The Snow Angel (21 page)

But now there was no siren to drown out the thoughts of the two men. Bell, unable to keep up the pretense of sleep, reached into the back seat for his briefcase and pulled out his notes. Included was a glossy photo of Darryl Childress. He held it in both hands and examined it for the hundredth time.

“Do me a favor,” Kane said. “Put that away.”

Bell looked over at Kane for a long moment. “Sure thing. Whatever you say.” He put the picture back in the briefcase.

“It makes me uncomfortable, “ Kane said.

“Look, I put it away,” Bell said. “I don't need any explanations.” He looked out at the snow-covered farmland. “Not that you ever gave one.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know damned well what it means.”

“Listen,” Kane said, “I don't like being with you any more than you like being with me.”

“Funny how life works, ain't it?”

Kane spotted a rest stop. “I gotta piss,” he said. He pulled off at the exit ramp and parked at the men's room. He left the motor running for heat.

Bell sat and waited. At the curb, directly in front of the car, a newspaper vending box displayed
USA Today.
Darryl's picture was on the front page, along with the artist's sketches of the suspects. Bell leaned back to avoid looking at the paper.

Now it's a national story because he was a celebrity. How much attention would they pay if he were just another black kid killed in a drive-by?

Bell berated himself for his bitterness. Darryl had done nothing to deserve that. Maybe something good would eventually come of this. Maybe Darryl's death would make people care more about innocent black children.

Bell took a legal pad out of his briefcase and began making notes:
”Mother knew family. How well? Mother in on it?”

His pen ran dry. Damn it, he thought, he was going to have to stop and buy a new one. Either that or borrow one from Kane.

Bell contemplated the reputation of Bryson Penitentiary, one of the most brutal and corrupt prisons in the nation, notorious for its racism. A few years ago there was a huge scandal when a newspaper revealed that several guards had been members of the KKK. How much could have changed since then?

Ralph Kane should be right at home there.

Speaking of Kane, what the hell was keeping him? This was turning into a mighty long piss. Maybe there was a pen in the glove box. Bell opened it.

There, in plain view, was a pint of cheap whiskey, three-quarters empty, lying alongside a plastic envelope containing the roaches of two joints.

Bell felt a surge of vengeful excitement.
I've got you, mothefucker.
He gingerly removed the items to avoid smudging any fingerprints, and dropped the bottle and the envelope into his briefcase.

As Bell turned to put the briefcase back on the rear seat, he looked up to see Kane staring at him through the driver's window. Kane yanked the door open, enraged. “What were you doing in my glove box?”

“It's not
your
glove box,” Bell snapped. “This is a police car. I'm a police officer.”

“What're you gonna do with that?”

“I don't know.”

“Give it back,” Kane demanded. Reflexively he put his hand on his shoulder holster.

Bell smiled sardonically. “What are you going to do, Kane, shoot me? That'll make a hell of a headline.”

“You fucking prick. You're going to burn me, aren't you? How many years have you been wanting a piece of me?”

“A lot. A lot of years.”

Kane slammed the door shut. He turned around and leaned with his back against the car, staring at the snow-covered hills. He regretted smoking that dope in the men's room. It didn't make him feel high, only angrier.

Bell got out of the car. He, too, slammed his door. “You gonna stand here all day? We have work to do.”

“Will I still have a job when we're finished?” Kane asked bitterly.
Then:
what difference does it make? I'm not going to be
alive
after we're finished.

Bell leaned his elbows on the car roof and regarded Kane coldly. “Let me ask you something, Kane,” he said finally.

“You gonna advise me of my rights? Because if you're going to arrest me, you'd better give me my rights.”

“Like you and your partner gave James Caldwell his rights? That night in the alley?”

Kane just stood there for a long moment, knowing where this was going. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Can you think of a better time?”

“What do you want, Bell? You already have me by the balls.”

“I just need to know, that's all. I been needing to know for damn near a quarter of a century. Why did it happen? Why did you let it go down that way?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know damned well what I'm talking about. Why did you cover up for Frank Lucas?”

“A fourteen-year-old with a .38 can kill you just as dead as an adult.”

“That gun was a throw-down and you know it! Everyone on the street—everyone on the job—knew Lucas kept a throw-down in the radio car. Everyone knew he was just itching to kill a nigger. He used to brag about it!”

Kane spun around, years of guilt and rage welling up in his chest. “What the hell was I supposed to do, burn my partner?”

“Your partner committed murder!”

“Bullshit! It was a righteous shooting! The review board said it was justifiable!”

“Because you lied to the review board! For Christ's sake, Kane, the kid was
fourteen years old!”

“That kid…”

“James,” Bell said.
“That kid
had a name! James Caldwell!”

“James Caldwell was a criminal! He was doing a B and E!”

“So a burglar deserves the death penalty? Tell the truth, Kane. Frank Lucas had the gun! And he planted it on James Caldwell, right after he shot him! You know that, I know that, everyone who was around back then knows that!”

Kane's eyes were fixed on the
USA Today
headline. “In Vietnam, you
don't burn your buddies,” he said softly.

“We're not talking about Vietnam! We're talking about an alley in the inner city!”

“What the hell's the difference?” Kane snapped. “Dead is dead. Turn your back on your own people, you can get yourself killed.”

Bell glared at Kane. “You know, you're not the only one who was in Vietnam.”

“I know that, Bell. That's why
you
should understand, for Christ's sake, you more than anybody!”

