The Snow Angel (29 page)

Easterly felt like vomiting. But she felt professionally obliged to read through the entire article. An insert alerted readers to an op-ed piece about the Childress case. There Easterly found a
Daily Times
columnist lambasting the television stations for repeatedly playing Darryl's commercial. It was “shamelessly exploitative,” the pundit thundered.

Easterly returned to the front page. She skimmed articles about violence in the Middle East and the midnight Mass in Bethlehem. But then she found a piece about the “anticipated indictment” of Mayor Titus Webster. The story quoted “federal law enforcement sources” predicting criminal charges would be filed by New Year.

There, that's it!
That's
why Demarest is sucking up to Mosey. His agents are the ones investigating the mayor. If there's any racial fallout, Mosely can shield him from it. Assistant FBI Directors can't be perceived as racist.

Now Easterly felt even more depressed.

Then a small piece on page three caught her eye: there had been a continuing, baffling crime drop over the past three days. Felonies were down nearly forty percent compared with the same time last year.

“Police officials”—the smarmy Lt. Dunsmore—still were attributing
the drop to the increased police presence. But that was more self-serving hype by Jefferson Mosely. The extra cops were working the Childress case, not crime interdiction. They were detectives, traveling in civilian clothes and unmarked cars, and thus were barely noticed.

An old-time police reporter would have been all over the chief about such an obvious fiction. But no one in the lazy new-breed “media” had even noticed the fabrication, much less challenged Mosely about it. They all just accepted his word as gospel. That irritated Easterly even more.

Nevertheless, she also found the crime drop puzzling. Yesterday's pleasant weather should have brought an
increase
in certain felonies—purse snatches, street holdups, car clouts, convenience-store stickups, ATM rips. There was no logical reason why crime should be down, especially with so many Christmas shoppers out and about.

Some things are just a mystery, she finally concluded. If she lived to be a thousand she would never completely understand the peculiar species of which she was a member.

I
saiah Bell arrived at the gymnasium half an hour before roll call. The night watch guys were signing out. Only a couple of day watch detectives had arrived ahead of him.

Bell felt rested. He was grateful for that. The tonic effect of lovemaking is amazing. He also felt good about not smoking yesterday, and he resolved to keep it going. He was amazed at the ease with which he had stopped.

Bell tossed his coat across two folding chairs, one for himself and the other for Kane. Then he wandered over to the huge coffee urn and poured a cup. Stan Jablonski was sitting nearby, watching a portable television.

“Don't you ever leave this building?” Bell asked Jablonski.

“There are two of me. I'm identical twins.”

“Good thing you're both bachelors.”

Jablonski gestured at the television. The newscast was wrapping up yet another national story about the Childress case. Bell scowled: “If this was some street kid, how much attention would he get? We really do have
a double standard in this country.”

“You're just noticing?”

“Tell me something,” Bell said. “When you were a kid—in Pittsburgh, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. Pittsburgh.”

“When you were a kid in Pittsburgh, did you ever think this is what the country would turn into? The greed, the stupidity, the lack of respect, making role models out of thugs…?”

“Ike, you're bumming me out.” Jablonski held up a paperback book entitled
You Are What You Think.
“I'm trying to re-program myself. I want to spend my old age as an optimist. I can't indulge that kind of negativity.”

Bell laughed. “I should live so long.”

“Go ahead, scoff,” Jablonski said. “A man
should
aspire to greater things.” He grinned. “While we're on the subject, how's it going with Kane?”

“We're working together, that's all. Thanks to your boss. When this is over, we get a divorce.”

“He's still an asshole, that what you're saying?”

“Don't go putting words in my mouth. And this is not for your gossip network.”

Jablonski pointed toward the door. “Speak of the devil.” Bell turned and spotted Kane. He beckoned him over to join him.

The room was filling with cops. Kane stood there for a moment, then complied. Other officers noticed and exchanged curious glances. Kane, now with several days' beard, could have passed for a derelict. He tossed his own coat over the chair.

