The Snow Angel (37 page)

Kane thought of his little flock of customers. Absurdly he found himself wondering where Tiny Lawless was tonight.

I'm insane. I've gone absolutely fucking insane.

Kane waited until after midnight, when the worshippers all were safely inside the church. Then he turned on the FM radio and began channel-scanning, looking for “The Little Drummer Boy.” This was Christmas. Sooner or later, on some radio station or other, he would find some rendition of Darryl Childress' favorite Christmas song. For some reason, he wanted to hear it one more time.

And that will be my signal. That's when I'll go join them.

It took only ten minutes to find the song. And suddenly there it was, the original Harry Simeone version, loud and clear on one of the region's main stations.

Kane took another long pull on his booze. He drained the bottle and let it fall to the floor. Then he started singing along with the radio:
“the ox and lamb kept time, pa-rumpa pum pum…”

As he sang, he pulled out his Beretta and snapped off the safety. He thought of Isaiah Bell. The love of family was what had stopped Bell.
But I don't have any family. No one will grieve for me. Thank God.
He sang louder:
“I played my best for Him, pa- rumpa pum pum…”

Kane looked over at the face of the archangel. Okay, pal, take me home. He shut his eyes. He raised the barrel of the Beretta to his mouth, smelling the gun oil…

Then, through the boozy haze in his mind, Kane remembered his plan to radio for assistance, so it would be another cop who found him.
Can't do this to an innocent civilian.
He laid the gun on the passenger seat, turned up the volume on the police radio and fumbled to remove the microphone from its cradle…

And then he passed out cold. He slumped to his right and sprawled across the seat, knocking the gun onto the floor of the Pontiac, where it landed next to the empty bottle.

A
golden sunrise graced the city. Roberta Easterly lay in bed with David, reading the
Daily Times.
The headline trumpeted “CHILD SLAYING SOLVED, POLICE SAY: Suspect Slain in Shootout, Second Arrested.”

Once again, the reporters had minor facts wrong. The article said Whitman and Blackstone were on parole from Statesville, not Bryson, and that they had been arrested by a joint police-FBI task force. The reference to the FBI rankled Easterly, especially in light of her own comments to the television people. “If they don't know something, why can't they just ask?” she groused.

David pointed to the op-ed page. “Here's a sociologist analyzing the crime drop. He's making pronouncements about age, demographics, socio-economic conditions and race relations. A criminology professor at the University of Pennsylvania.” He laughed. “He admits he's never even been here.”

In spite of herself, Easterly laughed, too. “The age of the talking head.”

“Modern life's just a big football game, to be watched and commented about. And everyone's an expert.”

“What do you say we go out again for breakfast?”

“You're on. But first…” He reached under the bed and pulled out a small gift-wrapped box. “Merry Christmas.”

“David, since when are we observing the holidays?”

“It's just a little something I picked up. You don't have to be religious to love your spouse.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, my dear man.” Then she reached under her side of the bed and retrieved a gift-wrapped box of her own. “Turnabout is fair play. Here's a little something I picked up. Happy Hanukkah.”

David smiled. “Thank you, my dear lady.”

Together they peeled off the wrapping. Each box contained a gold watch. “Same gift,” David joked. “My, aren't we the cute little All-American couple?”

“Sickening, just sickening.”

“Big-time lawyer and the Chief of Detectives. Good thing nobody
can see what cornballs we are underneath it all.”

“I love it,” she said, laughing. “And I love you.” She stroked his forehead, then he kissed her. Things grew passionate in no time.

T
he same golden sun shone on the fresh snow outside St. Michael's Church, giving it an orange hue. The morning was still and cold. The only car in the parking lot was Ralph Kane's unmarked Pontiac, sitting next to the statue of St. Michael the Archangel. The new snow was so thick that now the statue was almost unrecognizable.

A radio car on routine patrol, a blue and white Adam unit, cruised slowly into the church lot to check out the Pontiac. Normally a patrol officer wouldn't even notice such a vehicle. But these two bored young bluesuits were in the final hour of morning watch, looking for something to do. Dawn on Christmas Day is not a busy time in the Twelfth Precinct. And the Pontiac did stand out, still sitting there by itself seven hours after midnight Mass. The tracks of the worshippers' cars had been pretty much covered over.

The kid in the recorder's seat got out and made his way over to the Pontiac. He casually brushed away some of the snow covering the passenger's window. He peered inside. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted to his partner. “Come look at
this
shit!”

R
oberta Easterly and her husband were dozing after lovemaking. The phone rang. “Let the machine get it,” David said.

But she had already rolled over and picked it up, switching to a professional voice. “Inspector Easterly,” she said, then listened. “What news?” Then she sat bolt upright.
“What?!”

David, alarmed, also sat up.

“Oh, my God!” Easterly said.

”What is it?” David mouthed silently.

“Just a minute, Nanci,” Easterly said. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Jefferson Mosely was in a traffic accident. He's in critical condition.”

“You're joking!”

She shook her head. “This is Nanci York. He lost control of his car on the ice. He ran into a tree, out on Viaduct Road.”

Easterly listened some more. Then she shook her head. “Oh, God! Thanks, Nanci. Call me later, on my cell phone, after you get more details.”

