The Snow Angel (33 page)

But, on the other side of the coin, Easterly also saw heroism, plenty of it, practically every day. And it wasn't just physical bravery, although she had seen a great deal of that. The true, day-in, day-out heroism of big-city cops lay in their struggle to keep their hearts intact in the face of relentless evil.

Her thoughts turned to Byron Slaughter, and the compromising photographs now locked in her office safe. She realized that Slaughter was right. She ought to hang onto them, for insurance. God only knew what Mosely was capable of.

She wondered what to tell David about the pictures. David fancied himself a realist, but underneath he remained an idealist. She was not sure David would understand why Slaughter had given her those pictures. But she did know what he would say if he knew she had decided to keep them.

So now, for the first time in their marriage, Easterly considered the option of concealing something truly important from her husband. She could tell herself that this was a sensitive operational matter, and thus exempt from their conversations. But that was a cop-out and she knew it.
I don't even have this new job yet, and already it's affecting my integrity and my marriage.

She next thought of Kane and Bell. They certainly had come through. When this was over, she would put both of them up for commendations. But she also would have to separate them again, and return them to their units. That idea bothered her.

More than once in the past couple of days a strange notion had occurred to Easterly. It seemed that some powerful and mysterious force was suddenly at work in the lives of Kane and Bell, something healing, and that she somehow played a part in it. Maybe something good could come out of this horrible case. That by
itself
would be a miracle.

But Easterly had always considered herself an agnostic. This line of thinking was utterly irrational. Regardless, she mused, as Chief of Detectives she could assign Kane and Bell wherever she wanted them. She could even order them to continue working as partners, just to see what might happen.

Then, embarrassed by her own thinking, she forced all such thoughts out of her head.
Who am I to play God?

The hand-held radio at her side crackled. “Cobra leader to all units. Go!”

“Hit it!” exclaimed MacKenzie. Easterly grabbed her field glasses to watch the street. With commando precision, a convoy of unmarked cars screeched up to the Whitman house. They slammed on their brakes and a dozen SWAT cops bailed out.

MacKenzie and Georgiades leaped from the van. MacKenzie carried a shotgun, Georgiades an M-16. They sprinted to join the Crime Suppression officers storming the house. With a single scream of “POLICE!” over a loudhailer, the entry team smashed down the front door.

Simultaneously, other officers crashed through the back and side doors. Easterly noted that two of them were very young women. Still other officers covered the side windows with assault rifles.

Entry took less than twenty seconds. The team leader came up on the Tac channel: “We're in and commencing the search!”

Easterly emerged from the van and stood behind it, watching and listening to the hand radio. She uttered a silent plea that she would not hear gunfire.
I should be in there with them. Why am I standing out here?

Then she answered herself:
Because I am the boss, the general. This is where I am supposed to be. I have been there and done that. I have paid my dues.

Easterly stood there for three anxious minutes, until she heard the welcome words, “All units, code four! Building secure!”

With that, four homicide cars and the lab truck rolled up from a side street. Easterly walked to the house. Some of the raiding officers emerged, holding handkerchiefs over their noses.

“What is it?” Easterly asked Georgiades.

“Corpse in the living room,” he said. “A female.”

Easterly took out a handkerchief and started inside. “You don't need to go in there,” Georgiades said. “It's not pretty.”

“I did work Homicide,” Easterly said. She motioned for the crime-scene investigators to wait outside.

She walked into the house. The first thing she noted was the wilting heat. Someone had left the furnace up full blast.

The body of a middle-aged black woman lay sprawled across the couch. She had already decomposed badly. A small-caliber revolver lay on the floor next to her hand. Also on the floor were a hand-scrawled note, an empty whiskey bottle and an overflowing ash tray.

Easterly felt herself go into the old detached emotional state. Her
brain began automatically cataloging things. In the corner, she noted, was a forlorn Christmas tree, completely dried out. A fire hazard, she noted absurdly. “Open the windows, but be careful about prints,” she ordered. “Don't touch the thermostat until we dust it.”