Kane's soul screamed for a drink. He wished to God Bell hadn't found that bottle. He walked away a few feet, his back to Bell. He stood there with his hands deep in his pockets.
Do it now. Do it right here. Put the Beretta in your mouth and pull the trigger. Make this prick watch.

But the face of Darryl Childress smiled at Kane from the newspaper.
No. You have to see this thing through.
“The Little Drummer Boy',” he muttered.

“What?” Bell asked.

Kane pointed at the newspaper. “‘The Little Drummer Boy.' It was the kid's favorite song.”

“What the hell are you talking about? By now the whole world knows that.”

“I keep hearing that song, everywhere I go. It won't go away. It's like that fucking song is following me or something.”

Bell pondered that in silence. All he could hear was the passing traffic. He reflected on his own hatred. Here, with Kane, the cumulative rage of all these years weighed him down like a rock.

But then he surprised himself.
What's the memory of James Caldwell doing to Kane? He seems tortured by it.
He was astonished by his own thinking. His wife's voice echoed in his head:
‘Why don't you try loving him?”

Kane broke the silence. “Bell, can we deal with this old shit later? It's been twenty-three years. It'll keep a few more days. We've got child killers to catch.”

Still Bell said nothing. “For Christ's sake!” Kane pleaded. “This kid needs us! He needs both of us!”

“Okay,” Bell said at last. “But I'm driving. Just in case you smoked some of that dope during your ten-minute piss.”

Resigned, Kane nodded and tossed the keys to Bell, and the two detectives climbed back in the Pontiac.

Easterly sat in Jefferson Mosely's briefing room, listening to the horrifying report being delivered by Captain Angus MacKenzie. She was one of ten senior command officers present. MacKenzie, a ruddy-faced native of Scotland, was her Homicide C.O. He had come to America with his parents at the age of twelve but had never lost his Highland accent.

“There were a number of bruise marks on the body, consistent with the hands of one and possibly two adults,” MacKenzie said. “It's our assessment that the lad was killed after putting up a terrific struggle with his captors. We believe they were holding him down when they shot him. The weapon—we're now convinced it was a .22—was fired at very close range.”

Dead silence descended upon the room. MacKenzie looked around at the nine people listening. Only Mosely seemed aloof.

“We think the child must have fought very hard for one so young,” MacKenzie added softly.

“Which means he was terrified,” said Byron Slaughter. “That's why he tried to cover his face.”

“Yes, sir, that's what we think it means,” said MacKenzie. “His wrist was badly bruised. He must have pulled his hand loose from their grasp in the split second before he was shot.”

“Bastards!” muttered Nick Georgiades.
“Fucking cowardy bastards!”

Easterly glanced at Mosely. The son of a bitch was trimming his nails! She felt her face flush in pure, unalloyed hatred.

She recalled her phone conversation with David, an hour ago, just after her talk with Slaughter. David had congratulated her, but quickly added, “You don't have to take the job.” He knew her feelings about answering directly to someone like Mosely. On the other hand, someone needed to keep this whore honest. Barring death or indictment, he would be here for a long time.

“Any chance of DNA samples left on the corpse—blood, skin or hair from the suspects?” Slaughter asked. “If the boy put up that much of a struggle…”

“The lab is working on it, sir,” Gus MacKenzie said. “I'm afraid that's all we have so far.”

Mosely turned to Easterly. “Inspector Easterly, I understand your intelligence officers have a promising lead. Anything we can tell the
press?”

“It involves confidential informants,” she said.

“Is the information credible? The public is hungry for us to solve this.”

“Sir, at this point it's just rumor,” Easterly said. “If anything does pan out, you'll be the first to know”

Mosely stared at her as if appraising a specimen. He finally nodded, not wanting to alienate the others.

“All right,” Mosely said. “Chief Slaughter, I trust you've delivered the department's apologies to the Childress family.”

“They're too distraught,” Slaughter replied. “As you no doubt can imagine.” He barely hid his contempt.

“That's not what I asked you.”

“Chief, when the time is appropriate, I'll speak to them personally.”

“The sooner the better,” Mosely said. “I'm just hoping they don't sue us. This lawyer Bartholomew has an impressive reputation. A publicized lawsuit won't be a good way for me to start my tenure here. See if you can head it off.”

The command cops exchanged hateful glances. This asshole was thinking only of
himself!

Mosely dismissed the group. Easterly started to leave with the others, but the chief beckoned her back into the room. “Close the door,” he ordered.

Puzzled, she complied. Mosely smiled patronizingly. “The Chief of Detectives informed me that he's decided to retire.”

“Sir?”

“You are his logical successor. Don't tell me he hasn't spoken to you about that.”

“Yes, sir, he mentioned it.”
Where is he going with this?

“Well, as a woman, I think you'd make a sound political choice,” Mosely said. “But there's a certain attitude on your part.”

Easterly felt her face flush again. “Attitude? What do you mean?”

“You were quite belligerent yesterday, with Agent Demarest. I will endorse your promotion, but I expect you to be a team player.”

“I've been a team player throughout my career.”

Mosely just studied her, as if trying to make up his mind. To him, it was all a show, reaffirming the pecking order. “Good then,” he finally said, extending his hand. “Congratulations—Chief.”

Easterly paused before shaking it. The hesitation was not lost on
Mosely. “I have to get back to work,” she said. She saluted loosely and walked out into the hall. She took a deep breath, then headed for her office.

‘Sound political choice'! What a prick! How about a damned competent cop?