She hung up and turned to David, still processing this. “It happened about three a.m. He was drunk. There was another woman in the car with him. She was killed.”

“Oh, man! On
Christmas!”

“It's even worse. The dead woman was a policeman's wife.”

David shook his head in disbelief.

“The poor wife,” was all Roberta Easterly could think to say, “the poor wife.” Then she caught herself. “Both of them.”

David took her hand. “Look, this is a terrible thing to say, but it sounds like Mosely's career just ended. You're out from under. He can't screw things up anymore.”

“Oh, David, I can't let myself think like that.”

“And that's one of the reasons I love you so much.” He held her close, stroking her hair. “Bobbie, you're the finest human being I've ever known.”

I
saiah Bell was just leaving for church with Vera and the children. All were dressed in their best clothes. Behind them, the living room was a festive place, with new toys under the tree and Ikey's bicycle propped up in the corner.

The phone rang. Bell thought about letting the answering machine take the call. But he picked it up. “Bell,” he said.

Vera watched her husband. She saw that familiar look on his face. His job was calling again. “Ike, it's
Christmas,”
she pleaded under her
breath.

“He asked for me?” Bell said to the caller. Then he listened. “Okay. I'll be right down.” He hung up.

“What is it now?” Vera asked wearily.

“Ralph Kane's in trouble.”

“Kane? What kind of trouble?”

“Drinking. They've got him locked up over at Number Twelve.” He looked at her with amazement. “He asked for me. He told them I'm his
partner.
Can you believe that?”

Vera thought about that for a moment, then smiled. “When a policeman's partner's in trouble, he'd better go.”

“My mother's plane gets in at two o'clock.”

“The kids and I can find the airport. You just go. Go and do God's work.”

Bell opened the door. Vera touched his arm. “Bring him home for dinner. The kids would like to thank him.”

“You mean that?”

“Of course I mean that.”

Bell kissed her cheek. “You know, you're my kind of woman.” He headed outside to the Ford.

E
asterly sat with Byron Slaughter at a booth in the coffee shop near police headquarters. But for the waitress and the cook, the gaily-decorated diner was empty. On the table sat the folder Slaughter had given her, the one containing the surveillance pictures of Jefferson Mosely and his lovers in Dallas.

“I used that information,” Easterly said. “I didn't want to, but I did. I didn't actually show Mosely the pictures, but I let him know that I knew.” She took a hefty swallow of coffee. “It was the last conversation I had with the bastard.”

“I'm sorry it came to that. I figured you'd need all the ammo you could get.” He smiled sadly. “I just didn't think it would be that soon.”

“You know the worst part? The feeling of power I had over him. It was intoxicating.” She shoved the folder over to Slaughter. “Take them
back, will you, Byron? Burn them or something. It makes me feel sleazy.”

“He's
the one who did this, you know.
He's
the one who'll have to live with it the rest of his life—if he survives.” He smiled sadly. “Those pictures are the
reason
he left Dallas.”

Easterly shook her head in disgust. “So what are you going to tell the press?”

“The truth. What else?”

“You don't have to tell the whole truth.”

“About the cop's wife? That's kind of hard to hide, Bobbie. The woman's dead.”

“I mean all the background stuff.”

“Of course not. We'll stick to the facts of
this
case.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Hell of a time for the other two deputy chiefs to be on vacation.”

“Boss, I hate to sound ghoulish. But the city's going to need a chief of police, and soon. You have another chance here.”

“Didn't you hear what I said to you last night? I'm finished with police work.”

“But you were one of the finalists. The Commission…Byron, this changes everything.”

“I couldn't do justice to the position. The city deserves better.”

“Aren't you selling yourself short? It wasn't that long ago you
wanted
the job.”

“Things have changed. I've already talked to all three Commissioners, within the last hour. They did offer me the job and I turned it down. But I did make an alternative recommendation. It was so brilliant that they approved it on the spot.”

“Yes?”

“You, Roberta.”

“Me?”

“Congratulations,” Slaughter said. “You're not going to be Chief of Detectives after all. As of now you are this city's acting Chief of
Police.”

“My God!”

“And as soon as the City Council officially fires Mosely, you won't be acting anymore.”

Easterly shut her eyes wearily and shook her head, again in disbelief. Then she smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

I
saiah Bell walked through the Twelfth Precinct lockup toward an interview room in the back of the station. His guide was the watch commander, a ruddy-faced lieutenant named O'Hara.

“Damned lucky he didn't freeze to death,” O'Hara said as they walked. “The ignition was on and the gas tank was empty. So we figure he had the heater on much of the night. Fire Rescue took him over to Central Receiving, but the docs said he's okay. You believe in miracles?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Bell.

“Personally, I'd just like to make this go away. I'm supposed to notify the duty officer, he's supposed to notify IA. I say to hell with all that bullshit. The paperwork would take all day. Besides, it's Christmas and the guy didn't hurt anybody.”

“Plus, he's a hero,” said Bell.

“Listen, Detective, let me give you a little word of advice,” the lieutenant said, lowering his voice. “Your partner needs help. I've seen this before. Drink just about wiped out
my
people.”

“I have a slight acquaintance with the problem,” Bell said.

“I don't know
why
his weapon was out of its holster. But I can only guess. Next time this guy tries to cap himself, he just might pull it off.”