She walked to the corpse and crouched down to read the note. “MY SON IS THE DEVILL!” was scrawled with a black felt marker, in childish capital letters. “I CANT LIVE WITH WHAT HE DID!”

Easterly went back outside to the waiting Major Crimes detectives. “It's all yours,” she said. “We have either a second homicide or a suicide. Most likely a suicide. Either way, look hard for anything that'll put Darryl here. Remember those fibers from his jacket.”

Then, fighting a wave of nausea, she went for a cell phone to call Byron Slaughter.

O
nce again the task force cops were assembled in the gymnasium, awaiting the brass. This briefing was to plan strategy. Kane stood by himself in the corner of the gym, watching the others, isolated as usual. He watched Bell from across the room, his massive body draped over a folding chair he had turned around backwards. He was staring off into space, as if pondering some deep pain.

Kane found himself having some very strange feelings about his old antagonist. He actually felt something shift, deep inside himself.
What if I had had a father I loved, and then the man killed himself? How would I have turned out?

The idea of having a loving father was almost impossible for him to comprehend. It was like trying to understand life on another planet. But, simply by making the effort, Kane felt a sudden, startling compassion for Bell.

Then that line of thinking mutated into a string of questions:
what's it like to be black?; what's it like to be aware that you're different, every minute you're alive?

Kane, of course, had been an outsider all his life. But at least his difference was not readily visible to the world. To have coal-black skin in the body of a giant was to draw attention everywhere you went.

Kane shivered. He was not accustomed to feeling such empathy.
True enough, his work often required him to go inside other people's minds. But this was the first time he had tried to feel the pain of another man—and a black man, at that.

Where's this coming from? What's happening to me?
Kane made a decision. He walked slowly over to Bell, who did not see him approach. Kane touched him on the shoulder. Startled, Bell spun around.

“What?”

“I'm sorry,” Kane said. “I apologize for mocking your beliefs. That was an asshole thing to do.”

Bell studied Kane, trying to comprehend. Kane looked down at the floor. “I'm also sorry about your father—that thing with the gun,” he said softly. “I respect what you've done with your life.”

There was a long silence as the two men scrutinized each other. “Thank you,” Bell said finally. “I appreciate that.” He gestured at the chair next to him. “Sit down.”

Hesitantly, Kane complied. Then he sat there with his elbows on his knees, looking down at his boots.

Bobbie Easterly, Angus MacKenzie and Nick Georgiades walked into the gymnasium. The task force officers all rose. Easterly was back in her business suit. MacKenzie and Georgiades were clearly exhausted.

Easterly walked to the rostrum. “Take your seats,” she said. She looked around at the assembled cops. She paused, considering her words.

“We've come a long way on this case. Everyone has worked magnificently. The citizens of this community owe you a debt of thanks. Special credit is due to Detectives Bell and Kane, who first got us on the trail of Blackstone and Whitman.”

Every cop in the room looked over at Kane and Bell.

“It appears certain that those two are, in fact, our killers,” Easterly continued. “Whitman's mother shot herself, probably two days ago. We figure it was right around the time our victim was killed. She left a note implicating her son.

“Forensics discovered promising physical evidence in an upstairs bedroom, fibers we believe will match those at the abduction scene. We also found items of a little boy's clothing, which have been taken to the Childress home for identification. That includes what looks to be the other red glove.”

Easterly let the significance of that, and the visual imagery, sink in before continuing. “We're confident the victim was held in that house—
but probably killed elsewhere.”

Easterly lowered her voice. “We're also speculating that Mrs. Whitman was so horrified that she had no choice but to commit suicide.” She looked down at the floor. “She was a criminal herself. But she was also a mother.”

MacKenzie took over. “We're having a press conference in one hour, releasing the names of the suspects. Then we'll rely on the community to help us find these monsters.” The big Scot rubbed his face in a gesture of fatigue. “If we're lucky, we'll be able to disband in time for most of you to have Christmas with your families. Are there any questions?”

