The Chalk Girl km-10

by Carol O'Connell

  Coco’s fabulous smile was instant and wide – if not genuine – as she informed the Harveys that rats were carriers of bubonic plague. Next, she ran to the piano in the music room. She played them a song and sang for them, then danced back into the parlor and began a monologue of vermin trivia. How hard she worked, auditioning for a new home and negotiating for love to replace what was so recently ripped away. And the Harveys were blindly enchanted by a child’s ruthless pitch for survival.

  Excusing himself, Charles retired to Coco’s bedroom, where he sat alone with his pain. The drapes were drawn, and the only light was the glow of fireflies. How bright. How odd. They should have begun to die off long before now, but there was not one dead insect in the jar.

  Oh, fool. Would that he could die of foolishness.

  It was so obvious. Mallory had been entering by stealth, by night – every night – to replenish the lightning bugs so that Coco would not wake up in a dark place.

  The sorry man reached beneath the pillow and found Coco’s one-button cell phone. He pressed the button, and the connection was instant. ‘Mallory?’

  And she said, ‘I signed Coco’s release form. You’ll find it on the kitchen table. Are you happy now?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  This summer afternoon would remain in his memory forever, a bookmark to a sad and curious passage that he must return to again and again. Well into his nineties and long after the death of Kathy Mallory, on every fine, warm day, he would sit in a garden where he would only suffer daisies to be planted. Sometimes his great-grandchildren would find him there, tearing petals from flowers. They would smile to see the old man playing a children’s game of loves me, loves me not, never suspecting that he grappled with an old problem of bugs in a jar.

  He, who was whole and sane and fully human – he would never have thought to light a child’s way through the night with fireflies. And so he plucked the daisies bald, alternating Mallory’s possibilities, saying with one torn petal, ‘She had no heart,’ and with the next petal, ‘She did.’

  Riker walked down a row of cages made of wood and chicken wire, flimsy protection for the artifacts of those who had died without leaving wills, all their goods condemned to probate limbo. He paused by the only storage space that burned with interior lights. His partner had been busy rewiring. Extension cords trailed down from a ceiling fixture and hooked up with table lamps to illuminate rooms of furnishings crowded into the space of an oversized closet.

  The largest item was the Nadlers’ walk-in safe, and it was wide open. Evidently, Mallory had tired of following their boss’s instruction to wait for a proper work order to get the lock bored out. A huge drill lay on the floor, and the safe now had a gaping hole in its door – and a cop inside.

  ‘Find anything useful?’ He leaned into the safe and whistled at the walls of stacked-up comic books. On top of one of the shorter piles was a pristine Batman issue that was older than he was.

  Mallory sat on the metal floor, reading handwritten lines in a small book. ‘The city would’ve found the Nadlers’ will if they’d bored out the damn lock fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Lucky thing they didn’t.’ Riker flipped through the comics in archival covers. ‘The mice would’ve chewed all of this to bits. This is no kid’s collection. It’s worth a fortune.’

  ‘Those belonged to the boy’s father. They’re mentioned in the will. But I found Ernie’s comics, too – what’s left of them.’ She pointed to the floor outside the safe and a box with mouse-chewed holes.

  He hunkered down beside it and lifted the cardboard lid. The top layer had been shredded for a nest to bed down a litter of blind, newborn vermin. They wiggled and squeaked. But Riker, a good New Yorker, did not find them cute. He snapped on a latex glove and burrowed underneath them to pull out two comic books that were still intact. ‘Another Batman – like father, like son. And here’s a Superman.’

  And now he realized that Mallory had been moving the furniture. All the effects of Ernie’s life were gathered in this corner around a boy-size bed, a matching nightstand and a cracked lamp in the shape of a ceramic superhero.

  ‘I found the Nadlers’ suicide note.’ Mallory walked out of the safe, holding the small leather-bound book that she had been reading. ‘This is Ernie’s diary.’ She pulled a folded sheet of paper from between the pages and handed it to him.

  Riker opened the note and read the simple line written by one of the parents before they died, a goodbye of five words: For those who wonder why.

