The Chalk Girl km-10

by Carol O'Connell

  ‘I’d like to help you, Annie,’ said Riker. ‘But I need to hear your side of it.’

  ‘He was there! When I got back to the kid’s room, Rolland was standing by the bed. He asked me where I’d been. I was so freaked out. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. He won’t tell anybody I wasn’t there when the kid died. He told me to wait fifteen minutes and then call a doctor. He saved me from a negligence charge. And then Rolland married me to save my ass. He said a husband can’t testify against his wife.’

  ‘He lied,’ said Mallory. ‘A husband can’t testify to spousal conversation, but he can testify to events. That’s why he kept you around for fifteen years. You’re a bone he can throw to the cops if everything goes sour. When the doctor came in to pronounce the boy dead, you told him you were there the whole time. Isn’t that what happened? Isn’t that what Rolland told you to say?’

  ‘Rolland loves me.’

  ‘The guy really planned ahead,’ said Mallory. ‘So he was the last one to see the kid alive. But guess who’s getting hung out to dry, Annie. It’s all on you now. You – the crazy lady who can’t even leave her apartment. The nutcase with a pharmacy of drugs in her purse and a—’

  ‘No! I’d never—’

  ‘A nurse who kills her patients,’ said Mallory. ‘That’s how it’ll play out in court. You felt bad for a little kid with amputated hands. You wanted to spare Ernie all that horror – when he woke up from the coma. So you took a pillow, and you—’

  ‘No! I wasn’t even there when the Nadlers’ son died!’

  ‘It’s gonna be okay, Annie.’ Riker pushed a yellow pad across the table. ‘I’ll help you. Just write down what happened that night. Your side of the story.’ He handed her the pen.

  She took it.

  There were only two watchers in the dark on the other side of the glass, and they remained there while the woman in the interview room wrote out her statement. Lieutenant Coffey locked the door. Now that privacy and secrecy were assured, he turned to the chief of detectives. ‘We’re still building the case. I don’t wanna rush it.’

  ‘What’ve you got for motive, Jack?’

  ‘We think the Nadler kid was a witness to a wino’s murder. If he ever came out of the coma, the boy could’ve blown up Mann’s case against Toby Wilder. Mann would’ve done jail time for witness tampering, withholding evidence, obstruction.’ Coffey held back on Mallory’s alternate theory. Not everyone shared her love of profit motives, and she had given him no solid proof for that idea – nothing beyond a series of promotions for a mediocre cop’s rise to the top of the NYPD food chain.

  ‘Okay,’ said Chief Goddard. ‘So far, so good. Rocket Mann marries the nurse for insurance. If things go sour, she takes the fall. I call that long-range planning – like the Hunger Artist. But first you gotta nail him for killing the Nadler kid.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jack Coffey. ‘Just one problem. Why smother the boy? Mann was a detective. He had to know the forensics would point to murder. Even a drunken hospital pathologist noticed hemorrhaging in the kid’s eyes.’

  ‘Petechial hemorrhaging wasn’t in Rocket Mann’s vocabulary back then. I remember him in those days. He didn’t know shit about forensics, and he couldn’t bother to learn a damn thing. Never attended an autopsy, never cracked a book. And the guy couldn’t keep a partner for more than a week. Nobody wants to work with the screwup cop. That’s why he was riding solo when he was still a probie. I was the captain who assigned him to the wino murder.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Coffey. ‘My detectives are very thorough. They also tell me you started your vacation that same day . . . sir.’

  ‘And you wondered why I never volunteered that information.’ Joe Goddard waved one hand toward the window on the next room, where Annie Mann was still writing out her statement. ‘So this was staged for my benefit. I heard you guys do suspect interviews on both sides of the glass.’ He laughed, not a scoff – a belly laugh.

  Jack Coffey would never have predicted that response. ‘Why did you assign a homicide to a white shield with no partner, no oversight?’

  ‘The wino murder was busywork, a case nobody cared about. If Mann screwed up – and I knew he would – no harm done. Then I could bust him back to a beat cop. I was on a fishing trip in Oregon when he pinned that murder on the Wilder kid. I could smell the stink all the way across the country. By the time I got back, strings had been pulled to get Mann transferred out of my precinct. And that little fuckup was sporting a gold shield. That’s when I knew he was dirty.’

