged Kane in the gut. “No shit!”

“No shit.”

“Then the kid's fucked.”

“Yeah. The kid's fucked.” The huge policeman flung a paper towel into the waste container and walked out. Kane once again felt rage overwhelm him.

M
osely and Demarest held a joint press conference, just in time for the city's six channels to go “live at five.” The assembled news vultures were in a predictable frenzy.

Both men looked appropriately somber. They displayed a blown-up photograph of Darryl Childress and appealed to the public for help.

Easterly stood in the back of the Public Information conference room, arms folded, barely able to watch. Byron Slaughter was nowhere to be seen. Neither of them had been invited to join the two executives at the podium.

Mosely displayed large sketches of both suspects. Faye Yang had come through. Speaking gently in Mrs. Loh's native tongue, Faye had
finally persuaded the frightened housekeeper to cooperate.

But the drawings were nondescript. To Mrs. Loh's recollection, neither man had anything distinctive about him—except the black thug had very dark skin and the white had very light skin. Otherwise, there was nothing you would notice if you passed them on the street. They were what old Stan Jablonski called “generics.”

Mosely, at least, did not identify Mrs. Loh. He alluded instead to a “secret witness.” Easterly prayed the poor woman would not go mad with fear.

Nor did either executive say anything about the ransom drop and subsequent screw-up. Demarest deftly turned away questions about both. A number of things could not be disclosed, he claimed, because to do so “would compromise our investigation and jeopardize the life of little Darryl.”

This dog-and-pony show was more than Easterly could bear. She left the room unnoticed, before any of the press people thought to ask her something.

Out in the hallway, she encountered an agitated Ralph Kane. The detective clearly had been drinking. “Inspector, what the hell happened here?”

“All I know is what Saul Epstein told me,” Easterly said. “And all Saul knows is what the FBI told him.”

“Which is…?”

“The bad guys changed the location three times. The final drop was set for the North End Mall, a trash can near the big Christmas tree. They promised they'd release the kid somewhere safe as soon as they got the money.”

“And?”

“The agents set up surveillance a few yards away. They planned to move in when they saw someone reach into the trash. But the crowd was heavy, this being Christmas. A lone black male blended in, moved up fast and grabbed the entire trash can.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“There was a foot pursuit. The agents had to elbow through a swarm of people. The guy was able to fish out the package and disappear.” She shook her head. “They didn't even get a look at his face.”

“What a clusterfuck!” Kane said.

“We're just lucky he didn't open fire. We could have lost more children.”

Kane shut his eyes, angrily envisioning the incident. “It couldn't be any worse for
this
kid.”

“No, Ralph, as a matter of fact it is worse. The ransom package was fake, just a bunch of newspapers. They didn't use any real cash at all.”

“Not even as a wrap-around?”

“No. Just newspapers.”

“Shit!”

“Precisely,” she said. Easterly stared at the tough detective. She was astonished at the depth of the pain she saw on his face.

Kane turned and walked slowly away. “Thanks,” he said, over his shoulder.

Now Easterly wanted a drink herself.

V
era Bell called Ike's cell phone as soon as the sensational story appeared on the five o'clock news. She watched it on the television monitor in Central Receiving's emergency waiting room. Night had fallen on the city.