The Snow Angel (19 page)

Troubled, Easterly leaned back and took a sip of black coffee. “Bell said he'd be all right. But he didn't sound convincing. Go ahead, talk to Grimes. Then take a surveillance van out to that Pizza King and keep an eye on things.”

Jablonski left. Easterly closed her eyes and hoped she wasn't overreacting.
Please, let's not get any more good people hurt.

She got up and went back downstairs to the command post. She realized that she hadn't seen Ralph Kane all morning. Now she was worried about
him,
too.

A
warm sun was climbing overhead. Some of the dirty snow was actually melting.

Kane pulled into the parking lot of the New Millennium Survival Store. He had arrived in Danville half an hour early, and had spent the last few minutes cruising around the decaying town, inspecting it. In his junior year at Northwestern High School, Kane had played shortstop against Danville High. So he still thought of the place as it had been back then. But a lot had changed since those days.

Danville was a blue-collar suburb northeast of the city, on the river. Once it had been a thriving industrial area. But the Rust Bowl economics of the Eighties had robbed the community of its industrial base. The population of the town was mostly aging and “ethnic”—Polish, Czech, Hungarian. Many were embittered by the economic depression which had befallen them, and by the failure of “the government” to do anything about it. Help would have been forthcoming, most believed, had they only been “minorities.”

Consequently, several of the townsmen had formed a militia group. Anti-Terrorism had recently published a classified in-house intel brief which identified the New Millennium as headquarters for these angry men.

Kane parked the Pontiac and stood in front of the store, in plain view. The place wasn't yet open for the day. He wondered if the feds were watching. If not, they should have been.

The New Millennium sign was hand-painted. The front of the building, formerly a plate-glass window, was bricked up. Kane cupped his hands and peered through the iron-barred glass door. All he could see was an array of camouflage gear, K-bar and Swiss Army knives, bayonets and survival manuals. He checked his watch and waited.

Klemmer pulled up ten minutes later, driving a Hummer. He motioned for Kane to get in. “Are you alone?” Klemmer asked.

“Of course. Are you?”

“I have people watching from inside the store.”

“I didn't think you hung with these militia fools.”

“Times are changing. We have—how shall I say?—a certain commonality of purpose.” He gestured in his rear-view mirror. “I also have backup down the street.”

“A little paranoid, aren't you? You're the one who called for the meet.”

Klemmer grinned. “So I did.”

Kane examined Klemmer's face and his soulless eyes.
This guy really is psycho.
“Why are we here, Eric?”

“I have a name for you.”

“One of the killers?”

“It's not that simple. My man is a source. If he likes what he hears from you,
he'll
help you out.”

“I'm listening.”

“He's one of our people in Bryson Prison, doing life. He knows a certain black guy and a certain white guy who used to hang together in the joint. They paroled within a month of each other.”

Kane forced himself to appear nonchalant. “Who?”

“My guy wouldn't say. He wants to see you, personally.”

“Bryson's a hundred and twenty miles across the state line.”

“You want these pricks or not?”

“Of course. I just don't want to waste valuable time on a wild goose
chase. Lots of guys get paroled.”

“Well, how about this? My man says the nigger used to see the dead kid on TV—they get our stations over there, you know, on cable. One time he mentioned that his mother lived near the boy. He bragged that she had his home phone number. Out of the clear blue, he bragged about a thing like that. Now does that get your attention?”

Kane sat forcing himself to be calm. “Yes,” he said finally. “That gets my attention.”

“I figured it might.” He handed Kane a slip of paper with a name and prison number on it. “You'll find him in solitary. They're harassing him for his political activities.”

Kane examined the paper. “Harold Heath. What's in it for him?”

“Harold's been spending a lot of time lately in solitary. That's a very cruel institution, Bryson. We'd like you to have a private word with the warden.”

Kane thought about that, then nodded. “That can be arranged.”

Klemmer smiled again. “I told him you were a friendly.” There really was something demonic about his face. “Harold also knew your brother. Can't say they were friends. Harold's not the friendly sort. But there was mutal respect.”

“I'll go see him.”

Klemmer stuck out his hand for Kane to shake. “So now we're officially partners, right?
Now
you'll call me Eric?”

“Sure. Sure thing—Eric.”

Kane opened the door of the Hummer. But Klemmer reached over and touched his arm. “One other thing,
Ralphie.
You ought to do something about your drinking. Yesterday, out at my place? Your breath stank like a distillery.”

E
asterly stood at the podium in the gymnasium, trying to contend with forty angry cops. She knew their anger wasn't directed at her. But neither Mosely nor Demarest had put in an appearance. So now, five minutes into the latest briefing, Easterly was taking the brunt of it.

She decided to let them ventilate. They were pros, and they would
mount a full-on hunt for the killers. But first they needed to blow off steam to someone in command.

“Is it true the coroner made the mother come to the morgue to identify him?” one black detective asked.

“She came down, yes,” Easterly said. “But…”

“Everyone in town knew that face!” the cop interrupted. “Why was that necessary?”

“The mother
asked
to see him,” Easterly replied. “She's having a hard time letting go.”

That calmed the hothead. But then a white cop chimed in: “Who gave that video to the media?”

“I don't know,” Easterly said. “You'll have to ask the Chief.”

“Fucking whore, sucking up to the press,” said a white cop in the back. There was a murmur of agreement.

