The Chalk Girl km-10

by Carol O'Connell

  Was she baiting Goddard?

  ‘Mallory?’ Coffey tapped her shoulder. ‘Shut up!’ And to the chief of D’s he said, ‘We don’t see Rocket Mann spending years collecting a murder kit. And we don’t see him out in the woods with a winch and a drill. He’d never put that much effort into a murder . . . but he was a killer. A real cold—’

  ‘I guess we got three votes for the pine box,’ said the chief. ‘But this ain’t a democracy. So Rocket Mann gets the fallen hero’s funeral. Nothing comes back to bite the department.’ This was couched as an order to leave that mess buried. ‘Now back to the Hunger Artist. Where’d you stash that junkie, Toby Wilder?’

  ‘He’s in the hospital,’ said Mallory, ‘getting his stomach pumped.’

  ‘He stays there under guard till I say otherwise.’ Onto the next order of business, the chief held up the detectives’ request for a search warrant. ‘The DA squashed it. Heller and Slope won’t sign off on the chloroform angle. The CSU test was inconclusive, and the ME’s tissue samples got backed up in the lab. All the rest of the stuff on your list is too vague. Any old winch and drill won’t do. The DA says you need to be more specific to get in the door.’

  ‘I guess nobody wants to piss off the wrong people,’ said Mallory.

  She was the city’s hero cop today, the golden girl of the NYPD, and, following her coup at One Police Plaza – Hubris, thy name is Mallory – she believed she could get away with mouthing off to the chief of D’s in front of witnesses. She could not. Coffey could tell that much by the change in the atmosphere – the dead silence of a room with too many guns in it.

  ‘I know how to make the warrant less vague.’ Riker now commanded the chief’s attention. And once more, Lieutenant Coffey had to wonder what kind of power this detective had over Goddard.

  ‘We got an expert witness,’ said Riker. ‘She’s like a little catalogue of sounds. Coco can identify the brand of a vacuum cleaner if she only hears the motor. I’ve seen her do that trick. And she was in the Ramble the night Humphrey Bledsoe was strung up. Suppose we let her listen to the sample winches and drills CSU collected?’

  Jack Coffey shot a glance at Mallory, who seemed to share his own surprise. Either Riker was lying to distract the chief from demolishing his partner – or he had been holding out on her.

  Joe Goddard was not impressed. ‘Your expert witness is an eight-year-old kid?’

  ‘A kid genius,’ said Riker. ‘She’s got a gift for this stuff. And it gets better. We can document it. We got Charles Butler, an authority on gifted people. He’ll sign off on this.’

  At the door to the station house, the two detectives parted company with a plan to meet up later at Charles Butler’s apartment. Riker had winches and drills to collect, but a little old lady was blocking his way.

  ‘So it was murder,’ said Rolland Mann’s elderly neighbor. ‘I saw it on TV.’ Mrs Buford turned her head from side to side, cagey now and mindful of officers passing by. She dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘I’m sure he had it coming to him.’

  Oh, no – a snag, a little gray-haired loose end.

  If just one reporter had the brains to canvas Rocket Mann’s building – if this neighbor was questioned – everything could come unraveled. Riker gave her his widest smile. ‘Naw, it was a traffic accident.’

  ‘Detective Mallory said murder. She said that the first time we met. And that was before Rolland Mann got hit by the bus. Very prescient, wouldn’t you say?’

  Damn.

  ‘My partner was talking about a different murder,’ said Riker, ‘an old one. And we appreciate your—’

  ‘The TV reporter interviewed a Danish tourist who saw the whole thing. He said Rolland Mann was struggling with a woman when that bus came along. Was it Detective Mallory? I do hope she’s not in any trouble.’

  In Mrs Buford’s mind, his partner was either clairvoyant or a killer cop. Fortunately, the old woman actually liked Mallory. Twenty minutes later, over a cup of coffee in the lunchroom, Riker had convinced her that the sudden death of her neighbor was not a conspiracy of cops – or that was his thought, based upon much nodding and smiling on her part.

