The Snow Angel (24 page)

“But if we wait too long, they could destroy any evidence.”

“Yeah, it's all timing and luck, isn't it? The timing's your call, Inspector. That's why they pay you the big bucks.”

“Well, I do have one thing going for me,” Easterly said. “I have some of the best detectives in the country.”

“That's only because we get so much practice.”

“You did good work, Ike.”

“Kane did good work, too,” he said. Kane turned to listen.

“Tell him I said thanks,” Easterly said. “How's it going with you two?”

“Oh, we're getting along just fine,” Bell said, looking over at Kane. “In fact, as soon I get off the phone, Ralph and I are going to his first AA meeting.”

Kane spun around and glared at him in disbelief. Bell smiled sadistically.

“Good,” Easterly said. “Take your time getting back. I've got forty cops to chase down these leads.”

“See you late this afternoon, Inspector.” Bell signed off.

“What the hell is t
his
bullshit?” Kane demanded.

Bell smiled again. “My man, I've been thinking. See, that bottle and that bag of dope, they've got your prints all over them. Internal Affairs would love to have that stuff.”

“What the
fuck
are you driving at?”

“But me, I'd rather mess with your head. You're coming to meetings with me, twice a week for a month. You come along, I toss the shit. You don't, I give it to IA.” Bell laughed. “AA or IA. It's your call.”

“You can't do this!”

“Who you gonna complain to? The ACLU? Chief of Police? Easterly? Man, she's on
my
side.” He laughed again. “Think of me as your probation officer.”

“I can't believe this shit. What's in this for you?”

“Maybe it'll help me stay sober.”

“I heard about you guys,” Kane said bitterly. “Holy-roller do-gooders.”
He sneered. “Where do you plan to find a meeting around here?”

“A hundred feet down the hall. The inmates have one every day at two-thirty.”

“Inmates?!”
Kane pointed at the men in the yard. “For Christ's sake, they're
criminals!”

“So was your brother. And so is a cop who keeps dope in a police car.” He grinned. “Relax, Ralph, you'll be right at home.”

B
ack in the gymnasium, Easterly and Slaughter stood before the re-assembled task force, briefing them on the new developments. The tech people had done a first-rate job enhancing the electronically-transmitted mug shots of White Man and Blackie. Jablonski circulated among the detectives, handing out copies. Now there was excitement in the gym, a sea change in mood.

“First off, Homicide will bring in our eyeball for a photo show-up,” Easterly said. “She's a lousy witness. But unless she definitely rules them out, we'll assume these are our boys. It's possible they're already on the run. We've put out the mugs nationwide through NCIC. But it's equally possible they're still in town, since they don't know what we know.

“Your team leaders will coordinate assignments. We're going to stake on the mother's house, as well as the addresses of their associates. We'll have teams cover the airport, the bus terminal and railroad station. We'll contact the car rental companies—neither of these heroes has a car currently registered to him.”

“They'll just steal another one,” said one detective.

“Some things we can't control,” said Easterly. “Canvas them anyway.”

“The black suspect has a big heroin habit,” interjected Slaughter. “So Narco will surveil shooting galleries. The white suspect hangs out in strip joints. Vice'll check those places.”

“We gonna put their mugs on the street?” another cop asked.

“Not until word gets out that we're looking for them,” Easterly said. “That won't take long. In the meantime we go low-profile, try to snag
them before they know we're onto them. If that doesn't work, then we start handing out pictures.”

“Including the media?” a third cop asked.

“Especially the media,” Easterly said.

“Physical evidence is vital,” Slaughter said. “We need to find where they kept the child, as well as the murder scene. They may be one and the same place—but they may not. Once we find those places, seal them tight so no one can mess up any possible evidence.”

“Here's the last thing,” Easterly said. “These guys were fans of that big Los Angeles bank shootout. They may even have automatic weapons. So watch yourselves.” She let that sink in, then looked around. “Any questions?”

A florid-faced old detective named Buford raised his hand. “Chief Slaughter, is it true you're retiring?”

Slaughter was startled by the question. He looked accusingly over at Stan Jablonski, who shrugged innocently. “Yes, that's the decision I've made,” Slaughter said.

“You letting Mosely run you out of here?” Buford asked.

“No one is running me out of here. It's time to go. When it's your time to go, you'll know.”

“Well, sir,” the old detective persisted, “is it true that Inspector Easterly here is going to replace you?”

Despite his grim mood, Slaughter laughed. “The worst place in the world for secrets is a police station.”

“Is that a yes?” Buford asked.

“Luke, no wonder you get so many confessions. Yes, I'm recommending that she replace me.”

With that, the gymnasium erupted in raucous cheers and whistles. Easterly just stood there, overwhelmed.

She did not see Jefferson Mosely standing in the back doorway, listening. The chief was not smiling. In fact, he was seething.

Kane was also seething. He sat on a folding chair in the last row of Bryson Prison's Twelve Step room, his back to the wall and his arms crossed. He watched an assortment of thugs and thieves drift in for the meeting. They were white and black, about equal numbers of each, along with a scattering of Hispanics. All were clad in prison blues. Without
exception, they checked out Kane and Bell, strangers in the room.

Kane glanced over at Bell sitting silently next to him. This was surreal. He thought he detected a smirk on Bell's dark face.

Calm down, Ralphie; he's got you by the balls. You don't want to be yanked off the lastjob of your life. When this is over, none of it will matter. You'll be just as dead as Darryl, Billy and Pete.

