The Snow Angel (32 page)

In the Pontiac, Kane followed the El tracks out to the West End and arrived at the Outlaws' body shop. As always, summer or winter, the garage doors were shut. Kane doubted if they even could be opened. The only available parking space was next to a hydrant. Kane put the Kojak on the dashboard and got out, not bothering to hide his identity from any curious locals.

Weasel Warren and Mumps Rafferty stood around outside, stoned on weed, basking in the unusual sunshine. They acted nonchalant as the detective approached them. “I see you're working on your tans,” Kane said.

“Keep parking illegally, you're gonna give us a bad name with the neighbors,” said the Weasel.

“Where's Tiny?” Kane asked.

“In the office,” said Rafferty. “I don't think he's expecting you just yet.”

Kane walked inside and negotiated the obstacle course toward Lawless' rear office. Several strands of Christmas lights had been strung around the garage. Marijuana smoke hung in the air. “Hey, Lawless!” Kane called out. “It's the po-lice!”

The huge biker appeared shirtless, rolls of fat hanging over his belt, sporting two fresh tattoos. From force of habit, Kane found himself memorizing them. One was a naked woman, the other said “Semper Fidelis.”

Another fucking phony. The closest this asshole ever got to a Marine was the time I arrested him.

“You're here early,” said Lawless.

”I like to sneak up on people,”

“Well, come on back, meet my new squeeze. Wait'll you see the tits on this one.”

Kane followed the big slob. The walls of his office were decorated with
Penthouse
and
Hustler
girls, spread-legged. Sitting on Lawless' desk was the real thing, a nearly-naked teenaged girl with silicone breasts. Each tit was adorned with a tattoo—the right a butterfly, the left a coiled snake.

“This here is Rachel Fenner,” Lawless said. “We were just doing a little fucking.”

“Good morning,” Kane said. He pulled out his badge. “Miss Fenner, my name is Detective Ralph Kane, assigned to the police department's Organized Crime Intelligence Bureau.”

“Aw, man!” Lawless bleated. “What you doin' that for?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Lawless. I would simply like some assurance that Miss Fenner here—I take it that's spelled F-e-n-n-e-r—is of legal age.”

“I'm twenty,” the girl muttered. “You want to see my ID?”

“He's jerking you off, Raitch,” Lawless said. “He wants you to go somewhere, put on some clothes.”

Pouting, the girl slunk off. “Best pussy I've had in months,” said Lawless when she was gone. “Jewish kid, too, believe it or not. Her old man's a big-shit downtown lawyer.”

“So what does she see in a guy like you?”

“The golden tongue, my man.”

“Plus all the dope you give her.”

“Just weed, Kane, and
you're
in no position to judge that. Man, we don't even do coke or crank around here any more.”

“Why not? You find religion?”

“Man, the stuff that's out there these days, that shit's poison. I lost too many friends already.”

“Sounds like you're getting old, Tiny.”

Lawless laughed. “Your ass, Fosdick. Twenty-year-old Jewish chicks with lawyer fathers still give me head. Just like Clinton. Bet you can't say that.”

“I don't want to say that.” Kane reached under his coat and took out the envelope with the mug shots. “Here are our boys. There's a lot of information in there about them.”

Lawless examined the pictures. “The drawings were close,” he said.
”Cocksuckers better hope us or the Pagans ain't the ones who find them.”

“The black guy's AC-DC, leans mostly to homo,” Kane said. “The white guy hangs around tittie bars.”

“Which ones? There must be a hundred in this city.”

“We don't know. But between you and the Pagans and the Road Killers, you probably have people inside most of them, day or night. That's how I figure it.”

“That's about right.” He put the pictures back in the envelope. “I'll have these all over town by late afternoon.”

“We're obliged.”

Lawless opened a desk drawer and took out a huge joint. “Want a hit?”

Kane shook his head no. “I need a clear head. There's a rumor these guys have a machine gun.”

Lawless fired up the joint, laughing. “I always smoke a joint before I go up against a machine gun.”

“You really are full of shit.”