  Mallory sat down on a wooden chair that matched the boy’s bedroom suite. ‘The pages of Ernie’s diary are dusted with glass fragments from a broken lightbulb.’ She opened the top drawer of the nightstand. ‘Look. More fragments in here. This is probably where he kept it. That’s why the drawer was open. So this is what happened. After Ernie died, the Nadlers got home from the hospital that night. They came into his room and sat down on that bed – and they read his diary. And when they were done, one of them threw it at the wall, and it cracked the lamp.’

  ‘And broke the lightbulb.’ Riker could see Ernie’s parents holding each other in the dark.

  FORTY-THREE

  They stand over me at the Losers’ Table – watching me eat a bite of my lunch. It won’t stay down, and Humphrey giggles when I throw up in my napkin.

  I pick up my tray and carry it across the dining hall to sit down beside Toby Wilder, though I know he likes to eat his meals alone, and every other kid in school gives him the space of half a table. But he doesn’t even notice me. His eyes are closed to slits, and his fork conducts an orchestra inside his head.

  I look up and there they are, settling down on the other side of the table, three stealthy crows come to peck me to death. Screw them. I eat my lunch, fearless. Humphrey wouldn’t dare pull any shit, not here, and Willy only stares at me with spider eyes. But Aggy just can’t help herself. She clicks her teeth nonstop, promising me another bite. I never rat her out for biting me – murdering a bum, sure – but not for something personal. Those clicking teeth get Toby’s attention. He opens his eyes, and the three of them sit up real straight. And then he says, ‘Get the fuck out of here, you freaks!’ And they leave the table, knocking over chairs to do it in a hurry. I will worship Toby Wilder until I die.

  —Ernest Nadler

  The detectives stepped out of the car and walked up Central Park West. As they turned the corner onto a quiet side street, Mallory made a cell-phone call to CSU and tortured Heller with the news that a little girl had done what his team could not do: Coco had identified makes and models for the winch and drill used by the Hunger Artist. And then she suggested that he take his botched chloroform test and farm it out to a lab with better equipment, adding that she was fresh out of children to develop more evidence.

  Riker could easily fill in the gaps of this conversation with obscenities, and when her call had ended, he asked, ‘Did Heller make any death threats?’

  ‘No, he’s in a good mood today. He says we’re even now.’

  What? Had Heller forgiven Mallory for hog-tying and bagging his new CSI? Naw – not a chance. However, she had trained CSI Pollard to pay attention to details, and Heller might see that as a win. But why share this thought with her? Why spoil her day?

  The next call was made to District Attorney Hamlin. The man had received Charles Butler’s hastily written affidavit, and then he had found a judge to sign off on a child’s genius for identifying motors. Pocketing her phone, Mallory said, ‘Our warrant’s on the way.’

  It was a thousand-to-one shot that anything from the murder kit would be found, but they were not searching for any of those items today.

  Their stroll ended halfway down the block when they paused to case a private home guarded by stone lions at the top of a short flight of stairs. It was twice the width of the surrounding brownstones but no taller. Looking upward, they could see only tips of rooftop foliage. The detectives crossed the street and pressed all the buzzers for an apartment building
next door. The first tenant to answer the intercom was drafted into service, and she led them up – and up – to the fifth floor of a century-old building with nothing as fancy as an elevator. And yet Riker, though short of breath, made no vows to quit smoking.

  At the top of the last flight of stairs, they dismissed their guide and stepped out onto a roof of chimneys and cable lines, weathered deck chairs and tar paper pocked with pigeon droppings. It was a grim far cry from the lush garden atop the adjoining roof. They climbed over the low parapet and onto a soft carpet of grass. All around them were the trees, ferns and flowers of a smallish park in the sky. At the center of this fairyland, they found a small structure for the door leading down into the house, its walls hidden by ivy. Near the street side, a patio had been carved out with flagstones and decorated with a table and padded wrought-iron chairs.

  And an ashtray!

  Riker was a happy man when he sat down and lit up a cigarette. ‘It just doesn’t get any better than this.’

