The Snow Angel (17 page)

She smiled at the moon. “You see something that beautiful, you could almost forget all the bad that exists in the world.”

Bell said nothing. Vera put her arm around his massive waist. “Were you thinking about the little boy?” she asked.

“Yes. And about Ralph Kane.”

Vera held him tighter. “You're going to hate what I'm about to say.”

She hesitated. Bell looked down at her. “Well?”

“Why don't you try loving him?”

“Loving
him?”

”Loving him. It's what Christ taught. Love your enemies.” She squeezed him. “Ike, you know that.”

“I also know what the motherfucker did.”

“I know, too. I've heard it a hundred times.” But she knew better than to argue with him. “Have it your way. It's cold out here. I'm going back to bed.”

As she walked back to the house, Bell closed his eyes tight.
“Loving
him,” he echoed bitterly.

But then he turned and followed her inside.

Shitfaced now, stripped to his shorts, Kane rummaged through his chest of drawers. Finally he found the old shoe box he was looking for. He returned to the bed and spilled out the contents. Everything dated to a time when he still felt it was important to save things, a time long since passed.

There were a few pictures from Vietnam, a much-younger Kane with the kids in his first combat platoon. He knew for sure that at least three of them were dead, because he had been with them when they died.

God only knew where the rest of them were now. Unlike most Marines, he had made a point of forgetting his comrades as soon as the war was over. And now he couldn't even remember their names.

He came across a dozen old mug shots of major scumbags he had locked up early in his police career. That was back when he still believed he could make a difference.
How many of these pricks had had fathers like Howard Kane?

Then he found his police academy class picture. All thirty rookies were spit-shined and eager, hat brass polished and Sam Brownes gleaming across their shoulders.
How many of
these
pricks had hadfathers like Howard Kane?

Finally he found what he was looking for. There was his Silver Star, and his police Medal of Valor.

He held the tarnished medals loosely in his hand. It had been years since he had even looked at them. The actions in which he had earned them were only vague, receding memories now.

Kane unfolded the crinkled citations and scanned them: “…rescued
two fellow Marines, wounded and pinned down by enemy fire…,” “… disregarding his personal safety, he shielded an injured citizen while exchanging gunfire with the bandits…”

Kane laughed aloud. Earning these medals had been the greatest con job of all.

He picked up the Beretta and examined it again. Then he put it back down.

No. Not tonight, not yet. You have one last job to do.

T
he clock radio on Roberta Easterly's side of the bed came to life with an insufferably cheerful announcer babbling about the weather: “Old Mother Nature continues her crazy ways. It'll be bright, sunny and warmer today. But another bitter cold spell, a real ‘Arctic Express,' is scheduled to arrive by the day after tomorrow—which, as we all know, is Christmas.”

“Scheduled”? Where do they find these morons?
Easterly reached over and silenced the fool, annoyed that these were her first thoughts of the day. She realized she was drenched with perspiration, and wondered if it was early menopause. No, she finally concluded, her genetic coding was kinder than that. Her mother hadn't reached the change until fifty. Maybe she was getting the flu.

She looked over at David, who was snoring. He wasn't due in his office until 9:00, and it was only a mile away. So he always got an extra hour of sleep, which normally Easterly did not mind. But this morning she resented it.

She reset the alarm for 7:00, the time
he
had to get up. Then, just as the digital clock hit 6:02, she remembered Darryl Childress. She was stunned to realize that for two full minutes she had blocked the murder from her consciousness. Just about the most hideous thing she had seen in a lifetime of hideous things, and for a few moments she had forgotten about it!

It must be some kind of defense mechanism, she finally told herself.
What an amazing thing the human mind is, no matter how rational and analytical. Even mine.

She shuddered at the memory of Darryl's corpse behind that dumpster, thrown away like an old rag. No wonder she'd been sweating. How often in a lifetime does a human being encounter something that evil? Even a veteran cop in a violent city?

Easterly went in the bathroom to towel herself off. She put on her robe and went downstairs. She turned on the coffee and went outside for the newspaper, and was greeted with the caress of warmer air. Stars were shining. The dawn would bring some sunshine.

She lingered outside for a moment, studying the placid suburban street. The huge moon was down low, nearing the horizon, barely visible
between the barren trees. At this hour, in a place like this, such horror seemed incomprehensible.

But, back in the kitchen, there it was. The Daily Times headline screamed at her: “CHILD ACTOR FOUND SLAIN; Kidnapped Boy Shot, Dumped in Alley.” An accompanying photograph showed evidence technicians at work, crouched down on their haunches next to the dumpster. Easterly herself appeared in the photo, watching in the background, with her hands deep in her overcoat pockets. The cutline called her “an unidentified police detective.”

Alongside the photo were the sketches of the two suspects. Easterly again examined them, feeling her stomach churning.