“Seriously, Kane, I hope you do watch your ass.”

“Why is that, Tiny?”

Feeling the buzz, Lawless studied Kane's face. “Because I'd miss you.”

“Please don't go telling me how much you love me. I've had enough sentimental horseshit already today.”

“Naw, nothing like that. The guy who replaces you could be a real prick.”

Kane gestured at the nudie pictures. “The guy who replaces me will be a
woman.
A
feminist”

“Then I'll have to shoot her,” Lawless said. He held out the joint again, in offering. Again Kane shook his head no.

“How come you're so different?” Lawless asked. “From other cops, I mean?”

“The curse of Kane.”

“Come again?”

“Some other time.”

Kane was getting a contact high from the smoke, which was making him lightheaded, chasing off the last of his hangover. “So you tell me something else, Tiny.”

“If it's serious, you'd better read me my Miranda warning.”

”What kind of a childhood did you have?”

“What mutants spawned a freak like me, that what you're driving at?”

“Just curious.” Kane smiled. “I've been curious for years.”

“Don't you guys keep a file on me?”

“Hate to disappoint you, but bikers don't qualify for that kind of attention.”

“Well, that's fucking discrimination. We're as bad as the fucking Mafia any day.” He giggled, stoned now. “I was born rich, believe it or not. Winnetka, Illinois.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Black sheep of a perfect family. Four kids, private schools, father a millionaire business man.”

“Tiny, are you putting me on?”

“It's all true. But I was fucked up from the gate. I couldn't read worth a shit, and I had a weight problem. So they called me stupid and lazy and ugly, along with a bunch of other loving things.”

Lawless again inhaled deeply on the joint. “They have names for it now,” he said. “‘Dyslexia.' ‘Attention deficit disorder,' shit like that. They didn't have those names then. You were just the school dummy and the neighborhood fat face.”

“That must've been rough,” Kane said. For the first time, he was seeing Leonard Lawless as a child in pain.

“Hey, it's ancient history,” Lawless said. He gestured toward the clubhouse. “At least
these
creeps don't judge me. This is my real family. Other losers.” Lawless picked up the envelope containing the mug shots. “Some day, officer, I'll buy you a beer. I'll tell you my whole shitty story and you'll tell me yours. Meantime, you and I both have things to do.”

“We're obliged,” Kane said. He started to leave.

“Send Rachel back here, will you? We have some unfinished business.”

Kane just shook his head in mock disgust. Lawless grinned. “You know something, Kane? Something I notice about you? You don't laugh very much. Anyone ever tell you that? You really oughta laugh more. Life's just a big fucking joke anyway.”

“I'll take it under advisement.”
Another expert heard from.

Kane walked back into the garage and gestured to Rachel with his thumb. “Casanova's waiting.” He continued walking out to the street.

B
ell drove through the downtown streets on his way back to headquarters. As he passed the Acropolis Lounge, he spotted Kane's Pontiac at a hydrant. He pulled to the curb for a moment. Then he made a U-turn and parked in the red zone. He put his own blue light on the dash and walked through the slush.

Kane sat alone at the bar, eating a hamburger and drinking a coke. Bell sat down next to him. Kane spoke to him in the mirror: “Well, look who's here. The sobriety police.”

“I saw your car,” Bell said. “I came in to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“For ragging on you this morning. I was wrong.”

Kane went back to eating his burger. “Okay, you apologized. You can leave now.”

“Man, can we talk about this shit?”

Kane turned and raised his glass for inspection. “See? Coca Cola. The last I heard, even twelve-steppers approve of that.”

The bartender walked toward Bell, but the big detective waved him off. “Kane,” he said quietly, “I'm worried about you.”

“Worried
about me? Two days ago you hated my guts. Why is everybody so goddamned worried about me all of a sudden?”

“I told you: I've been where you are.”

Kane turned and glared directly at Bell. “What the fuck does that mean? Just where exactly do you think I am?”

“I told you how I almost blew my brains out.”

Kane threw the hamburger down on the plate. “Jesus Christ, is that what you think?”