“And why
did
the family learn about it on TV?” asked a bearded black cop. Easterly recognized him as an undercover narcotics agent, pressed into service for this task force.

“Because the cameras beat most of our own people to the scene,” she said. She held her hands up for calm. “Listen, people, no one in this room is angrier than I am.

“We can sort out all of this later, tell our side of it. Right now our job is to catch the
bastards
who did this to Darryl Childress. Get out there and lean on every snitch you have. Paper this city with the sketches. Meantime we're emailing them to every law enforcement agency in the country.”

Easterly studied the frustrated faces. “We do have one huge thing going for us. For once in this city's sorry history, the whole town is on
our
side. Something, somewhere will break. And then we'll get these savages.

“Now let's hit the streets.”

The officers stood up, grabbed their gear and headed for the doors. Several carried assault rifles or shotguns. They were going hunting.

Bell circled the Pizza King restaurant three times, looking for suspicious men or vehicles. This neighborhood was dominated by the Camptown Crips. So normally there was no shortage of ominous
characters on this turf.

Except at this time of day. Punks like the Camptowns were never awake before noon. So, Bell decided, the four thugs hanging around All State Liquors might be Karanga's BLF pals. On the other hand, the liquor store was at 129th Street, two blocks up Fremont from the Pizza King. And these assholes were a hundred yards from the nearest vehicle. BLF torpedoes would be a lot more mobile.

Screw this paranoid mind-game, Bell finally decided. Karanga was waiting for him. He backed into a spot in the Pizza King lot and parked facing the street. If he had to leave fast, he didn't want to do it backwards. He picked a spot with large vehicles on both sides, in case he needed cover.

Bell removed the Beretta from his shoulder rig and shoved it in his belt, concealing it with his coat. Then he walked inside, avoiding the puddles formed by the melting snow. He stopped and his practiced eyes swept the room.

Karanga sat alone in a rear booth, next to the rest room. There were only four other customers, all of them at the counter eating the breakfast special. Pizza was not a big seller at this time of the morning. Two of the customers, Bell noted, were reading about the murder of Darryl Childress.

Karanga was just sitting there staring at him. Bell motioned him to a booth closer to the front. Then he sat down, facing the door. As he did, he covertly slipped the Beretta from his belt and clutched it in his right hand under the table. He gestured for Karanga to take the seat across from him.

“What's up, Tyrone?” Bell asked.

“Ain't
my
idea, this meeting,” said Karanga.

“Damn!
I was hoping we'd kiss and make up. Whose idea was it?”

“The Family—our chain of command.
They
told me to come see you.”

Good. That means I have this motherfucker by the nuts.
“Glad somebody has some civic pride. Are you strapped?”

“What do you think?”

“I think there's a 9-mm Beretta pointed at your balls right now. If this is a setup, you're going down first.”

Karanga just glared at Bell. Finally he laughed. “You really are an uptight pig. You think I'd kill you in
public?
Would I call you at the police
station and leave my
name?”

“Smarter people than you have done dumber things than that.”

“Listen, my man, I'm a committed revolutionary. But I
ain't
a suicide freak. I know what cops do to cop-killers.” He softened his tone. “Put the iron away, brother. I got something for you. About the little boy.”

Bell re-holstered the Beretta just as the waitress approached from behind. She jumped back when she saw the pistol.

“Sorry,” Bell said. He displayed his badge. “I'm a police officer. I was just showing my partner here my new weapon.” He spoke pointedly to Karanga. “It leaves a large exit wound.”

The girl smiled nervously. “What y'all want?”

“Two coffees,” Bell said. “Police discount.”

When she was gone, Bell leaned forward. “So why the change of heart? Why does the BLF want to help us all of a sudden?”

“We're all ex-cons. You know what convicts think of people who fuck with kids.”

Bullshit. By helping us catch the killers, you figure you can legitimize the BLF to the world. Plus they're worried about heat as a result of your stunt yesterday. They hauled your ass in and had an in-house court-martial; this meeting is part of a disciplinary action.

All of that flashed through Bell's head in a burst. But his face revealed none of it. “So what do you have for me, Tyrone?”

Karanga looked around warily, even though there was no one within earshot. “Those drawings in the paper…”

“Yeah?”

“You know Bryson Prison?”

“What about it?”

“Coupla dudes got out recently, a chocolate and a vanilla. They hung out together—probably fucking each other.”

The waitress brought the coffee. They paused until she left. “Go on,” Bell said, hiding his growing excitement.

“The black dude was a mouthy hype with a bad heroin jones. He'd brag to the assholes in the Narcotics Anonymous meeting about his mama knowing that little actor kid.”

“You got names?”

“No. But our man inside will talk to
you.
No other cop, just to you, on my say-so. I told him how you saved my life. You've got to go over there, see him in person.”

”That's good,
Malik.
What does he want in return?”

“He has two kids of his own. I think he wants you to blow the motherfuckers away.” Karanga paused to let that sink in. “His name is Calvin Jones. Calvin's my cousin.”

A
s soon as Jablonski called in to report that Bell was safely out of the Pizza King, Easterly went downstairs to Byron Slaughter's office. The Chief of Detectives had sent for her. As was her custom, she walked in without knocking. She found Slaughter at the window, looking down at the street three floors below. He turned slowly when she came in. His face was haggard.

“What's up, Byron?” Easterly asked.

“I have to say something to the press. You know, about the accusations from the Childress family.”