The Chalk Girl (31 page)

‘That’s Charles Butler, a psychologist. Sometimes we use him as an expert witness.’ ADA Carlyle looked up to see her eyes, manic and angry.
Crazy bitch
. ‘You don’t want to fool with him, Miss Fallon. Dr Butler comes from old money – bluer blood than yours – and some of his best friends carry guns.’

But who was the child on the small screen? Butler had no offspring.

In the next shot on Willy’s cell-phone screen, the little girl held hands with a menacing brute. Janos? Yes, that was the name of this detective from Special Crimes Unit. And then Carlyle noticed the large decorative numbers on a building’s front door. He shook his head.
No!
This was the address on the search warrant. Bimbo socialites could be dangerously stupid. What the hell had she been doing at Toby Wilder’s place?
Now
he was afraid. He snatched the phone from her hand for a better look at the picture. Who was this child? Why would a detective watch over her? And then the answer came to him. Oh,
Christ
. Another little girl with red hair.

Willy broke into his reverie, yelling, ‘Hey!’ And when she had
his attention, she banged on the desk. ‘You told the cops about us, didn’t you?’

‘I never did.’

‘Make it all go away! That’s what you do, isn’t it?’

While his visitor ranted on, he transferred the child’s pictures from her phone to his own.

The two detectives watched from their parked car on Hogan Place as Willy Fallon left the massive gray building that housed the District Attorney’s Office and an army of more than five hundred lawyers.

Riker answered a ringtone, listened a moment and then said to his partner, ‘It’s Janos. He says Carlyle just called Rocket Mann.’

‘There’s our guy.’ Mallory pointed to the officer in blue jeans and shades.

Arthur Chu was the perfect surveillance cop for a multi-ethnic town. He had his mother’s curly brown hair, his father’s Asian eyes and a Bronx accent. With only a few accessories, a cap or sunglasses to wear or discard, he could blend in anywhere, and his baby face was a bonus. No one would ever peg him for a cop. At twenty-six, Mallory’s age, Chu looked years younger, more like a high-school kid.

In the rearview mirror, Riker watched the shadow cop follow Willy down the sidewalk and disappear around a corner. Since Mallory’s return to town four weeks ago, she had never taken any notice of this youngster. And now that she was aware of him, Riker could only hope that the boy would not screw up.

‘Is Chu any good?’

‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘Arty worked one of my cases while you were gone. I don’t think the kid slept for three days. He’s real eager to please.’ Oh, poor choice of words. In Malloryspeak, that translated as a weakness.

Her cell phone rang, and Riker held up a ten-dollar bill. ‘I bet that’s him now.’

‘No bet.’ Mallory showed him Chu’s name on her cell screen, and then, with a click, she was connected to the young cop and demanding to know, ‘What happened?’ She turned to Riker, shaking her head to tell him that nothing had happened – and she was not happy. Her voice was testy when she spoke to the cop on the phone. ‘You don’t have to call in your position every six seconds.’

Riker took the cell phone from her hand, and his tone was friendly when he said to Officer Chu, ‘Arty? If Willy kills somebody, you can call that in. Otherwise – just take notes.’

Rolland Mann stepped off the elevator and walked down the hall to his apartment. His workday was far from over, but he had to know – would Annie still be there? Every phone call had gone to the answering machine. And though it was not uncommon for his wife to let the calls ring through, his anxiety had been ratcheting up all day. He opened his front door and found her huddled on the floor beside a packed suitcase, weeping again – frightened again.

Kneeling down beside his wife, he said to her, so gently, ‘It’s okay, Annie. I’m not mad.’

Annie was slow to gain her legs, and then she was unsteady. He picked her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, where he laid her down and covered her with a quilt. After a search of the nightstand drawer, he selected a bottle from her stash of pharmaceuticals. When she had taken the dose he gave her and chased it with water, he sat down on the bed, watching over her until the sleeping pill did its work. Her eyes closed.

He needed her – and feared her. Did she know how much power she had over him?

Rolland fetched her suitcase from the front room and unpacked
it. While folding her clothes into dresser drawers, he whispered, so as not to wake her, ‘Better luck next time, Annie.’

Turning on his cell phone, he checked the calls that had gone to voice mail. One message from ADA Carlyle was brief – ‘Call me.’ But more was said by the whining tone of the recorded voice and by the companion photographs that appeared on Rolland’s screen. The first one was a snapshot of a little girl standing outside of Toby Wilder’s apartment building with Charles Butler, a police consultant. In the next shot, she was holding the hand of Detective Janos from Special Crimes.

Unusual child – and familiar. He could place her now. On the day of the funeral, while he stood in line with the other mourners, this little girl had walked past him, hand in hand with Detective Mallory.

Was she one of Humphrey Bledsoe’s victims? That freak always had a penchant for very young redheads. Another thought occurred to him as he pocketed his phone and collected his keys and ran for the front door.

The child was a witness
.

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.’