The Snow Angel (25 page)

Kane put his finger across his lips. “Keep it quiet.”

Wyatt pondered that. “There was a rumor Billy had a cop in the family.”

“Well, the rumor was true.” Kane covertly flashed his badge. “I'm just pretending to be an alcoholic. I'm here on an investigation.”

Wyatt frowned. “You do know this is a closed meeting.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you have to be an alcoholic to attend.”

Kane pointed across the room at Bell. “My partner over there,
he's
an alcoholic.”

“You're still not even supposed to be in the room unless you're an alcoholic.”

“No, George W, you're wrong.” Kane pointed to a wall poster. “See, it says right there, ‘The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking.' It doesn't say anything about being an alcoholic. And right this minute I have a desire to stop drinking.”

“We should bring it up for a group vote. I mean, you being a cop and all…”

Kane leaned over and whispered in Wyatt's ear. “George, you bring this up for a group vote, if you reveal who I am, I'm going to break you in half. I'll break you like a dry twig. And then I'll arrest you for interfering with a police officer. Let's see how well you do in solitary.”

George frowned. “Well, I guess it's okay.”

“I knew God would help you see it that way.”

At that point, a buffed-out skinhead banged a gavel on the podium. “Welcome to the Freedom Group of Alcoholics Anonymous,” he announced. “Please take your seats.”

Bell returned and sat down next to Kane, who looked at him bitterly.
You win, you self-righteous prick. Here we are, one big happy family.

E
asterly sat it in her office, trying to concentrate on the information in about Blackstone and Whitman. But her mind
kept returning to the latest ominous in-house development: Jablonski reported that Mosely was furious because no one had notified him about the break in the case. In the rush of events, both Easterly and Slaughter had assumed the other had done so.

It was an understandable oversight, in light of the investigation's urgency. But, considering the chief's sensibilities, this could be a very bad blunder indeed. And, since Slaughter was retiring, it all would come down on her. She had promised the chief he would be the first to know about any major developments.

To hell with it, she finally told herself. The investigation took precedence over Mosely's ego. She would try to mend fences later. For now, she needed to put her total attention on the capture of two child killers.

Faye Yang was with Lin Loh again, now interpreting a photo show-up. Easterly had little hope the frightened immigrant would provide a positive ID. This case would have to be proven without her help.

Spread out on Easterly's desk were rap sheets, parole reports, and the investigative files on various past felonies attributed to the two men. Mostly it was just garden-variety stuff—several burglaries by the twenty-four year-old Whitman, low-level drug dealing by the twenty-six year-old Blackstone.

Both men had been transferred to Bryson for disciplinary problems in other institutions. Probably, Easterly speculated, Whitman's bisexuality also had been a factor.

Both men also had southern accents; Whitman was from Alabama, Blackstone from Texas. If they were apprehended, the FBI voiceprint should reveal which one had made the ransom call—unless, of course, some third party had placed it.

She also noted that neither man had ever been charged with a violent crime. Was it possible that these dirtbags were not right for this one?

Easterly had long ago learned to play devil's advocate with herself. The worst sin of an investigator—other than prejudice or laziness—was sticking with a hypothesis so stubbornly as to rule out other possibilities.

She had seen that happen more than once, where a detective was so convinced of his theory of a case that he blinded himself to all other scenarios. That's the way innocent people sometimes get convicted—or, far more often, a guilty one simply gets away with his crime. And, since violent criminals are almost always repeat offenders, a botched
investigation inevitably puts more innocent people at risk.

So Easterly had a gospel she preached to her troops. Of course you construct a theory of a case. But then you remain open, willing to abandon that hypothesis if you discover contradictions in the facts. And then you follow that new trail, wherever it leads.

So now Easterly began inspecting her own reasoning. Was there anything here that ruled out White Man and Blackie as suspects? No, she finally decided, these two still looked good for the crime. Certainly no other leads had appeared.

She just sat there for a couple of minutes, holding the mug shots. She tried an emotional exercise she frequently employed while working Homicide. She tried to put herself inside the mind and heart of a murderer. What kind of a person is capable of shooting a helpless child through the head? What does it feel like to be such a man?

But today the old exercise just gave Easterly the creeps. She went back to reading the files.

Whitman's mother, Felicia Harris Whitman, lived two miles from the Childress house. Criminal Conspiracy's best stakeout team already was planted on her place. This was not an open surveillance, like the one on the White Brotherhood. The CCB people were professional trackers, and they were good. They could follow the pope and not get noticed.

The Whitman place was ramshackle, sticking out in a neighborhood of old but well kept properties. The surveillance officers reported back that the house was quiet. The snow was piled up in drifts, shades were drawn on all sides, and two newspapers were on the porch. Either no one was home or no one was going out.

As Easterly pondered these facts, Jablonski walked in without knocking, carrying a stack of investigative files. “Bingo,” he said. “These all belong to mama. She's a righteous crook herself.”

Easterly examined the file jackets. “Welfare fraud, welfare fraud, larceny from a store, extortion.”

“Family values,” said Jablonski.

“Any current warrants?”

“Not under that name. She has a string of aliases, so R. and I. is still checking.”

“Tell them to look hard. If her Freddie doesn't fall into our arms by tomorrow morning, a warrant for her will give us an excuse to search that house.”

“We'll need a search warrant, not just an arrest warrant.”

”Old Judge Delancey still owes us a favor. I don't think he'll split too many hairs in a case like this.”

“Boss, I like the way you think.”

