The Chalk Girl

TWENTY-SEVEN

While I’m getting dressed for school, my father walks into my room. He sees the bites and bruises all over my body. My mother would’ve screamed. Dad only gives me a slow nod. I think he’s commending me for not ratting out the kids who beat me senseless every day. And then he leaves without a word. No help. I’m on my own. I can take a beating without tears, but my father – who never raised a hand to me – he makes me cry.

—Ernest Nadler

The visitor had not been announced, and the police officer who guarded the door was gone.

‘He’ll be back in a few minutes, Dr Butler.’ Rolland Mann held out a business card that identified him as a deputy police commissioner. ‘Mind if I come in?’

In fact, Charles did mind. ‘I hear Commissioner Beale is in the hospital. How’s he doing?’

‘He’s back in surgery.’ The acting commissioner, a person of merely average height, craned his neck to look up at the tall psychologist. ‘There was a complication.’

‘Sorry to hear it.’ Charles was doubly sorry, lacking a good impression of this man next in line for Beale’s job. He had been repulsed by the filmed interrogation of the schoolboy Toby Wilder. And now he was also put off by the visitor’s furtive movements and darting glances into the apartment. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve come to see our star witness.’ By the flicker of eyes and a pursed mouth, Rolland Mann gave himself away. He was clearly fishing, testing waters.

Charles knew he could not lie to this man – or anyone else for that matter. By telltale blush, he had been genetically programmed to be truthful. However, by another accident of birth, he could play the fool without even trying. He smiled, realizing that this somewhat goofy expression always made him the clown in the room. Tilting his head to one side, he was the very portrait of a clueless simpleton. And it was unnecessary to add, Witness? What witness?

The politician flashed him a condescending smile. ‘The little red-haired girl, where is she?’

‘My ward? She’s taking a nap.’

‘Dr Butler, this is police business. I need a few words with the girl – alone.’

‘No, I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

Rolland Mann stepped forward to enter the apartment. So obviously accustomed by rank to having people move out of his way, now he was confronted by the immovable object of Coco’s guardian, who leaned down and said, so politely, ‘It’s not going to happen.’

‘I’ve known Toby Wilder for most of his life. I can tell you that much.’ The white-haired man looked at each detective in turn, though he never looked either one of them in the eye. This was a common enough quirk in New York City, and all too common was the evasiveness of his entire breed. ‘And now that you know the boy is represented by counsel, all your questions must go through me.’

Damn all lawyers.

The private office of Anthony Queen was not tidy, but it did show signs of a recent and suspicious cleanup. A blank space on the attorney’s wall outlined the typical shape of a calendar recently taken down. His desk was clear of all paperwork, and there was no appointment book, no Rolodex, only a tumbler of pens and pencils. This bit of housekeeping had probably been done in a hurry upon hearing that cops were at the door.

Mallory shot a glance at the secretary, a plump, motherly soul lurking on the threshold. And now, judging by the expression of Oh, dear, this woman correctly deduced that the game was up.

Maybe this had been the lawyer’s idea of a joke, and he was good at it. The performance showed longtime practice almost to perfection. Almost. But now – the police critique. Mallory picked up a sharp pencil and sailed it point-first past the old man’s head. By quick birdlike turns, Anthony Queen first reacted to the noise of the little missile hitting the wall behind him – and then to his secretary’s sudden intake of breath.

‘So I’m guessing,’ said Riker, ‘all the papers with those funny little Braille dots got shoved in a drawer before we walked in. Am I right?’

‘Stone blind,’ said Mallory. ‘No wonder his client wound up in jail.’

‘Juvenile detention,’ said the blind man, correcting her, but smiling to say that he took no offense. As Mallory had taken his measure, he had taken hers and apparently pronounced her worthy, for now he inclined his white head a bare inch, courtly as a bow, and waved one hand toward the chairs in front of his desk. ‘Please sit down.’

The detectives remained standing, and Queen must have guessed this by the lack of the scraping noise that chair legs would make on a bare wood floor. He continued to look up at them, turning his sightless eyes on Riker and then to the place where Mallory should be. But she had moved around the desk to stand by the lawyer’s side, so stealthy that she startled him when leaning down to say, ‘Toby Wilder doesn’t have a job, and he didn’t have a rap sheet after his release.’

‘No petty theft,’ said Riker, ‘no breaking-and-entering charges. So we wondered where the kid got the money to support his drug habit.’

The old man shook his head to tell them that this was the first he had heard of any drug use. The secretary was also surprised. Their reactions might be genuine. With ready cash to feed a habit and stave off withdrawal symptoms, a junkie could pass for clean and sober seven days a week. Even addicted surgeons managed their habits with steady hands.

So Toby Wilder was a maintenance addict.

What more could she do to trip the blind man? ‘We know you’re supporting his drug habit. All his money comes from you.’

The lawyer shook his head again. ‘I can’t discuss his—’

Mallory pressed folded sheets of paper into his hand. ‘Those are your client’s bank records. All his deposit checks are signed by you.’ But she knew little more than that. This attorney had no computer that she could plunder. She turned to the row of file cabinets that would contain his hard-copy records. Luddites would always pose obstacles.

