The Snow Angel (9 page)

Easterly slumped back on the couch. “Oh, Christ!”

“The boy being a cute TV star and all, I'm sure the Feebees just couldn't turn it down.”

“Jesus!”

“Watch what happens now. We get the kid back safe, they grab the credit. If it goes bad, then it's our fault. The usual FBI trick.”

Easterly shut her eyes, forcing herself to think. “We can't blame the parents. They're desperate.”

“Well, I don't like the feel of it,” Jablonski said. “This could screw up everything.” He shook his head. “It amazes me how civilians buy all that Bureau PR.”

Easterly looked down at her rumpled clothing. “If the Chief calls again, I'm taking a shower.”

Sickened, she got up and headed for the women's locker room.

W
alking in the pre-dawn cold to the neighborhood diner, Kane started to feel better, thanks to the booze and the weed. He passed a line of homeless people shivering outside the Catholic soup kitchen. They were of all races; despair might be the most democratic
force of all. Kane wished the smarmy television market analyst and his downsizing friends could be forced to stand out here in the cold a few mornings.

Then Kane laughed at himself for thinking this way. It was like he was turning into a fucking
liberal,
or something. He had no illusions about these pukes, either. Most of them were there of their own doing, that was his view.

But then he passed an elderly woman, standing by herself, face bruised and eyes blank. Her inner lights were off—a living dead woman.

She bore a strange resemblance to his own mother—or what he imagined Blanche might have looked like had she survived long enough to wind up on the streets. Kane turned his head. He couldn't bear to look any longer.

Then, half a block down, he passed a much younger woman, barely out of her teens. She held the hands of two mixed-race children. The kids looked up at Kane with curious, bewildered eyes. “Excuse me, sir, can you please help us out?” the young mother asked. Feeling guilty about the old lady, Kane pulled a ten from his pocket and handed it to her. “God bless you,” she said.

Then he put a quarter in a
Daily Times
honesty box, reached in and grabbed a paper. He walked into the diner, shaking off the cold. “Adeste Fideles” was playing on the jukebox. Kane paused at the door for a moment, his policeman's eyes scanning the clientele. Only a dozen customers were there, along with a fat waitress and a surly cook.

Six of the customers—construction workers—shared one booth. Three were black, one was Hispanic and two were white. He vaguely recognized one of the blacks from somewhere, probably an old misdemeanor lockup, or maybe a witness to something. If it were something serious and current, he would remember.

Kane made a point of memorizing BOLO mug shots. An aggressive detective had better “be on the lookout,” always. His very survival might depend on it. Out on the street, you might encounter one of those pricks by mere chance, just by being in a felonious neighborhood. A wanted man was dangerous to any policeman.

Kane finally decided that this particular guy had done lightweight time somewhere but was not currently wanted. So he relaxed. He sat down at the counter, ordered coffee and opened the newspaper.

There was nothing about the kidnapping. But the page one lead was
about a federal grand jury investigation into alleged corruption in Mayor Webster's office.
Good. It's about time someone told the truth about this crooked prick.

The great thing about being a black politician was the immunity it gave you. If anyone even questioned your honesty, you could scream racism. The liberal press could be counted on to go along with it. And, by merely reporting it, they gave it the stamp of legitimacy.
What a country!

Kane ordered eggs, bacon and hash browns. He was leveling off from the morning ration of booze. That was a good thing. He needed his wits about him today. He sipped his coffee and focused on Darryl Childress:
Where
are
you?

The jukebox, as if on cue, switched to “The Little Drummer Boy,” the Harry Simeone version.
What the hell gives with that?
Nothing, he finally decided; it's just a popular Christmas song.

The construction workers cracked up at some bawdy joke. Kane was amazed that some men still found things to laugh about.

Outside the window, the old lady who looked like Blanche passed by slowly, pushing a shopping cart. Now, from inside the window, Kane did look at her, noting the details of her facial injuries. She probably couldn't even remember when and where it had happened.

Blanche's face had frequently borne bruises like that. Kane couldn't count the number of beatings she'd suffered at his father's hand. The fucker used to brag about the damage he'd inflicted. “The mark of Kane,” he called it, and then he would laugh drunkenly.

I swear to God, if that asshole were still alive I'd take him out in the woods and shoot him. I wouldn't even
think
about ending my own life until I accomplished that.

His head started to hurt again.

J
efferson Mosely was in his political element. He was doing everything but kissing the ring of the FBI's Special Agent in Charge, a generic bureaucrat named Francis Demarest. Easterly and Byron Slaughter stood by, silently fuming.

Easterly wondered if she looked as haggard as she felt. She vowed
never again to sleep on that couch.

“We certainly welcome the opportunity to work with the Bureau,” Mosely said. “I've always had great admiration for your expertise.”

“I only wish your people had notified us directly,” Demarest scolded. “Why did we have to hear about it from the family?”

Mosely smiled like a whore on a street corner. “I'm trying to get some clarification about that myself.”

“If we'd been told at the outset, we could have gotten our Evidence Response Team to the scene,” Demarest said. “They might have found something your people missed.”

Slaughter finally snapped. “You weren't notified because this is our case! There
wasn't
any evidence, and we don't need federal help!”

Good, Easterly thought, there's a cop in the room. She watched Slaughter and Demarest. For years, there had been a rumor that they hated each other. This exchange confirmed it.

Demarest persisted icily: “Chief Mosely, this is not only within our jurisdictional mandate, we're the ones with the experience and resources. You said so yourself.”

Mosely looked pointedly at Slaughter. “Gentlemen, there's no point in animosity,” he said.

“Yeah, it's a moot point now,” Easterly said wearily. “We're in this together, like it or not.”

“And we're primary,” Demarest said smugly. “We take the lead.”