  ‘It will.’ His partner settled a heavy knapsack on the table, pulled out her phone and placed a call. When she had worked through the responding Hoffman, and when the lady of the house was at last on the line, Mallory said, ‘You’ve got cops on the roof.’

  The three of them were gathered on the rooftop patio, and Grace Driscol-Bledsoe had selected Riker as the pushover cop. Her small talk was directed toward him, and then she won his heart by lighting up a proffered cigarette.

  Mallory quietly endured the bonding ritual of smokers. And when the older woman finally looked her way, the detective flashed her a Gotcha smile and laid the old ViCAP questionnaire on the table. ‘I think you’ve seen this before.’

  The society matron’s upper lip curled back with this unexpected and nasty surprise, but she was a quick-recovery artist. Turning to Riker, fellow smoker, one of her people, she insisted that he must call her Grace. ‘And what should I call you?’

  ‘Detective. Me and my partner, we got the same first name.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘We were hoping you’d clear something up for us – Grace.’ He picked up the ViCAP questionnaire. ‘Rolland Mann was blackmailing you with this. So we figure it wasn’t his own idea to murder the Nadler kid.’

  Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe never glanced at the sheets in his hand. Her smile was still in place when she said, ‘You suspect Rolland of extortion and murder? Poor dead Rolland. Well then, as I see it, your job is done. Good work.’

  Riker feigned incredulity, and Mallory knew he had to fake it because nothing surprised him anymore. ‘Are you trying out your defense strategy on us? We don’t like Rolland for the Hunger Artist murders. And Willy Fallon didn’t string herself up in the Ramble.’

  ‘So we need another stone killer,’ said Mallory. ‘Somebody with the patience of a long-range planner.’ She turned an admiring glance on the environs. ‘That was smart – Grace – planting the trees back from the street – no sidewalk advertising for unreported income.’

  ‘Seven years ago,’ said Riker, ‘the Driscol Institute paid to reinforce this roof.’

  ‘The Institute is responsible for maintaining my house. Perfectly legal.’

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘You needed the extra support for this damn park. How many tons of soil—’

  ‘A legitimate business expense,’ said Grace. ‘The Driscol Institute owns my house, and I host the charity’s fund-raisers.’

  ‘Not up here,’ said Mallory. ‘We talked to your caterer, the one who bills the Institute for your weekly fund-raisers. He’s never even seen the roof.’ The detective opened her knapsack and pulled out a heavy paperbound volume. She slammed it down on the table, and the glass ashtray danced close to the edge. ‘That’s the Institute’s charter. It covers bare maintenance on the mansion . . . no rooftop landscaping.’ The wave of Mallory’s hand encompassed all the trees and shrubs. ‘So the Driscol Institute paid a contractor to shore up the roof. I’ve seen the canceled check and a legitimate work order. But you’re the one who paid for the landscaping – in cash – lots of it. Where did all that money come from?’

  Riker reached down behind his chair to pluck a brilliant pink flower, and Grace gasped. He twirled the stem in his fingers. ‘I’ve never seen one like this before. Real expensive, huh?’ He tossed the flower over one shoulder. ‘Did your landscaper pitch a fit when his dolly got stolen?’ And when her silence dragged out too long, he said, ‘A dolly – maybe you call it a hand truck. You know, two wheels, long handle. This one had a car battery attached. Your landscaper used it to power a joist. That’s how he lifted those trees up here – and tons of soil.’

  ‘Cheaper than a crane,’ said Mallory. ‘Easier to hide what you were doing – with unreported, untaxed income. Crane operators require city permits – a paper trail you couldn’t afford.’

  ‘But a joist is overkill,’ said Riker. ‘If you only wanna string up a few bodies, a light winch will do just fine – three times in a row.’ He laid down his notebook. It was open to a page that listed the brand names of items from the murder kit. ‘This particular dolly had a wider platform than most. You’d need something like that to transport an unconscious victim to the Ramble.’

  The woman was slow to respond. When she finally spoke, her tone was condescending. ‘Is that how I did it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘You covered the theft of the dolly with cash and a sweet tip for the landscaper. No police report. What were the odds that the cops would ever trace it back to you seven years later?’