‘Of course I sign the boy’s checks. I’m the executor of his mother’s estate. And Toby’s taxes are done by my own CPA. Everything is in order.’

‘You’re not a criminal lawyer,’ said Riker. ‘Not a trial lawyer. You only handle wills and trusts, but you were at Toby Wilder’s arraignment fifteen years ago.’

Too subtle.

Mallory leaned in close. ‘Whose idea was it to hobble that kid with a blind attorney?’

The old man’s eyebrows arched. His smile was sporting, and his voice was maddeningly pleasant when he said, ‘I went to court that day as a favor to Toby’s mother. The judge had already appointed a criminal lawyer, but I didn’t know that – not at the time – and neither did Mrs Wilder.’ He turned his sightless eyes from one detective to the other. ‘I knew you’d find that interesting.’

‘You were the one who entered the plea of not guilty,’ said Mallory.

‘True,’ said the lawyer. ‘That’s when the prosecutor – I think his name was Carlyle – he pulled me aside and informed me about a plea bargain . . . and a confession. You see, when the police brought the child in for questioning, apparently a detective had Susan Wilder sign a waiver of parental rights. And that was another surprise. She had no idea what she’d signed away. Did I mention that Toby’s mother was blind? That’s how we met. Susan was a teacher. She taught me to read Braille when I lost my sight.’

Mallory and her partner exchanged glances. Rocket Mann had tricked a blind woman.

Rolland Mann pressed one hand flat against the door, deluded that he could keep it open that way. ‘Dr Butler, I’m giving you a lawful police order. Stand aside. I will talk to that little girl.’

‘Oh, no. I’ve seen the way you talk to children. That old interrogation tape of Toby Wilder? That was brutal.’

Mann was looking past him and, with more urgency now, renewed his efforts to gain entry. ‘Let me in!’

Charles turned his head to see Coco standing behind him and clearly disturbed by the angry voice from the hall. Her hands were spinning, and her body was weaving from side to side.

Rolland Mann put all his weight against the door and yelled, ‘Don’t make me call that cop back up here!’

And now, as if the smaller man weighed no more than a bothersome fly, Charles easily pushed him into the hall by simply closing the door. Rolland Mann beat on the wood, and the pounding grew louder as each of three dead-bolt locks was secured.

Coco put her hands to her ears and ran down the hall.

Charles caught up to her in the guest room. She sat on the bed, tailor-fashion – rocking, rocking, as her little world tilted, all at sea. She held the one-button cell phone in both hands and held on tight, as if it were her lifeboat. And it was.

He gently took it from her hands. ‘Good idea. Let’s call Mallory, shall we?’

‘I’ve never heard of Ernest Nadler,’ said the lawyer. ‘Toby was charged in the death of an unidentified wino.’

Riker stepped closer to the blind man’s desk. ‘Where was Toby’s father while this was going on?’

‘Long gone,’ said Anthony Queen. ‘Mr Wilder abandoned his family when Toby was ten. I only know that much because I had the man declared legally dead. Susan wanted to sell her condo, and the absent husband was a cloud on the title.’

‘Let’s get back to that bogus waiver,’ said Mallory, ‘the one that signed away the mother’s parental rights. Did you even bother to challenge it?’

‘Of course I did. And the judge was ready to hit the prosecutor with his gavel. Toby was a minor, a child. So I insisted that his confession be tossed. But then the court-appointed lawyer showed up. He was hired by the Driscol School. Very pricey legal talent – way out of my league. I can’t disclose the con versation in chambers, but when court resumed, Toby pled guilty to a charge of manslaughter. The plea-bargain arrange ment killed the boy’s right of appeal, but his mother and I filed a complaint against Detective Mann. Two angry blind people. I always wondered if they were laughing at us, those policemen at Internal Affairs. I imagine they made a paper airplane out of Susan’s statement. It took me four years to get Toby out on early release. His mother was dying. I bought them a year to say goodbye.’

Behind him, Riker heard Mallory’s cell phone ring. A moment later, he turned around, and she was gone.

Rolland Mann’s secretary did not look up from the screen of her computer. Miss Scott wore a secretive, joyful little smile, and he assumed that she had found another job. No doubt he would find her letter of resignation on his desk. But that was not the surprise that awaited him when he opened the door to his private office.

A detective was seated at his desk – leaning back in his chair – just begging to be fired for gross insubordination. ‘Mallory, are you insane?’

‘Oh, yeah. Ask anybody.’ She lifted a newspaper from the desk blotter to expose a weapon lying there, and it was not a police-issue semi-automatic. It was a revolver – a big one.

Rolland observed the traditional body language for dealing with a whack-job cop: the missed beat of the heart, the tension of every muscle, the gaping dry mouth.

The detective’s face was a mask, and neither was there any expression in her voice when she said, ‘Charles Butler tells me you have an interest in a little girl . . . He called it an unhealthy interest.’ She picked up the revolver and studied its muzzle. Now she showed emotion – she loved the gun.

He felt a cold wetness spreading on his crotch. Rolling down his legs. The smell of piss was in the air.

Point taken.

Mallory holstered her weapon and left the office.