“Yeah,” chimed in a detective from Holdup. “Where's Chief Slaughter?”

“He went home early,” Easterly said. “His adjutant said he wasn't feeling well.”

Another detective raised his hand. “How much credit are we going to let Mosely and those federal assholes take?”

Easterly smiled wearily. “That's what I hate about you, Norm, the way you mince words. Why don't you tell us what you really think?”

Then, at that moment, Kane's cell phone rang. He examined the number and turned to Bell. “Vitale,” he said under his breath. He moved away from the group and answered. Bell came over and listened to Kane's side of the conversation. “Blackstone? Yeah, the white guy.” Kane scribbled a note. “The Blind Pig? Thanks, Vito.”

With a sudden surge of adrenaline he signed off and showed Bell the note. “One of Vitale's torpedoes says a guy who looks like Blackie just walked into this joint.”

Then Bell's phone rang. It was Garland McQueen. “This is the Deacon,” Bell answered. He, too, listened. He looked over at Kane and nodded. “The Blind Pig,” he said for Kane's benefit. “Thanks, Queenie.”

Within four minutes, the two detectives had received identical information from Willis Henry and Tiny Lawless. “Thanks, man, we're on our way,” Kane said to Lawless. When Bell hung up from Henry, he turned to Kane. “You know this dive?”

“It's a couple of miles from here,” Kane said, “a low-life tittie bar. Used to be the Diamond Cutter.”

“I remember the place,” Bell said. “A real shithouse.”

“Still is. It's a hangout for ex-cons—black
and
white.”

Bell went for their coats. Kane approached Easterly, discreetly
interrupted the briefing, and handed her the note naming the Blind Pig. “The white scrote is in there right now, watching a skin show,” he said quietly.

“Where's his partner?” Easterly asked.

“I don't know.” He looked at her pleadingly. “Inspector, this one's mine.”

“Not without backup.”

“Look, give Bell and me a ten-minute head start,” Kane said. “This is a biracial joint. We'll slide in as customers and get a fix on the asshole. Maybe we can take him quietly.”

“Okay. But I'm putting people all over the place, in case something goes sideways. Take a hand-held, stay on Tac Four.”

“Thanks, skipper.”

“Try to take him alive. We need to know about his partner.”

“You don't have to tell me that.”

He turned to leave. “Ralph,” Easterly said.

He turned back. “Yes, ma'm?”

“Be careful, okay? You're a valuable man.”

Kane stood there for a moment, trying to absorb the compliment. Then he ran to catch up with Bell.

K
ane and Bell raced to the Blind Pig in the Pontiac. It took less than three minutes, code three. Kane shut down the siren four blocks before they arrived. Bell hid the Kojak on the floor.

Kane backed into a space in the bar's parking lot, near the side door, and secreted a hand-held radio under his coat. He and Bell got out of the Pontiac, stepped around some freezing puddles and walked into the club.

They stopped at the door to let their eyes adjust to the dark. At this hour on Christmas Eve afternoon, the dive was packed with dirtbags of every color. On the stage, a bored biker chick with a dragon tattoo on her pubis was gyrating listlessly.

“So this is where scrotes do Christmas,” Kane muttered. Looking like a derelict, he fit right in.

“Yeah,” Bell said. “But we know at least four of these assholes are
on our side.”

“Yeah, but which ones? How many guns are in here?”

“You want to go back and get a vest?” Bell asked.

“No. I like to live dangerously.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

They sat down at a rear table. A very young waitress sauntered over, wearing only pasties and a G-string. She was a dancer forced to do double duty. Her arms were covered with needle tracks and she chewed gum.

Both detectives ordered cokes. The waitress looked them over suspiciously. “High rollers, you two,” she said.

Kane and Bell exchanged a glance, worried that she would rat them off. “We're in AA,” Kane said. “We just came in to worship you.”