Now it was Easterly's turn to snap. “That's not what I said! We work together,
as equals!
My Criminal Conspiracy people have a little expertise of their own.”

Demarest looked over at Mosely, who again smiled. He turned to his two executives. “The FBI is primary,” he said. “In cases of joint jurisdiction, federal supercedes local.”

Slaughter flushed. “Where'd you find that in the law books?”

Mosely's smile vanished. “Chief Slaughter, do I need to remind you that I am the Chief of Police? Now you may not like the fact that your superior officer is a black man…”

“This doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with race!” Slaughter exploded. “Why would you make a comment like that, right out of left field?”

Mosely glared at him, then he checked his watch in a show of nonchalance. “We'll deal with this later,” he said calmly. “In one hour,
we're going into that gymnasium for the briefing. We're going to present a united front for the troops for the sake of that missing boy! Now check with your key personnel and find out what it is we have to tell them.”

Easterly looked down at her shoes, fighting her own rage.
Of all the lousy times for male egos.

Then she remembered that Jefferson Mosely had a five-year contract.
God help this city.

O
nce again the gymnasium was filling with detectives and plainclothes officers. The cops milled around discussing the case as they waited for the brass to arrive. Without exception, their faces were drawn. Darryl Childress had troubled each of them all night.

Rumors were circulating. Already the cops had heard about the FBI entering the case, and this news did not make them happy.

Furthermore, the assembled officers had learned the news media were now onto the story. They were less upset about that. It was inevitable that word would get out. Too many people had been questioned, and last night Patrol had pulled over numerous cars containing black children.

Bell sipped coffee from a paper cup, listening to a pair of hotheaded young black plainclothesmen bitch about “this latest harassment of innocent black citizens.”

“Bullshit,” Bell finally interjected. “What do you expect the patrol guys to do? Ignore some kid who might be Darryl?”

“They're only pulling over black people,” one hothead said.

“The
victim
is black,” Bell said.

“A light-skinned black,” said the other. “And the suspects are biracial.”

“Like the parents,” the first added contemptuously.

“If the adults they're stopping are mixed-race, I can see it,” insisted the second cop. “But they're pulling over every black family in town— even the ones with dark-skinned kids. And they're using phony excuses, not explaining the real reason.”

“How's a patrol officer supposed to make those distinctions at night?” Bell demanded. “And what's thirty seconds to these people? A
child's life is at stake.”

He shook his head and crossed the room to the huge coffee urn, just to get away from the rhetoric.
What kind of morons is the Academy turning out these days?

Then he spotted Kane across the room, watching him. What was that peckerwood looking at? Bell glared back, filled his cup, walked to a corner and leaned against the wall.

Kane noticed Bell's stare. He hadn't even been thinking about Bell as he stood idly gazing into space, letting the booze wash over him. Out in the parking lot, he had taken a couple more belts from his flask, just to shake off the cold, and to help clear his thoughts. But now Bell was standing there staring hatefully at him, for no reason. Kane popped a breath mint into his mouth

Someone called the room to attention. The cops rose listlessly to their feet as Mosely and the FBI agent appeared, followed by Slaughter and Easterly.

Easterly was trying to conceal her own foul mood. She and Slaughter were now having to take a back seat to Mosely and Demarest. It was, she knew, a dress rehearsal for the press briefings to come.

Mosely made a few perfunctory remarks. Then he introduced Demarest and promised him “the full cooperation of everyone in this room.”

Easterly observed the silent, collective reaction. The old-timers had been through many changes of regime, so they knew how to read the political winds. Now the presence of Demarest confirmed what they'd already been warned about Mosely.

But even though the veterans were disdainful, they were pros, committed to saving the life of Darryl Childress. And in fairness, Easterly reminded herself, the city also was blessed with many dedicated FBI street agents, most of whom privately shared the locals' contempt for Bureau leadership.

Easterly was not concerned about problems at the street level. Instead, she worried that wrangling at the top might somehow get the little boy killed. She prayed she was wrong. Then she started wondering why Mosely was sucking up to the FBI. It had nothing to do with the welfare of the child. Even Mosely had to know the limitations of the feds.

No, she guessed, the new chief was simply covering his ass in
advance. Mosely knew the press would crucify him if things went bad and the FBI leaked a complaint about inadequate local cooperation. With their tabloid mentalities, too many of the reporters covering the city these days were eager to find controversy in anything. Thoroughly dispirited, Easterly turned her attention back to the briefing.

“As you all know by now, there is still no word on the whereabouts or the safety of our victim,” Mosely said. “There's been no ransom demand yet—or any other communication from the suspects. As most of you also know, the press is now aware of the case. But my Public Information Office has contacted all editors and news directors, and we've asked them to keep a lid on it for a few hours.”

“Why?” challenged a cop sitting in the rear.

Mosely gestured for Demarest to answer. “People like these thrive on publicity,” said Demarest. “We don't want to play into their hands.”

“People like who?” demanded another cop.

The FBI man was taken aback by the hostile tone. His reply was defensive: “Like the ones who grabbed the boy.”

“That sounds like you know who they are,” challenged a third detective. “Would you mind
sharing
it with us?”

Demarest flushed with anger. “We don't have any idea who they are. It's just Bureau policy to keep a low profile…”

“If we go public someone might lead us to the kid,” interrupted another detective. “Nothing else is working.”

Yet another detective chimed in sarcastically: “If we go public we'll get a thousand phone calls. That'll require manpower. Maybe the city doesn't want to approve any more overtime.”

Easterly could see the direction this was going. She needed to head it off. She took the microphone from Demarest. “Carl, I agree with the decision, but only for a few more hours.”

That momentarily calmed the troops. Mosely nodded gratefully.
The bastard owes me one,
Easterly thought.
But now I'mplayingpolitics.