Then there was a knock on the door. Jablonski opened it. Angus MacKenzie, the Homicide captain, stood there smiling. “I come bearing good news. The Chinese woman fingered our boys.”

“No
shit!”
Easterly exclaimed.

“She picked them both out,” MacKenzie said. “She says she's sure of it.”

Easterly slapped her desk jubilantly. “Who says there's no God?”

“I thought the lady was seriously scared,” said Jablonski.

MacKenzie nodded. “She is. But she told Faye she's also ‘deeply offended'—that's Faye's translation—by what was done to the lad. And she's feeling very guilty. Now she wants to help in any way she can. Rather heroic, I'd say.”

The three veteran detectives just looked at each other in silence. “This'll be enough for arrest warrants,” Jablonski said quietly. “Since Felicia's house is Freddie's home of record, we shouldn't even need Judge Delancey.”

Easterly shut her eyes in gratitude. “Keep the stakeout going through the night. If we don't score by morning, then we'll raid the place.”

MacKenzie nodded. “This all started with Kane and Bell, from what I understand.”

“Yes,” Easterly said. “Kane and Bell.”

“I thought they hated each other.”

“They do.”

The big Scot just shook his head. “Sometimes amazing things happen in this life.”

B
ell and Kane headed back to the city, with Bell again behind the wheel. The sun was dropping rapidly. Dark clouds again were forming in the north, and a cold wind had come up. For several miles, the two men barely spoke. Finally, Bell broke the silence, his eyes fixed on the road, “So what did you tell that asshole Gardner about your pal
Harold Heath?”

Kane bristled. “Heath's no pal of mine. Is that asshole Calvin Jones a pal of yours?”

“It was just an expression.” He looked over at Kane. “I heard a rumor you cut some kind of deal with Eric Klemmer.”

“I bullshitted Klemmer and Heath for information, nothing more,” Kane said. He rolled the window halfway down for some air. “It worked.”

“So what
did
you tell the prison? You really gonna intercede with the warden on behalf of this genocide freak?”

“Fuck no! I told Gardner that as far I'm concerned Harold Heath can spend the rest of his sorry-assed life in solitary. Or maybe put him in a pen with the BLF, sell tickets. You think I'm going to honor any promise I make to psychos like these?”

“You don't need to get so defensive.”

“Listen, just because my brother was tight with those scrotes doesn't mean I am. I may be a jerk about a lot of things, Brother Bell, but I'm no white supremacist!”

After another half mile, Bell softened his tone: “I never knew you had a brother in prison.”

“It's not the kind of thing a cop brags about. Internal Affairs knows. That's why they're always looking to nail me. Guilt by association.” He rolled the window back up. “Lotta that going around these days.”

Bell did not respond. Kane brooded as he looked out the window. “You know,” he finally said, “I didn't have a choice about it.”

“About what?”

“That thing in the alley. With the Caldwell kid. I didn't have a choice.”

“Bullshit.”

“Goddamn it, Bell, what was I supposed to do, snitch off my partner? You think I wanted to die in some alley?”

Bell looked over at him. “That sure makes it sound like Frank Lucas
was
a murderer.”

“Haven't
you
ever done anything you were ashamed of? Any dirty little secrets? Something you covered up, maybe?”

Surprised by these questions, Bell clenched the steering wheel tightly. Kane noticed. He leaned toward him. “Oh, yeah, looks like I might be hitting home! Tell the truth, Bell! Did you ever do anything you were
ashamed of?”

Bell grimaced, remembering the execution of the young Viet Cong, and the silence he kept. “Once,” he said.

“In ‘Nam or on the streets?”

“In ‘Nam, goddamn it!”

“What happened?”

“None of your fucking business!”

“Then maybe that's why you still hate
me
so much.”

Bell boiled over, hating both Kane and himself. He steered the Pontiac across three lanes, then screeched to a stop on the shoulder. He activated the emergency flashers. He got out of the car, slammed the door violently, then just leaned his back against it, facing traffic.

Kane sat in the car watching him and craving a drink.
I really nailed the pious asshole with that one.

But, after two full minutes, Kane began to grow concerned. He opened his own door and got out. “You're not going to do something stupid, are you?”

“Like what?”

“Who knows? Like that bottle in the trunk?”

“What the hell do you care?” Bell asked.

“Hey, I was asking, that's all,” Kane said. “Family man like you, it'd be a fucking shame.”

“You think I'd give
you
that kind of satisfaction?” Bell turned slowly and faced Kane, studying the man he had resented all these years. The two old cops stared at each other, both of them wondering what the hell was going on.

“Look, man, I haven't eaten since breakfast,” Kane said at last. “I don't know about you, but I need something to eat.”

Bell pondered that. “Yeah,” he finally muttered. “Me too.”

“Then let's hurry up and get across the state line.”

“Why the state line?”

“In case the restaurant gets held up. That way we can shoot the son of a bitch. Think of the paperwork if we do it in the wrong state.”

Bell just glared at him. “Hey, man, it was a fucking joke, okay?” Kane said.

He got back in the Pontiac and slammed the door, hard.

Easterly was combing through Thomas Blackstone's probation file when the intercom buzzed. It was Mosely's secretary. The chief wanted her immediately.

Christ, here it comes. This guy just can't wait.

Easterly took her time walking down to the third floor. She was accustomed to the egos of ambitious police executives. But Mosely took ego to a whole new level. This asshole was Machiavellian.
People like this make you feel like a criminal.