  ‘How much did you know about Ernest Nadler? When he went missing, the parents—’

  ‘When I got back, I only knew a kid got lost, and he was found alive. That bastard Mann worked the assault off the books. No paperwork. I always knew he didn’t have the makings of a cop, and I was right about that . . . but I didn’t give him credit for brains. That was my mistake. I never knew what happened to that little boy, not until your detectives dug up the old ViCAP questionnaire. Satisfied, Jack?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ No, sir. Lieutenant Coffey knew this was a lie, but his only proof was the chief’s relief when this story went unchallenged.

  ‘Your guys better make a strong case, Jack. I don’t want Rocket Mann getting off ’cause the public watches too many cops shows on TV. If you had a problem with the forensics, so will the damn jury. And I don’t want your case blowing up on a technicality of spousal privilege. Find out if he’s legally married to the nurse.’

  ‘He is. The marriage was registered in Toronto, Canada. My detectives knew that before they walked into the interview. And Mallory’s right about spousal privilege. It won’t apply to what Annie Mann saw, and she saw Rolland Mann in that hospital room with the dead boy.’

  ‘Then it’s his word against hers. You need more to charge him on the kid’s murder. And I wanna see some evidence for the murders of Humphrey Bledsoe and Aggy Sutton.’

  ‘We’ve got no connection between Mann and the Hunger Artist.’

  ‘Make one. Dump the wife in Witness Protection. I don’t want word getting out she was ever here. Don’t let her go home to pack a bag. Take her straight to a safe house.’

  Coffey nodded to say he was following this. ‘So Rocket Mann goes home tonight. No wife, no missing suitcase. All her clothes are still in the closet.’

  Goddard grinned. ‘What’s he gonna do? Everybody thinks he’s single. He let that game go on too long. And now he can’t even file a report on a missing wife, not without explaining why he erased her on paper. He’ll wonder where she is – and who’s she talking to? He’ll come unglued.’

  Jack Coffey’s detectives were already busy rattling Rolland Mann, and they needed no help from Joe Goddard. But it would be impolitic to tell the chief of D’s that his plan was already in the works. Mallory and Riker had unpacked Annie Mann’s suitcase and then enlisted the aid of the neighbor across the hall. Mrs Buford was thrilled by the whole idea of becoming an agent for the police, and her silence was guaranteed, should Rolland Mann come to her door.

  Joe Goddard had never been inclined to micromanage any homicide investigation. So why the change of style? Did Goddard miss the chase of a street-level cop? No, not likely. Jack Coffey decided that the chief of D’s had something to hide – and keep hidden.

  The two detectives sat at their facing desks, doing paperwork on the most recent interview. Riker pushed aside the conflicting statements of Rolland and Annie Mann. ‘Are we missing something here? When Rocket Mann took Annie to Canada – you think he had a plan to kill her and dump the body up there? Maybe he chickened out? Killing isn’t his best thing. He bungled the forensics on Ernie’s murder.’

  ‘I think Annie was right,’ said Mallory. ‘He wanted to save her.’

  ‘So . . . you don’t think he smothered Ernie?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He did it, all right. The bastard’s a stone killer. He’s just not real good at it. That’s what bothers you.’

  ‘I have a headache,’ said Riker.

  TH
IRTY-SEVEN

  The dead man in the Ramble is the last thing I think about when I go to bed – but not to sleep. I lay awake and wonder – did somebody close the wino’s eyes before he was buried? Or do bugs get into his coffin and crawl on his eyeballs? I wake up my parents to ask them.

  —Ernest Nadler

  Hoffman lingered in the drawing room, not liking the looks of the visitor, and who could blame her?

  Grace Driscol-Bledsoe rose from her chair to tower over her son’s former – schoolmate, co-killer – oh, what was the word she was searching for? No matter. ‘Don’t worry, Hoffman, I’m sure I can take Miss Fallon two falls out of three.’

