The Chalk Girl

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 bags 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.’

Bravado held sway. The lady smiled. ‘Will a jury believe that I strung up three people to cover the murder of my own son? Or will they find a grieving mother sympathetic? Seriously, Mallory, monster to monster, what do you think of my chances?’

Mallory was not listening. Detective Janos was coming toward her, carrying a bottle of chloroform. It should not be here – still here – but there it was.

‘This is comfier than a police lockup.’ Riker opened the door and stepped back. ‘Ladies first.’

His prisoner entered the chicken-wire cage at the end of a long row of such enclosures. She stared at the furniture and tall stacks of cartons. ‘You’re planning to keep me in a warehouse?’

‘Oh, not just any warehouse, Grace. When people die intestate, all their stuff comes here – just till the city can legally steal all the money they leave behind. These things belonged to Ernest Nadler’s parents.’ But now, with the discovery of the will, it might only take another fifteen years to release the little family’s personal effects. The detective opened the small Gladstone bag that Grace had taken from Hoffman on the way out the door. Now he was staring at a pharmacy bottle of liquid and its companion syringe. ‘So you are shooting up.’

‘Give that back! If I have a stroke, there’s only a small window of time to take that shot. It prevents permanent damage.’ One hand closed around her medic-alert medallion, though it was useless in this place so far out of signal range.

‘No problem. When I go, there’ll be a cop posted right here. I’ll leave the needle with him, okay?’ No, he could see that was not okay with her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of begging. Riker rested one hand on the back of an overstuffed armchair. ‘Mallory says this is the best seat.’ He clicked on a floor lamp. ‘A reading light – you’ll need it. My partner spent a lot of time down here, reading Ernie Nadler’s diary. She made a copy just for you.’ He pointed to a stack of Xeroxes on the floor. ‘You’ll wanna get a jump on the evidence before the arrest.’

‘Before the arrest? I’m already—’

‘No, you’re being detained as a person of interest. Until we charge you, there won’t be any phone calls to the lawyers. Not what you expected, huh? Let’s see if I can guess the plan. Halfway through your trial, your lawyer lets it slip that Phoebe’s nuts – hears voices – maybe kills people.’ And now he echoed the words of Aggy Sutton’s brother. ‘Crazy is good. That’s reasonable doubt for a jury.’ He hunkered down to open a carton of Ernie Nadler’s favorite things, his comics – and a nest of baby mice.

Grace Driscol-Bledsoe stared at the mewling, pink vermin with a moue of distaste. ‘Where’s your partner? Why didn’t she come with us?’

‘Mallory thinks I’m wrong.’ Riker pulled out a slightly chewed comic book and leafed through the pages. ‘She bet me twenty bucks you’d never drag your kid into this mess. She says you’ve got other plans for Phoebe. If you have another stroke, you won’t wanna spend the next thirty years in a state nursing home.’

‘You forget. I inherited millions from my son. More than enough to—’

‘Naw, that’ll stay frozen in probate.’ He set down the comic book and pulled out another one. ‘And the cash we found in your house was impounded. If Phoebe’s in jail when you stroke out, the trustees will get you certified incompetent. They’ll dump you in a cheap nursing home and sell the house out from under you. What’s that place worth? Maybe ten million? I bet the trustees sell it for twenty. They’re a greedy bunch, really ruthless. Even Mallory was impressed.’

He laid down the comic book to answer his cell phone. ‘Yeah? . . . It’s a done deal? . . . Good.’ He ended the call and smiled at his prisoner. ‘That was Walt Hamlin, the DA. He says you just lost your job, lady.’

And now he explained what had been going on elsewhere during the long ride to this warehouse. The district attorney had convened a meeting of the Driscol Institute’s board of trustees. All the bags of cash taken from the mansion had been laid out on the boardroom table.

‘I collected that money as cash donations to charity.’

‘Yeah, sure you did. It was the landscaping that nailed you. The DA showed them pictures of your private park on the roof.’ With only these visual suggestions of criminal acts, the trustees had unanimously elected not to go to jail with Grace. ‘It took them six minutes to enforce a morals clause. They voted you out of the director’s chair.’

‘My compliments,’ she said. ‘However, you must know I’ll never do a day in prison.’

‘Maybe not.’ Riker held up the Gladstone bag. ‘But you’ll have a problem paying Hoffman’s salary.’ He opened the bag and took out the syringe. ‘What if she’s not around when you really need this shot?’

‘Where is your partner?’

‘I guess Mallory’s right. You’d never let Phoebe take the fall for you. You need a relative to keep you out of nursing-home hell. You need somebody who gives a crap if your adult diapers get changed now and then. And Phoebe can never leave you. She’s too damaged to make it on her own . . . thanks to good old Mom. That’s the payoff for years of standing by, doing nothing, just watching your kid go nuts.’

‘My daughter’s not insane. She’s a school nurse, a functional, productive—’

‘Crazy Phoebe won’t keep that job much longer. She’s getting wiggier by the day. But she’s still functional enough to spoon-feed you when you can’t even remember her name anymore . . . But what if she finds out why you paid Willy Fallon all that cash?’

Now she was frightened. And so half the job was done. The detective stepped outside the cage and locked the door. As he walked down the corridor, the woman found her voice, and he heard her call out to him.

‘Riker, where is Mallory? What is she doing right now?’