“I noticed your reaction when I was telling you about it. You've been there, too.” He shut his eyes in pain. “Here's what I didn't tell you: my own father did shoot himself. I loved him, and he killed himself. I never got over it.”

“Well, you don't have to worry about me, goddamn it,” Kane snapped. “I won't give the do-gooders around here the fucking satisfaction.”

Bell nodded. “Okay, I'll leave you alone.” He stood up. “The raid's scheduled for two.”

“Good. Maybe we can have these scrotes in custody in time to
celebrate the alleged virgin birth of your Jesus.”

“I came in here to make peace with you,” Bell said. “Please don't mock my beliefs.” He started for the door.

Kane watched him in the mirror. He swiveled around on his stool. “Hey, Bell,” he called.

Bell stopped. “What?”

Kane just sat there, as if wanting to say something. “Never mind,” he finally said.

Bell walked back to him. “Listen, there's a police AA meeting at seven tonight. It's in a guy's house. You and I should go.”

“What? Run into bigger assholes than the ones in Bryson?”

“It's not like that. They're good guys, most of them. A lot of them got into jams with the department. You oughta hear their stories before you close your mind.”

“This is Christmas Eve,” Kane said. “I've got plans.”

Bell shook his head. “Have it your way. I'm still holding that shit for Internal Affairs. We're going to get seriously into this when Christmas is over.”

Kane raised his glass in a sarcastic toast. “Thanks for sharing.”

Bell walked out of the bar, silently praying for guidance. He found himself simultaneously hating Kane and fearing for him.

A
block from the Whitman house, Easterly and Angus MacKenzie sat in the rear compartment of a surveillance van that had been disguised as a gas company repair truck. Nick Georgiades, dressed as a meter reader, slouched behind the wheel. Easterly and MacKenzie peered out through blackened windows, awaiting the raid.

The van belonged to Georgiades' Criminal Conspiracy Bureau. It was rigged with telephoto and night-vision cameras, sophisticated communications equipment and state-of-the-art body armor. It reminded Easterly of how old-school she was. She was barely able to handle a computer.

Easterly had decided to come along as an observer. She was dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt instead of her business suit. She also wore a bulletproof vest and a raid jacket, but only because MacKenzie had
insisted on it.

MacKenzie, similarly protected, checked his watch. “Five minutes,” he said.

Easterly wiggled around, trying to get comfortable in the warm gear. It had been a long time since she had suited up like this. She was beginning to perspire.

More adrenaline. How many gallons have Ipumped over the years? No wonder older cops have so many heart attacks.

“We should get a flood of tips after the press conference,” MacKenzie said.

“I hope one pans out fast,” Easterly said. “The precincts are squawking about the borrowed manpower.”

“I thought the crime rate was down.”

“What do you make of that, Gus?” Easterly asked. “I mean, for real?”

“Well, if crimes aren't being committed, it means the criminals aren't committing them,” mused the big Scot. “So what have they been doing instead?”

“Collecting Christmas donations,” chimed in Georgiades from the front. “Toys for Tots, Little Sisters of the Poor…”

“You're too cynical,” Easterly said.

“Inspector, it's not
possible
to be too cynical…”

He was interrupted by radio traffic—terse, coded messages from the raiding party. Easterly peered out, watching for the SWAT crew If they were out there, they were invisible. The radio went silent again. The banter in the van stopped.

Easterly found herself drifting over a list of truly great cops she had known over the years—two of whom were sitting with her at that very moment. Certainly police officers were no angels. She had known her share of corrupt and brutal ones. But there was something special about the great ones, the ones with brains, courage and great hearts. It was like a priesthood—a priesthood of the deeply flawed.

Cynicism in law enforcement was inevitable and pervasive. It wasn't so much the perversity of the low-lifes you dealt with. That much you expected; you were trained to deal with it from the first day in the academy.

No, the greater cause of cynicism was the duplicity and venality of the people in power. Easterly had had a partner once, a crusty old detective who insisted that, per capita, there were far more criminals
among the rich than among the poor. Over the years, she had come to believe he was right.