  But then she winked, and with that slow, sly drop of an eyelid, she put a lie to everything. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I’m as silent as the Sphinx. I would never say anything that might get Detective Mallory in trouble. Such a sweet girl. So kind.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s my partner.’ Riker glanced at his watch. Right about now, his little angel would be busy torturing a blind man.

  Anthony Queen was posturing, railing against the storm-trooper tactics of law enforcement.

  On the other side of his desk sat Mallory – the law – quietly, calmly planning to cut the blind man at the knees to keep him away from reporters.

  ‘There’s a guard posted outside of Toby’s hospital room. The police are denying me access to my client. I have a right to—’

  ‘Toby has rights,’ said Mallory. ‘You don’t. And he’s better off without any more help from you. When he was a kid, you stood by while the Driscol School’s pricey lawyer bargained him right into Spofford. You always believed that boy was guilty.’

  ‘I never did.’

  ‘You still do. That day you showed up in court with Toby’s mother – that’s when the ADA told you where Toby laid down his flowers – the exact spot where the wino died. That’s when you knew the boy was a killer.’

  ‘No. I never—’

  ‘Liar. That’s why you let Carlyle lock him away in that hellhole. You could’ve stopped the plea bargain, but you knew Toby was guilty. You thought a four-year sentence was a good deal . . . for a killer.’

  ‘I always believed in him.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Here’s the kicker, old man. Toby didn’t do it. If the case had gone to trial, the defense would’ve been entitled to exculpatory evidence – a witness statement that would’ve cleared him. But that never came out because of the plea bargain. So Carlyle put an innocent kid away, and you helped him do it – as a favor to Toby’s mother.’

  When he had fully absorbed his own part in the damage to Toby Wilder, the lawyer’s face was a study in pain. However, because he was a lawyer, Mallory waited for the light to go on behind his blind eyes – that telling spark, the evidence of machinations, plots and schemes.

  And now he smiled – so sly when he said, ‘Then Carlyle knew the boy was innocent.’

  ‘Forget it, old man. There won’t be any lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment. If you try that, Toby gets put away for life. Fifteen years ago, all three of the Hunger Artist’s victims blamed Toby for the wino’s death . . . Does that sound like a revenge motive for anyone we know?’

  Queen’s mouth opened wide – and closed. His store of words had failed him.

  Shock was good, but Mallory toyed with the idea that she could make a lawyer cry. ‘I know what you did to Toby’s mother – your very good friend. I talked to people who worked with Susan Wilder. They tell me she was a one-man woman, and she loved Jess Wilder till the day she died. But she loved her son even more. So I wondered why she’d go along with the plea bargain. That bothered me. That was your work, wasn’t it? That woman trusted you. Toby was a minor child. Before a judge would let him plead out to murder – first you’d have to convince the mother that her son was guilty – that he murdered his own father.’

  ‘But Susan never knew who the wino was.’

  ‘She knew,’ said Mallory, ‘even before Toby’s arrest. And I can prove it.’

  Anthony Queen’s expression could only be read as Please stop.

  Not yet, but soon. Just now she was on a get-even roll. ‘Susan Wilder went to the morgue to view the wino’s body . . . with her fingertips. Stone blind, she knew that was her husband. I have a witness who tells me she cried . . . She loved that man. And thanks to you, Susan died believing that her son beat him to death . . . It’s like you poisoned all the time she had left.’

  Tears. Perfect.

  ‘You think you
’re sorry now? Don’t make me come back here, old man.’ She rose from her chair and walked toward the office door. ‘Stay the hell away from Toby Wilder.’

  FORTY-TWO

  My mother smiles at me all the time now. Sad smiles. I think I’m driving her bug-shit crazy. I’m sorry, Mom.

  —Ernest Nadler

  ‘Maybe it’s a bad idea. Loud noises drive the kid up the wall.’ Riker used a small hand truck to roll the heavy carton down the hallway in Charles Butler’s building. The cardboard box was filled with every winch and drill that would fit the Hunger Artist’s murder kit. ‘Charles is never gonna go along with this.’

  ‘He’s in Chicago,’ said Mallory. ‘Robin Duffy’s babysitting.’

  Well, problem solved. That particular lawyer would let his partner set fire to a busload of orphans just to see her smile.