  ‘Indeed.’ The socialite seemed to agree with him – smiling, nodding, much too calm, even if she did have the best lawyers that dirty money could buy.

  Mallory stared at Grace’s cigarette. The ash at the end had gone dark and smokeless. ‘You don’t inhale. That’s probably wise.’ She leaned forward and lightly touched the silver pendant chained to the older woman’s neck. ‘Will that gizmo work up here?’

  Grace’s hand instinctively went to her breast to cover the medic-alert medallion that dangled there. ‘Yes, there’s an electronic responder in that little building over there.’ She nodded toward the small structure for the roof door. ‘Would you like a demonstration, Detective Mallory?’

  ‘I know how panic buttons work. It’s a service for old people – a lot older than you – and people with medical problems, the ones who live alone. But you’ve got Hoffman.’

  ‘You got a live-in nurse,’ said Riker. ‘And you’re still so freaked out, you wear that medallion. Don’t you trust Hoffman to call the ambulance? Afraid she might not like you that much?’

  ‘She can’t be too paranoid,’ said Mallory. ‘She’s already had a stroke.’

  Riker made a show of consulting his notebook for the plunder of Mallory’s raid on insurance-company files. ‘She’s had two strokes.’

  Grace Driscol-Bledsoe had the look of a woman stripped naked in public. She turned to the sound of the roof door opening. Hoffman was running toward them, yelling, hands waving. There were cops in the house. They were everywhere. Everywhere!

  On every landing, doors stood open to reveal the search in progress, men and women in uniforms upending drawers and turning out closets. Two flights away from the ground floor, an officer handed Grace Driscol-Bledsoe the search warrant. She read the text as she spoke to the detectives standing beside her on the stairs. ‘I gather this only pertains to the Hunger Artist?’

  ‘No,’ said Mallory. Once they were assured of getting in the door, she had tacked on a few other charges and more items, like trees and plants. ‘We’re also looking for any loose cash you have lying around.’

  ‘Whoa,’ said Riker. ‘Looks like they found it.’ He backed up against the wall, and the others did the same to make room for uniforms coming down the stairs, carrying clear plastic bags filled with currency.

  Mallory watched the money walk past them. ‘Grace, I don’t think your income will account for all that cash. Large bills, maybe three hundred thousand a bag? Does that sound about right?’ More officers with ba
gs paraded past them. ‘So we’re looking at millions here.’

  The older woman resumed her reading of the warrant. ‘The Driscol Institute owns this house – furnishings, paintings, even the silverware. My lawyers won’t have a problem extending that ownership to cover money, too.’

  As they passed the first door on the next landing, Mallory looked into a room outfitted like a small clinic. ‘You do plan ahead.’ A pantry stood open to reveal an impressive larder of medical supplies. Detective Janos was pointing to shelves of pharmacy bottles as he questioned Hoffman.

  ‘What’s up?’ Riker turned to his partner. ‘She’s got a phobia about hospitals?’

  ‘No, that’s not it,’ said Mallory. ‘If Grace has another stroke, she can’t afford a long hospital stay. There’s a residence clause in the charter – her great-grandfather’s idea to force every heir into keeping his family name. If there isn’t a Driscol in residence for a continuous year, the board of trustees has to sell the mansion.’

  ‘But she’s got a kid,’ said Riker.

  ‘Phoebe’s only a Bledsoe. Blood doesn’t count. Neither one of Grace’s kids had a claim on family income or property. Their mother neglected to add a hyphenated Driscol to their birth certificates. That’s all they needed. It’s spelled out on page five of the charter. I’m sure the family lawyers reminded Grace before the first child was born. I guess she just forgot.’

  ‘Twice.’ Riker turned on the last Driscol. ‘Lady, you’re a piece of work.’

  ‘Grace was only thinking ahead. Strokes run in the family. She wanted to give her kids a reason to keep Mom alive – but not in a nursing home.’ Mallory faced the society matron. ‘And you thought of that when they were only babies – a true long-range planner.’

  ‘You think I’m a—’

  ‘The first time we met,’ said Mallory, ‘you told me what you were. You said monsters are begot by monsters.’