Bell looked Kane up and down, then laughed. “You musta done it up good last night,” he said.

“Look,” Kane snapped, “I agreed to go to those stupid meetings with you. I did
not
agree to stop drinking.”

Bell laughed again. “You've got me there, pal.”

“It thrills me that I amuse you,” Kane said.

“The way you feel right now—Jesus, man, I don't ever want to go back there. Ralph, the mere sight of you fills my aging heart with gratitude.”

“Where the fuck do you get off being so self-righteous?”

“You know, I thought about you a lot last night,” Bell said. “I really am going to try to save your sorry ass.”

”Who deputized you to be my guardian angel?”

“Yes, sir,” Bell said. “You're going to be my own special project. I'm going to be all over you like a blanket.”

“You're really enjoying this, aren't you?” His face was flushed, and he looked nauseous. “Let me tell you something,
Isaiah.
Once this case is over, I'm bulletproof. There won't be a goddamned thing anyone can do to me.”

Something in Kane's voice alarmed Bell. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You'll find out soon enough.” Kane got up and crossed to the coffee urn. Bell watched him.

Just then Easterly entered the gym for the roll call briefing. Kane stood at the urn, staring into space. The look on his face gave Bell a chill, the chill of recognition.

E
asterly waited in Mosely's office with Byron Slaughter and Captains MacKenzie and Georgiades. The four had convened to brief Mosely for the press conference.

Mosely was ten minutes late. This was a practice forecast by his former underlings in Dallas. Mosely loved to keep people waiting, then make a grand entrance. To his old staff, it was a symptom of his overweening ego. Men like Mosely want more than mere loyalty and obedience. Like all self-ordained gods, what they crave is adoration. And their drug of choice is
power.

“Where's the FBI guy?” Georgiades asked. “You'd think he'd be here, now that there's something positive to report.”

“He probably can't figure out a way for the Bureau to take credit,” Easterly said. She heard a strange new bitterness in her own voice. She heard David's voice cautioning her:
“Careful, kid, it's not worth hurting yourself.”

She looked over at Slaughter, sitting slump-shouldered. The vitality seemed to have gone out of him. He had aged noticeably, just in the time since Mosely's arrival in town.
Is this what awaits me?

Mosely finally entered, trailed by the sycophantic Lt. Dunsmore.
The four command officers, raised in the military tradition, all reflexively rose to their feet. But everyone was stunned by the chief's dress. He was in full uniform, four stars on the collar. It was the first time anyone had seen him thus attired.

The four exchanged covert but very contemptuous glances. This asshole had never earned the right to wear that proud uniform, much less adorn it with
four fucking stars!
Slaughter's face reddened. For a moment, Easterly was afraid the Chief of Detectives was going to have a heart attack.

The collective reaction was not lost on Mosely. “Take your seats,” he ordered, clearly annoyed.

The four complied. Mosely sat down behind his huge desk, and Dunsmore sat to his right. To avoid the chief's eyes, Easterly fixed her gaze on the young squint. A
Moselyy in the making, Caucasian variety. God spare us.

“All right, gentlemen and lady, what do you have for me?” Mosely asked.

Slaughter itemized developments in chronological order. He spoke in a fast, staccato monotone, fighting his rage. While Dunsmore took notes, Mosely sat listening imperiously, hands behind his head and eyes closed. He gave off the impression of an expert, patiently evaluating the correctness of the actions taken.

Easterly felt warmth on her face and knew it was red. She was, in fact, in a murderous boil. It was all she could do to keep from screaming.
This jerk doesn't know his ass from his elbow, and he's sitting there passing judgment on the actions of first-rate professionals.

“So we now have warrants for these two men, is that correct?” Mosely asked when Slaughter finished.

“Murder warrants,” Slaughter replied. “The DA says the Chinese woman's identification is sufficient.”