Then she turned away from the artist-rendered features, bland and ordinary though they were. She did not want her own mind locked into a specific picture of the killers. She knew the recollection of an eyewitness could be totally inaccurate—especially a witness as frightened as Mrs. Loh.

She poured her coffee and glanced through the story and three sidebars. She cringed when she read an exclusive interview with Darryl's grieving parents, blaming “the police” for screwing up the ransom drop.

Stephen and Louise Childress also criticized “the police” for failing to inform them sooner of their son's murder; they had to learn of it from the TV news. They had retained a lawyer, Edward Bartholomew, a racially-motivated, militant African American who made a handsome living suing law enforcement agencies.

“Why did it take an hour for the department to notify my clients that the body was that of their son?” Bartholomew was quoted as asking. “Couldn't someone have called them as soon as they knew it was Darryl?”

Easterly felt sickened by that accusation.
Why didn't these pricks write a story about their TV cousins swooping down on the scene before the police? And why didn't they at least contact us for our side of the story? That's what an old-time reporter would have done.

Now she was really angry. She remembered that not a single FBI agent had shown up at the murder scene. Demarest and his people had conveniently dropped “their” case as soon as it had gone bad.
Old Stan Jablonski sure called that one right.

She checked the byline and vowed that she would have a private talk with the reporter, tell him whose fuck-up this thing really was. Then
she caught herself:
No. Talk to David first. David has a good head about these things.

Her annoyance with the sleeping David disappeared, and gave way to a renewed gratitude that he was in her life.
This is such a lonely worldfor so many people.

As if prompted by this thought, Ralph Kane came to her mind. She was still puzzled by his behavior yesterday. When this thing was over, she'd have to figure out what to do about him.

But that was for later. Her thoughts returned to the murder. She said a bitter little prayer, to no God in particular:
Please help us catch these shits. Catch them or kill them.

I
saiah Bell sat alone in the den, dark but for the glow of the television. The volume was down low, in order not to disturb his sleeping family.

Bell sipped coffee as he channel-surfed, seeking news of the murder. He found “Morning in the City,” a news/talk show on Channel 3. Chief Mosely and Mayor Webster sat together, expressing the collective horror and outrage of the community.

The “community.” Whatever the hell that is.

Bell had long since given up the notion that there was anything cohesive holding this city together, or that there could be. The metropolis was a collection of political and ethnic enclaves that included differing and viciously competitive African American interests. The only thing they had in common was a fierce devotion to self-interest.

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be, everyone out for himself. Maybe that's the natural order of things.

Bell did not like to think that way. He wanted to believe in the goodness of man, wanted to believe the Sunday preachers. But he had been a warrior for too long.

His minded drifted back over his various wars. There was his childhood, of course, where just having black skin was dangerous. Then the Special Forces. Then the police department, always in dangerous
inner-city assignments. And then the battle with his own demons.
That one continues every damned day.

Bell turned his attention back to the television screen: Mayor Titus Webster was promising that “no stone would be left unturned” in the search for the killers. He would personally see to it, he pledged.

Bell watched the screen closely. The vacant expression on Webster's face troubled him. And the concern in his voice sounded rehearsed.
What has happened to this man?

Webster had been the first non-white to break the old Irish and German stranglehold on city government. Prior to entering politics, he had enjoyed a great track record as a union organizer and civil rights advocate.

In his campaign, Webster had vowed to pressure Washington for the economic development of impoverished minority neighborhoods. Bell had been so convinced Webster would make good on his pledge that he had volunteered for his election campaign.

Then, two years into Webster's administration, rumors had begun to circulate within the police department about the mayor's use of cocaine. No investigation was ever launched, however, because no police administrator could afford to be wrong. That would have been political suicide. So the issue just died.

At first, Bell had ignored the rumors. Many of the old-line police brass were, in fact, rednecked bigots. He wouldn't put it past such people to destroy an ambitious black man by innuendo.

But Bell had been troubled by Webster's inept leadership, and by his lukewarm efforts with Washington. The inner city only decayed further. Webster seemed to have lost interest. His stock response to criticism was to blame “years of neglect under white administrations.” However, he failed to mention his own neglect.

All of this, Bell realized, was consistent with the pattern of a cokehead. But it wasn't proof. And he still wanted Webster to succeed, if only to show that a black man could do it here, which historically had been one of the most racist cities in America.

Then, several weeks ago, an ambitious new U.S. Attorney had launched a corruption probe. The investigation was quickly leaked to the Daily Times and had been trumpeted in the media ever since.

The alleged scheme was a complicated one involving mayoral appointees—of both races—and kickbacks from municipal contractors.
Bell's friends over in the Federal Building insisted that every word of it was true. But still, Bell didn't want to believe it.

Now, watching Webster on television, he began to suspect that he was looking at a once-decent man who had lost his soul. And narcotics were probably the reason.