The Chalk Girl

Coco spun her hands as she shifted from one foot to the other in her little dance of stress. Then she wrapped her thin arms around the detective and held on tight. Her face lifted to show Mallory a smile forced wide. Her eyes were desperate, silently imploring love me, love me, love me . . . please, oh, please.

‘No more stories,’ said Mallory. ‘I need the truth.’

The child shook her head, uncomprehending, her eyes full of hurt, a prelude to tears.

‘I need to know where you were hiding,’ said Mallory. ‘This is important.’

‘That’s enough!’ said the voice of authority from the foyer. ‘Not one more word!’

Both detectives turned toward the front door, not recognizing this tone, not from the very civil Charles Butler, who was bearing down on them, crossing the room in long strides. He picked up the little girl and rocked her in his arms, the gentlest of giants now. He smiled with his clown’s face. And Coco smiled. All was well. She rested her head on Charles’s shoulder and never saw his eyes turn hard when he looked at Mallory.

He handed the child off to Riker and said, ‘Take her downstairs. I’ll collect her when I’m done here.’

And Riker, who took orders from no one, did as he was told – siding against his own partner, and Mallory planned to make him pay for that.

Charles sank his hands deep into his pockets, where they balled into fists, so politely hiding that single display of anger. And his voice dropped into the calm range of an offhand remark. ‘So what’s next for Coco? Waterboarding? Thumbscrews?’

NINE

On the way home from school, we stop off for a slice of pizza – Phoebe’s treat. She says there’s an upside to what they did to me today. I’ve marked my place in the annals of school history. She says, ‘They’ll never get that bloodstain out.’

—Ernest Nadler

It had been the small joke of a desk sergeant to assign a flaming hypochondriac to the Upper West Side hospital, where a crime victim was under twenty-four-hour guard.

The young, germ-phobic Officer Wycoff sat in a metal chair on the intensive care ward, a large room of pale green walls and medicinal smells. A hub of technology – lights blinking, screens blipping – was manned by doctors in green scrubs and nurses in white, who monitored equipment when they were not hurrying to and fro; and all around them, beds were sectioned off by privacy curtains in pastel colors. The pink curtain behind the police officer’s chair concealed the comatose man from the Ramble.

Officer Wycoff had come prepared with reading material, a thick pile of computer printouts, to pass the time. And now, on the second day of his tour of duty, he was an Internet expert on all things regarding comas and dehydration. He was also vigilant in the extreme; he knew all the websites for hospital horror stories, all the ways that medical personnel could kill the patients, both deliberately and stupidly. No one got past him; not one doctor or nurse was allowed to touch the privacy curtain without first producing identification to back up the names on their hospital badges. And he took notes, by God. He knew all their names and addresses.

After the caregivers passed scrutiny, the policeman personally supervised every treatment, each change of IV bag and the catheter, too. He kept watch on monitors for machines that tracked vital signs of faint heart and failing kidneys. The staff found it unnerving to have medical decisions questioned by a man with a gun. However, to the officer’s credit, he had caught a conflict of medication during one of his many perusals of the coma victim’s chart.

So . . . if this civilian in street clothes, standing before him, thought she had a chance in hell of just waltzing past that curtain to see his patient, she had been cruelly misinformed.

‘What’s your name?’

An easy enough question, but apparently she was stumped.

Detective Mallory opened all the drapes to light up the front room of the apartment owned by Humphrey Bledsoe, alias Uncle Red. ‘That kid can tell me what happened here, but she won’t. And I know she’s not retarded.’

‘Right you are,’ said Charles. ‘Coco is very smart . . . and creative. She doesn’t believe Uncle Red was turned into a tree. But a nice story is so much better than a frightening reality that she cannot deal with. She’s only eight years old.’

Oh, huge mistake. Mallory so disliked having obvious things pointed out to her.

‘You don’t want to get between me and a case! I need—’

‘Mallory, shut up! Just listen.’

And she did shut up, but only because she was surprised to hear these words from him of all people. And so he had bought a moment to compose himself. Charles walked to a window that overlooked the planetarium across the street. He understood the child’s limitations and Mallory’s. ‘When you were her age, I know you went through worse things. But Coco isn’t like you.’ He turned around to see a hint of anger in her eyes. Perhaps Mallory had inferred that this spoke well of the little girl – this lack of likeness to herself. To put her straight, he said, ‘That child doesn’t have your coping skills. I wish she did.’

And now he risked that other crime against Mallory, a repetition of facts already in evidence, but he was past caring what might offend her. ‘Coco was kidnapped, ripped out of the only world she knew. She also witnessed the violence of a man stripped and bound and carried off. Then she dared to go outside in the dark and confront a strange city, where she had nothing and no one. And she followed a sadistic killer into the Ramble – this little girl who has trouble with shoelaces and buttons. She was coming undone, breaking down, shutting down. And then you came along, Mallory. And finally Coco had somebody. That child only lives to please you.’ He waved one hand toward the window and its view of the planetarium. ‘She gave you the damn moon in a box.’ Never mind the small technicality that it was really the sun. ‘What a gift. What an ingrate you are.’

Was Mallory paying attention? No, she was looking down at the floor, finding a pile of discarded clothing miles more interesting.

‘This is where the perp assaulted Humphrey Bledsoe and bagged him,’ she said. ‘I need to know where Coco was hiding when this went down. If she saw the perp, maybe he saw her, too. A sadist could be looking for that kid.’ Mallory smiled, and he wished she would not, for this was hardly a happy smile, not at all friendly. ‘But you’re right to take her away from me, Charles. You’re so right.’ And her sarcasm said he was so wrong. ‘I only wanted to keep that kid alive. What was I thinking? I must be a sociopath.’

This last word was put out there to hang in the air between them like a dare. This was the way she had been characterized in Dr Kane’s psych evaluation for the NYPD. But Charles had been her champion in this matter, and he was her defender to this day, this moment. ‘I would never believe that of you.’ He would not – even if he knew it to be true.

She stepped closer to study his face. Was she waiting for the red bloom in his cheeks that killed all possibility of deception and every chance of winning at cards? Well, she would not see him blush, not today. He was telling the truth. He would stake his own heart on the hope that she might also have one.

Lieutenant Coffey listened as an uptown desk sergeant told him on the telephone, ‘The coma guy’s got a visitor.’ That young woman was being detained by the officer on hospital guard duty. ‘And you got another leak in your case.’

After the lieutenant thanked the man for this brand-new wound to his stomach lining, he ended the call with a slammed-down receiver. Without opening the door of his office, he yelled loud enough to be heard by the entire squad, ‘Who’s got a copy of the Daily!’ He turned to his window on the outer room to see more than a few hands go up; this was not a Wall Street Journal crowd.

Janos rose from his desk with a newspaper in hand. The man was built like a refrigerator that could walk and