“So when are you going to raid the mother's house?”

“As soon as possible,” Slaughter said. “We wanted to brief you first.”

“I think we should invite the TV people to come along,” Mosely said. “In fact, I might even lead the raid.”

Except for Dunsmore, everyone cringed. Mosely looked around. “Did I say something wrong?”

MacKenzie spoke up. “Sir, with all due respect, that house is a possible hideout for the murderers of a child. The element of surprise
is necessary. We doubt if anyone is inside, but if they are they'll certainly notice television crews. That will give them ample time to destroy any physical evidence.”

Mosely knew MacKenzie was right. But he was clearly upset about being called on his stupidity. He was feeling small, and he hated it.

MacKenzie lowered his voice and tried to sound conciliatory. “Chief, once we raid the place, then we can call in the FBI's forensics people to help our lads. They have all the hi-tech gadgets. Maybe they can find something our people can't. That will give Mr. Demarest an opportunity to share credit.”

Mosely took several seconds to respond. “Whatever you say, Captain,” he finally said in a low voice. “You know this city better than I.”

“Then
we can take the media to the scene,” Georgiades offered.
“After
the raid.”

Mosely smiled thinly. “Of course. That's what we'll do.” He looked at his own notes. “Now what about these two detectives who led us to these alleged suspects? Kane and Bell, I believe their names are?”

“What about them?” Easterly asked.

“It would be good if they appeared with me at the press conference, said a few words about how they cracked this case.”

“Again, sir, with all due respect,” Easterly said, “those two officers should be out in the field trying to find the killers. They have unique skills…”

“An hour of their day won't hurt anything,” Mosely said. “It'll be good for morale if I publicly acknowledge their accomplishment.”

Slaughter finally snapped. “What will be good for morale is for us to put these two pricks behind bars. Once that's been accomplished, then you can hold your dog-and-pony show.”

Mosely glared at the Chief of Detectives. But Slaughter no longer cared. “You think I'm being premature,” Mosely said coldly.

“The time for self-congratulations is after the arrests—provided we make a good case!” Slaughter said. “That's what today's press conference should be about, providing the public with information that might help us catch the murderers of a seven-year-old child! It shouldn't be about
entertainment!”

The silence in the room was palpable. Mosely looked around. “How many of you agree with Chief Slaughter?”

One by one, all of their hands went up. Easterly was impressed.
I guess we all hang together.

S
lowly shaking off his hangover, Kane drove out to Vito Vitale's mansion on the North End. The expressway had been plowed and the sun was out again. But the air was still cold.

On the seat next to Kane lay two packages, each containing mug shots of Blackstone and Whitman. But Kane was distracted by other matters:

Moralists; the world was full of them. They seemed to fall into two categories. There were those who seemingly had never yielded to ethical temptations, like that insufferable young lieutentant, Van Horn. And then there were those who had reformed, like Bell. Kane wasn't sure which kind was worse. Both were quick to point fingers at fuck-ups like him. Both were pains in the ass.

He resolved not to drink at all that day, not a drop. He didn't want his post-mortem blood alcohol level to reflect intoxication at the time of his death. He'd be damned if he'd give either Van Horn or Bell the satisfaction.

As he drove, Kane reflected with bitter pleasure on a conversation he'd had with Van Horn half an hour earlier. He'd run into the college boy in the lobby of headquarters, next to the Christmas tree. Van Horn demanded to know what Kane was up to and where he was headed, right now.

“You must be getting reports from the surveillance community,” Kane said. “About my unsavory comrades.”

“Don't get smart with me, Detective. This is not a joking matter. If you're palling around with known criminals.”

You want to know what I'm up to, all you have to do is ask the new Chief of Detectives, you idiot.

Instead, right there in the headquarters lobby, Kane decided to fuck with Van Horn's head. He revealed that he was on his way to seek assistance from his old, dear friend, Vito Vitale. He wanted to see the punk's reaction to that.