The Snow Angel (23 page)

Jones hesitated. “I've never snitched before—not ever.”

“This ain't s
nitching,
Calvin. Someone killed an innocent little child. They shot him in the head, right through his hand—the hand he was holding up to ward off the bullet.” Bell paused. “Malik tells me you have children.”

“That's why you're sitting here.”

“Then let's not waste any more of my time.”

Jones lit a cigarette and held the burning match for a lingering moment, working for a dramatic effect. Bell waved the smoke away from his own face.
God, don't let this asshole set off the craving.

“There was this punk on my cellblock, name of Frederick Whitman,” Jones said softly. “His color was about the shade of yours, but everyone called him ‘White Man.' He hated that name, but the brothers wouldn't let up on him.

“Everyone laughed at him because he was AC-DC, hit from both sides of the plate, you know what I'm saying? He was a little short guy who did B and E's on the outside, probably for sex thrills.

“The little motherfucker had a boyfriend over in C Block named Thomas Blackstone. Blackstone was a white guy but everyone called him ‘Blackie.' He was in for drug dealing, used to sell crack to kids at the university.

“So Blackie and White Man—we all knew they were punking each other. Everyone thought the names were funny because of the color reversal, you hear what I'm saying?”

“Yeah. I hear what you're saying.”

Jones stood up and started pacing. “I'm listening,” Bell said quietly.

Jones stopped and faced the wall. He took another deep drag on the cigarette. “One time—it was around Easter—there was this Pizza King commercial. That little dead kid, what's his name, Darryl, he was in it—with the Easter Bunny.”

“My kids saw that one,” Bell said. “Cost me twenty bucks for pizza that weekend.”

“Yeah. So White Man is on a high that night, drinking or smoking some shit. We're at a recovery meeting, waiting for it to start. He's one of those phony dirtbags goes to meetings to impress the staff, trying for an early parole.

”Anyway, we're watching the tube and there's the kid. White Man starts bragging about how his mama knows the boy's family, has their private phone number, some white dude married to a sister. And then he starts bitching about how much money those people must have, how it ain't fair for a kid like that to get all the breaks, just because he's cute.” Jones took another drag on the cigarette. “White Man resented people who were better looking than he was.”

“And?”

“He said he thought the kid should pay for it. ‘What goes around, comes around,' that's what he said.”

“When did he get paroled?”

“Two weeks ago. His boyfriend got out three months before that.” Jones turned to face Bell. “Man, I knew it was those two motherfuckers the minute I read the paper. We all did.”

Nice of you to tell us, asshole.
Bell hid his reaction: ‘How close are the sketches?”

“Close enough. Get their mug shots, judge for yourself.”

“I intend to.”

“One other thing you need to know. Remember that big shootout in L.A., between the bank robbers and the cops? These two assholes are crazy like that. White Man talked about that shootout all the time. He bragged about the heavy weapons he has, how he'd love to take down some po-lice.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yeah, I believed him. Why else would I tell you?”

“Much obliged.”

“So you probably ought to watch your black ass, you hear what I'm sayin'?”

“Thanks, Calvin.” Bell stood up. “Tell me one other thing: What time is the AA meeting?”

Kane was having yet another hateful reaction, this time to Harold Heath. Heath looked like a grown-up version of a neighborhood bully who had regularly beaten up the ten-year-old Ralph.

Heath towered over Kane, bigger even than Isaiah Bell. He rippled with muscles from years of lifting weights in prison yards. He was covered with amateurish tats; both forearms were adorned with swastikas. “My,
oh, my, Billy Kane's brother,” he drawled. Kane guessed East Texas. “Small fucking world.”

“Small fucking world,” Kane echoed.

“The word's out all over the institution that you're here.”

“Is that so?” Kane was coming down from the dope he had smoked, and his belly ached for a drink.

“Yeah. And every jackoff in here knows I'm the one talking to you.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Heath?”

Heath laughed. “Just the humor of it—whaddya call it?—the irony. This, me talking to you, this makes me a
snitch.
Officer, I'm sure you know there's only two kinds of people these guys hate more than a cop. One's a snitch.”

“And the other is someone who fucks over a kid.”

“Exactly.” Heath smiled, the same demonic smile Kane had seen on the face of Eric Klemmer. “So that's what makes this little visit of ours kind of a historic event. See, in this case, every con in here thinks it's okay that I'm snitching to a cop. Makes me a hero, in fact. As far as anyone can tell, this is the first time this has ever happened in the history of Bryson Prison.”

“We're all mighty obliged,” Kane said sarcastically.

“Yeah, but here's what's
really
ironic: unlike most of the sentimental fools in this place, I personally don't give a flying fuck what those two guys did to some nigger kid. I'm talking to you out of enlightened self-interest, period. Eric says you're a friendly.”

Kane's stomach turned at the word “friendly.” But he had long ago learned to tell an informant what he needed to hear. “Yeah, we have an agreement, old Eric and I.”

“Did he tell you how much you look like your brother?” Heath asked.

“How well did you know Billy?”

“As well as anyone knew Billy. He was a good man, right to the end.”

Right to the end? What does this guy know?

Feigning indifference, Kane checked his watch. “So what do you have for me, Mr. Heath? I have time problems.”

“Ralph, call me Harold.”

“Okay, Harold. What do you have for me?”

”Blackstone. Thomas Blackstone.”

“Come again?”