  When the door opened, Mallory suffered through another bear hug of warmth and affection. Fingers to his lips, Duffy whispered, ‘Coco’s taking a nap.’ He ushered them into the kitchen, where documents were laid out on the table. ‘Charles found these wonderful people in Chicago – the Harveys. They were pre-qualified for adoption a year ago, and they’re both teachers in a charter school. This is so great. She’ll have parental supervision all day long. Charles says the best part is that Coco can go to school like every other kid. She can have a normal life.’ He sat down at the table and sifted through the paperwork. ‘Oh, here it is.’ He handed one sheet to Mallory.

  Reading over her shoulder, Riker scanned another copy of the release form that would allow their material witness to leave the state of New York.

  ‘Just sign there, Kathy.’ Duffy pointed to the signature line at the bottom of the page. ‘The Harveys are flying back with Charles today. If everything goes well, they’ll take Coco to Illinois for a probationary period.’

  ‘No way.’ Mallory folded the form. ‘The kid’s not going anywhere until we wrap this case.’

  And when she laid the form down on the table, the old man said, ‘Charles wants you to know that the Harveys have a big backyard full of bugs. He thought that might be meaningful to you.’

  ‘She stays until—’

  ‘Fine.’ Duffy put up both hands in surrender. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Kathy. The Harveys will be in town for a while.’

  ‘You can go now,’ said Mallory. ‘I’ll stay with Coco.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘I’ll walk you out.’

  Robin Duffy hesitated, stalling, his eyes rising to the clock on the wall. ‘Charles told me to stay – just until Mrs Ortega gets back. She’s out running errands.’ The old man had a worried look about him.

  Riker was confused.

  Mallory was not. ‘What else did Charles tell you? Did he tell you not to leave me alone with Coco? Did he tell you not to trust me anymore?’

  Riker left the apartment with a very contrite Robin Duffy, and though the door was closed gently, the sound woke Coco from her nap. She ran out of the guest room and shot down the hall to wrap her arms around Mallory, so happy was she, her smile so wide. And, yes, she would love to help solve a murder. Great fun.

  The detective wheeled the carton into Charles Butler’s kitchen, and the child watched her open it to pull out the first winch. Mallory connected it to an adapter to make it run on household current. ‘Riker says you have a good memory for motors.’

  Coco rattled off a catalogue of motor-driven things, old ones and their replacements over the years: her grandmother’s blenders and washing machines, vacuums, electric brooms and carving knives. And then there were the neighbors’ motors, more brand names and models. And all the while, the child watched the detective cover the countertop with elements of a murder kit.

  The little girl’s words broke off as her eyes turned toward the kitchen door. ‘Mrs Ortega’s coming. Those are her shoes in the hall. You hear them?’

  No, Mallory heard nothing. A moment later came the clicks of a key working the lock to the front door. She left the child in the kitchen and entered the living room to see the cleaning lady flop down in an armchair. Shopping bags lay on the floor at her feet.

  ‘Hey, Mallory.’ Mrs Ortega bent down to one of her bags. ‘Wait’ll you see what I got for the kid.’ She pulled out a shoebox and opened it to display a small pair of pink sneakers. ‘A going-away present. Real shoelaces instead of that Velcro crap.’

  ‘But she can’t tie the laces,’ said Mallory.

  ‘If she can learn buttons, she can learn laces,’ said Mrs Ortega.

  ‘No more damn Velcro. That’s like buying a wheelchair for a kid who only limps a little. It’ll cripple her.’

  ‘But she can’t—’

  ‘She has to!’ Exasperated, the cleaning lady threw up her hands. ‘How’s that kid gonna make it in life if she can’t even tie her shoes?’

  Indeed. Mallory, in her feral days, had survived by packing razor blades in the pockets of her child-size jeans; and by stealing only the best running shoes, and running like crazy to escape kiddy rapists; and she had learned to make her bed only places where she was most likely to live through the night. She had stolen wallets and wheedled money from whores and acquired so many other skills that Coco could never learn for lack of guile.

  The little girl stood in the doorway, and her face had a worried look. Of course, she had overheard everything, and now her steps were timid as she stole up beside the detective and shyly took her hand. Those blue eyes were full of hope – and thus alien to Mallory, who saw all hope as pointless.