  When the door had closed behind the departing nurse, another brown bag full of cash was passed from Grace’s hand to her guest’s. ‘That should tide you over.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Willy Fallon tossed the paper bag on a chair, so dismissive of money. She stood before the front window and pulled back a white gauze curtain. ‘I think I’m being followed. It’s just a creepy feeling.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, my dear. Do you think the police know what you did – you and your little friends?’

  ‘You still worry about that, don’t you?’ Willy turned on her, smiling just a bit too wide, telegraphing that she was here to make more demands.

  Grace, an old campaigner, launched the first salvo. ‘Obviously someone knows. While you were hanging in that tree – surely you must’ve formed an idea of who would benefit by your death. Perhaps someone regarded the three of you as loose ends? Maybe someone who needs to put all that unpleasantness behind him?’

  Well, Willy Fallon had never been the brightest student at the Driscol School. The older woman leaned toward the younger one, willing her to work it out. Think! You psychopathic moron! Ah, a light shone in Willy’s eyes, evidence of a brain at work, albeit a tiny one. ‘You had a thought, my dear.’ Grace said this with absolutely no sarcasm.

  ‘When we were kids, Humphrey told me you were making payoffs – to keep it quiet.’

  This came as no surprise. Children were the best of spies in every household. She often wondered how much her daughter had pieced together from those bad old days. Oh, and now she could see that Willy was having another thought. Two in one day – how taxing.

  ‘I think we can help each other, Grace. Just give me a name. I’ll take care of it. I’ll get rid of him for you.’ Smiling, she bent down to pick up her bag of cash. ‘Say we double this . . . once a month?’

  ‘I’m truly shocked.’ And did Willy believe that? Well, of course she did. The girl was an idiot. All that remained to Grace was to sit back, assume a worried look and perhaps profess a sudden onset of palpitations in that place where common people kept their hearts. Eventually, after much prodding by the idiot, a name would escape Grace’s lips.

  Rolland Mann had gone out in search of a disposable cell phone, but he would not throw this one away. There were reporters around every corner, waiting for crumbs from One Police Plaza, and some might be waiting in ambush. In any case, he was not done calling home, hoping that Annie would answer the phone. He wanted the privacy of his office, where the news media could not hound him for updates on the Hunger Artist. He tightened his hold on the cell phone hidden in his pocket, so badly in need of this tether to his wife.

  He was within yards of the courtyard gatehouse when a young woman crossed his path on the plaza. Such a cruel smile. The newspaper photos on the front pages of late had never captured that quality, only the practiced grin of a professional party girl, who had fallen off the scandal sheets years ago. Today, she planted herself in his way and folded her arms to announce that Willy Fallon was back. Badder than ever. Bigger news.

  No lie.

  Down the sidewalk, he saw snouts lifting to catch a scent in the air, and the first of the paparazzi was running toward them. Then another and another. The photographers caught him in the act of running away from Willy.

  While the socialite preened for pictures, Officer Chu kept the distance of a good shadow, and he scribbled in his notebook – just a few lines about Miss Fallon’s odd run-in with the acting police commissioner and his sudden flight, hands flailing.

  Rolland Mann ran like a girl.

  Willy Fallon was on the move again, waving goodbye to the gang of photographers. How they loved her. One of them blew her a kiss. And Arthur Chu followed her.

  The woman spoke on a cell phone as she walked westward, and the young officer dutifully noted the exact times for three calls in a row. After the phone was returned to her purse, she absently glanced at her wristwatch. Now there was an attitude of urgency as she looked around her, up and down the street.

  Hunting a cab? Lots of luck at this hour. Even if she found one, a car could only crawl in this traffic.

  The surveillance officer followed her to the subway station on Warren Street, and watched her step down below the sidewalk. He was impressed that this rich bimbo might know how to operate a turnstile. Then it occurred to him that she had probably used mass transit more than once to elude reporters on a bad-hair day. Yes, he was right. No need to stop at the cashier’s booth to buy a ticket to ride. She pulled a yellow transit card from her purse.

  Was that purse a good deal fatter now? Had he missed something?

  Rolland Mann looked up when his pouting secretary walked in. She had resented him from the moment he had moved his belongings into Commissioner Beale’s office, perhaps finding it ghoulish that he was so confident of the old man’s impending demise. ‘Any calls, Miss Scott?’