“The white guy you're looking for. That's his name, Thomas Blackstone. He's a nigger-lover—literally. His fuck buddy is named Frederick Whitman. ‘White Man and Blackie,' that's how they were known in here. The black guy was called ‘White Man,' the white guy was ‘Blackie.' Kinda cute, huh?”

“White Man” and “Blackie.”

“Yeah. Everyone thought it was funny. White Man is bisexual, but Blackie's only a jailhouse fag. Out in the world, he's into pussy, big-time. Spends half his life in tittie bars.”

Heath then repeated comments that Blackstone made about Darryl Childress. “He bragged to the white inmates that he had a friend who knew where the kid lived and that the kid's parents were loaded.”

“That's pretty thin information,” Kane said.

“There's more,” Heath continued. “Blackstone studied history. He admired the Colombian drug cartels—guys like Pablo Escobar, that bunch, talked about them all the time, wanted to be like them.”

“You just lost me.”

“Colombia leads the world in kidnapping. That's how those cartel guys make extra money. Blackie used to talk about how easy it would be to get rich like them, just grab someone who was loaded.” He smiled demonically again. “Ralph, he did everything but
spell out
this caper.”

“Did this Blackstone asshole return to the city when he got out?”

“Check with the parole board,” Heath said. “I do know one thing: he has an arsenal stashed somewhere, maybe even a machine gun. He swore he'd go down in a blaze of glory, like his hero Escobar.”

“So we'd better watch ourselves, is that what you're saying?”

“Both of these creeps are two-time felons. Next time around, they're coming back for life. So if they're cornered, what do they have to lose?”

“Except each other,” Kane said dryly. “That's good information. Thank you.”

“You're going to do something for me, aren't you?”

“I said I would. It may take a few days.” Kane stared at the ceiling for a long moment. “Harold, tell me something else: who killed my brother?”

Heath looked at Kane in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, man, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

”Some detective you are.”

“Until now, I've never given a shit. Now maybe I do.”

“It was a race thing, man. You know how things are in Statesville, even worse than here. A nigger shanked Billy in the shower, some BLF guy.”

Kane felt his stomach churning again. “What happened?” he asked softly.

“Near as we can figure, the coon came up behind him, grabbed him around the neck and slit his throat.”

Kane shut his eyes, picturing his kid brother lying in a prison shower, his blood running down the drain. “How do you know the killer was black?”

“The BLF had a hit on Billy. Everyone knew that.” He shook his head in disgust. “They never shoulda let any of those niggers near us.”

“What did the prison officials do about it?”

“They didn't give a fuck. So we took care of it ourselves.”

“Whaddya mean,
we
took care of it?”

“The Brotherhood.” He smiled. “No one knew which nigger it was, exactly. Coulda been any one of three. So we put down all three of them, just to be sure.”

Kane just stared at the wall, trying to take this in.
‘All three of them, just to be sure.” Jesus, is this the code my brother lived by?

“I figured you knew all of this,” Heath said. “Didn't Eric tell you about it? We settled things for you.”

“For me?”

“For your brother. I can't believe you didn't know.”

Kane's hands suddenly felt clammy. He realized he was sweating. “I always figured he'd get it sometime,” he said. “It was the path he chose.”

“Don't tell me you buy
that
shit. Our paths choose us.” Heath shook his head. “You're a piece of work. If he were my brother…I guess
we
were more kin to him than you were.”

“Yeah, it kind of looks that way.” “So what are you gonna to do for me?” Heath asked. “You gonna talk to the warden? That was your agreement with Eric, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. I'll talk to him.”

“You're sure about that?”

“I said I would, and I will.” Kane stood up. “Thanks for the
information,” he said quietly. He did not extend his hand. Instead, he opened the door and walked out.

“Ralph, don't forget our deal,” Heath called after him. “You owe me a big one.”

Kane didn't answer. Once outside the cell, he stopped walking and leaned against the wall, fighting nausea as the guard watched curiously.

Billy, can you ever forgive me?

B
ell and Kane were together in a prison interview room. Kane stared out a window at convicts in the exercise yard, listening to Bell's end of a phone conversation with Easterly. On the table were prison photos of Frederick Whitman and Thomas Blackstone.

Easterly was excited by the call. “And you both came up with the same names?”

“Yes, ma'm,” Bell said. “So far it's all circumstantial. But they do look good for this. The mug shots aren't far off the sketches. Parole records indicate they were returning to the city.”

“That's wonderful!” Easterly exclaimed. “Fax me everything the prison has. I want pictures, aliases, physical descriptions, last known addresses, relatives, occupational histories, skills, known associates in and out of prison, everything you can get.”

“The deputy warden's putting all that together,” Bell said. “He's a jerk but he's cooperating.”

“Good,” Easterly said. “Bring the original pictures back with you. Meantime, we'll see what R. and I. can dig up. I'll have Jablonski track down the detectives who locked up those guys, talk to the prosecutors who convicted them. We'll start a full-court press to run them down.”

“Warn our people to be careful,” Bell said. “The bad guys are Ramboed-up—seems they were big fans of that Los Angeles bank shootout.”

“What about weapons?”

“There's a rumor about a machine gun. My guess is an assault rifle converted to full automatic. Also, I don't think we oughta door-knock Whitman's mother too soon. We should plant on her place for awhile, at
least ‘til the word's out that we're looking for them.”

“What's your reasoning?”

“Mama may be in on it. They had to keep Darryl somewhere. It could have been her house. They might even be going in and out of the place. If we hit the house when they're gone, we'll just scare them off.”