  The cleaning lady went downstairs to ready an apartment for Charles Butler’s guests, the Harveys of Illinois. And the detective sat on the floor, teaching Coco to tie shoelaces so that this tiny child could survive in the wide world. Their fingers intertwined for hours as they worked the laces together. The child so loved Mallory that, though she tired, she would not stop until she had done this one thing right. And so the final triumphal knot was a gift that each of them gave to the other.

  When Charles Butler entered his apartment, he heard the sound of a motor running, and Coco was yelling, ‘Stop! That’s it!’

  He raced to the kitchen, and there he found the child seated at the table, both hands pressed to her ears. Her mouth formed a silent scream – while Mallory powered down a mechanical device. His kitchen counter was lined up with motorized things. This was torture for a child with hyperacuity.

  ‘Hi.’ Mallory turned to Charles, smiling as if this might be a perfectly normal way to occupy a little girl’s time. ‘Coco identified the motors she heard in the Ramble. I need a letter from you to back up how good she is with sounds.’

  Coco was rocking back and forth, hugging herself – calming herself.

  Charles’s face was grim. ‘A moment, Mallory? Out in the hall?’ This was not an invitation. He took her by the arm and propelled her from the kitchen, through the apartment and into the outer hallway, shutting doors behind him so the child would not hear him ask the detective, ‘Are you insane? I can’t believe you put her through that. Don’t you ever go near that child again.’

  The detective was squaring off, gearing up for a fight. ‘I need—’

  ‘Who cares? The prospective parents are downstairs right now. Don’t make that little girl choose between you and them. Even you couldn’t be that cruel.’

  Did she flinch? She did.

  He pressed on. ‘Those two people are all prepared to love that child on sight. You have only the most superficial interest in Coco. Get out, Mallory! Just go!’

  Mallory turned away from him, and she was striding toward the elevator when Coco came running out the door, screaming, ‘Wait for me!’ She wriggled free from Charles’s grasp and flung herself down the hall, lurching, crying, ‘Mallory! Mallory!’

  The detective never even turned her head to acknowledge the little girl. She only put up the flat of her hand and commanded, ‘Stop.’ Obedient as any dog, the child did stop. ‘Stay,’ said Mallory as she stepped into the elevator and vanished.

 
‘No! No-o-o!’ Coco ran to the end of the hall and banged the metal doors. She sank to the floor, a puddle of a child. Charles was at her side, reaching down to her. She waved her arms to ward him off, and then her interest wandered to a shoelace that had come undone.

  Laces?

  Her face was anguished. Lost again, anchorless. Her arms flung wide, small hands curling into fists. This was the breach he had wanted; the precise moment to replace one bond for another was now. He knelt down beside her. ‘There are two very nice people downstairs. They’ve come all the way from Illinois to meet you.’

  ‘I want Mallory.’

  ‘She won’t be back.’

  Coco shook her head. ‘Mallory loves me. She loves me.’

  And now he watched her bow her head to – tie – her – shoelace. And when she was done, she looked up at him, so defiant. She stuck out her foot to show him this accomplishment of an awkward child-tied knot. ‘Is that superficial?’

  Oh, God – her remarkable hearing. Every word said in the hall had been overheard.

  Coco leaned toward him, eyes glittering and wet, and there was anger when she said with great dignity, ‘Mallory loved me.’

  Past tense.

  Stripped of all hope, the floundering child wrapped her arms around his neck. Her tiny body was shaking with sobs, her voice cracking as she recited a litany of deep pain. They sat there in the hallway for a very long time, Charles dying, Coco crying, grieving over every unfair loss, lost home, lost love.

  The Harveys of Illinois had finished unpacking their bags in the downstairs apartment, and now they were surprised when the elevator doors opened upon the sight of a tiny child with swollen red eyes. Mrs Harvey picked up the little girl to carry her down the hall and through the open door to Charles’s apartment, saying all the while in tones of motherlove, ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ In charge now, Mrs Harvey pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped Coco’s face clean of tears.

  Charles was unprepared for the child’s reaction to this small kindness, and it killed him to watch it play out.