  ‘Yes. She didn’t leave a name this time, either, but it’s the same woman.’

  Not the woman he most wanted to hear from, not Annie. She knew better than to call him on his office phone. He still doubted that his wife could have made her way through the door to the street. On those rare occasions, when he had taken her out for dinner, she had been nervous and jumpy, only calming down when they were home again. That was years ago. Today, she would not, could not, leave the apartment. But she could overmedicate. Yes. She was probably deep in a barbiturate haze, unable to hear the phone ringing.

  Miss Scott broke into his thoughts. ‘The woman said you better call her back or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’

  ‘She didn’t say, and I don’t read minds.’ The secretary slapped a piece of paper on the desk. It was only a telephone number and the brief threat.

  It could only be Willy Fallon.

  ‘And I’m not paid to listen to your friend’s obscenities.’ Miss Scott slammed the door on her way out.

  Now he knew that his secretary had finally been successful in finding another position. Another runaway woman.

  He pulled the throwaway cell from his pocket and called his residence. One ring, two rings – three. Annie, my Annie, come to the phone.

  Willy Fallon climbed out of the subway near the Greenwich Village movie theater. She turned a corner and walked westward into that patch of New York City where grid logic broke down, where Fourth Street ran north and south of West Tenth. When she was within half a block of Toby Wilder’s apartment building, she saw him step out on the sidewalk.

  Lunchtime.

  She knew her quarry was a creature of habit, thanks to a tip paid to a local shopkeeper, a man who bragged that he could set his watch by Toby Wilder. Willy followed her old classmate on a trek across the Village to a Mexican restaurant on Bleecker Street. She saw him pass through the door to reappear at a table by the window. He never noticed her standing there on the sidewalk, watching him. When he did happen to look out on the street, he paid her no more attention than the fire hydrant.

  He was still beautiful.

  After all these years, it rankled her that he would never know what she had done to him. While she stood by the window, another patron rushed in the door to find a table on the far side of the room and close to the kitchen. Why would Humphrey’s sister pick the worst seat in the house while better ones went begging?

  Phoebe Bledsoe was taller now, bu
t she still lugged around all the baby fat of childhood. And apparently she had not outgrown her crush on the boy by the window. The girl settled into the chair with the worst possible lighting to watch Toby Wilder from a shy distance.

  Pathetic.

  Willy entered the café and walked up to the far table to see her favorite expression – naked fear – on Phoebe’s face. Willy sat down, liking this power over the other woman – hardly a woman – a lump of a schoolgirl who would never grow up. ‘What’s that?’

  Before Phoebe could close her hand over the gold cigarette lighter, Willy grabbed it, saying, ‘You never smoked. You wouldn’t dare. Neither would I, not if Grace was my mother.’

  ‘Give it back!’ Humphrey’s sister was anxious, reaching for the lighter that was evidently precious to her.

  Willy played a schoolyard game of keep-away, holding it high, tossing it from hand to hand, and then she took a closer look at her prize. It was heavy – solid gold. The scratches in the metal appeared to be damage at first glance. At second glance, she remembered where she had seen this lighter before. The surface scratches had been deeper then, and it had been easier to read them as a clear date – the year of her birth – though not the same month and day.

  Smiling, Willy cadged a glance at Toby Wilder. It had to be his birth date scratched into the metal. Turning back to Phoebe, she held the gold lighter just out of reach. ‘I know where you got this. You found it in the Ramble. You went back for it.’

  It was supposed to be found beside the wino’s dead body – this cigarette lighter dropped on the path by Toby Wilder – with his fingerprints on it. Planting the lighter had been Humphrey Bledsoe’s idea – that moron. He thought the police kept everyone’s fingerprints on file, even those of schoolboys.

  ‘I know who this belongs to.’ Oh, that look of sick fear was priceless – almost orgasmic, and Willy hungered for more. She rose from the table and turned around to face her old classmate on the other side of the room. ‘Hey, Toby!’ He looked in her direction. Behind her, she could hear the scrape of an edged-back chair and then Phoebe’s heavy footsteps running toward the door.