Kane stood up and moved around the room, inspecting the place like a crime scene. On one wall was a poster listing the Twelve Steps, riddled with references to God. That confirmed Kane's view that this was some kind of cult.

In the front, next to a podium, stood a sorry-looking artificial Christmas tree next to a rack of pro-sobriety propaganda and a worn table with a battered coffee pot and styrofoam cups. Above the podium was a crude, hand-lettered sign, “WE CARE.” It probably had been painted by some graffiti tagger.

Kane realized he was attracting attention. The last thing he wanted was these dirtbags watching him. So he sat back down.

The room was filling with smoke. Bell waved it away with his hand. “They don't smoke in the outside meetings,” he said.

“Then what the hell are we doing here?” Kane demanded.

“I've been fighting a drink for two days. Being with you hasn't helped.”

“So you're not just trying to save my soul.”

“Screw your sorry-assed soul. I'm here to save myself.”

“Then why are you forcing me into this?”

“That's how I save myself.”

“Onward Christian soldiers,” Kane said bitterly.

“Look, Kane, this has nothing to do with religion. That's a separate matter. In here we have every kind of human being there is. We have Catholic priests, Jews, atheists…”

Kane gestured contemptuously at the inmates. “And here we sit, hand in hand with God's chosen people.” He leaned back against the wall, enraged by his own powerlessness.

Bell, annoyed, went for a cup of coffee. Ten minutes remained before the meeting was to begin. Kane decided just to watch, as if undercover, or working a surveillance. He started examining the faces of inmates as they entered, looking for criminals he recognized.
Maybe I'll get lucky and fuck up some asshole's day.

Then a tiny old man with the face of a ferret sat down on Kane's other side. “Hi,” said the old man, extending his hand. Kane ignored it. “You're from the outside,” the ferret observed.

“No shit,” Kane muttered.

“You're a lucky man, living a free life.”

“Yeah, that's me, just a lucky son of a bitch.”

The ferret wouldn't leave him alone. “I know you from some place,” he said.

Is this moron trying to save me, too?
“If you did, I'd remember you,”

Kane said. “And I don't.”

The old man wouldn't take the hint. “Yes, sir. You look real familiar.”

“My brother did time here,” Kane muttered.

“That's it! Billy Kane! You're his brother.” He again extended a hand. Kane again ignored it. “What's your name?” the ferret persisted.

“Kane,” he said. “His name was Kane, my name is Kane. That's how it works with brothers.”

“S-sorry,” the ferret stammered. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“I thought this was anonymous.”

“It is,” the little convict said. “My name is George Wyatt. In here they call me George W”

It was clear to Kane that the ferret wasn't going away. All of the seats now were taken, so he was stuck with the old man. Kane needed a distraction from his own dark thoughts, so he decided to play with the guy. “So what brought you here, George W?”

“Drinking,” Wyatt said. “What brought you here?”

“I meant prison. Why are you in here?”

“Murder One. I decapitated my wife.”

Startled, Kane looked hard at Wyatt. The old man was so matter-of-fact that Kane actually heard himself laugh. “You don't say.”

“At least they tell me I did. I don't remember. I went into a blackout after I found her in bed with my best friend. They claim I used a machete.” He smiled. “Someone did, that's for sure. She was missing her head, no doubt about that.”

Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?
But Kane couldn't leave it alone. “So what happened to your best friend?”

“Oh, it wasn't quite so bad for him. He ran, but I chased him down and shot him in the balls. Or so they say.” The ferret laughed. “He died too. But at least
he
had an open casket.”

”George, are you putting me on?”

“I wish I were. Then we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

This was the most bizarre discussion Kane had had since his days on patrol. In spite of himself, he felt his mood lighten. It had been a long time since Ralph Kane had laughed. “So how long have you been in this place?” he asked.

“Thirty-three years next week. And I'll be here all day—that means life without parole.”

“I know what it means.”

Wyatt shook his head. “Funny part is, before that, I never committed a crime in my life. Professional criminals, they get paroled. A drunk like me has one bad day and he's here forever.”

One bad day? This is a fucking looney bin.
“If you're going to be here all day, why bother with this? What's the point?”

“To help the others,” Wyatt said. “This is my little island of sanity. It's where I come to watch men change. That's a rare thing in Bryson. This can be a savage place.”

The old con gestured around the room, now filled with inmates and smoke. “Most of these kids, they're just trying to impress the parole board. They don't stay sober on the outside.” He smiled. “But once in a while some guy does get it, someone you helped. He goes out into the world and makes a good life for himself. That makes it all worth it.”

Kane suddenly realized that he had been enjoying the little bastard. But then the old man spoiled it: “Billy could have used this program, you ask me. I'm glad to see his brother got it.”

Christ!
Kane scanned the room for Bell. He spotted him in a corner, drinking rotgut coffee. Bell lifted his cup in a sarcastic toast.
Smug motherfucker.

“Tell me something, Mr. Kane,” Wyatt said. “What are meetings like in the outside world?”

“I don't know. I've never been to one.”

Wyatt stared in surprise. “I don't understand. You came to your first meeting in a prison?”

“It's a complicated story. You don't need to hear it.”

“Well, God works in strange ways.”

God
. I can't get away from that crap.

Wyatt gave Kane another curious look. “And what do you do, Mr. Kane? Out there in the outside?”

”I'm a cop.”

“A
cop?”