The Chalk Girl

favor with the pedophile’s mother.

For the next hour, the mourners entered the room single file and walked to the casket for the obligatory view of the dead pervert, and this was followed by condolences to the family. One by one, they were dispatched in polite society’s version of the bum’s rush. Riker admired the matriarch’s ability to keep the crowd in motion, quickly withdrawing her hand from one person to offer it to the next in line. Even the mayor was given short shrift. And then it was Rolland Mann’s turn. The acting police commissioner had an anxious look about him. He leaned close to Humphrey’s mother, but he had not gotten out three whispered words before he was dismissed.

The last of the mourners were three stragglers in the clothes of workaday people, a man, a woman and a teenage girl with red hair the same shade as Coco’s.

Phoebe leaned toward her mother, and Riker heard her whisper, ‘Who are those people?’

‘I think those are the Coles,’ said Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe. ‘I only met them once or twice, and the girl was much younger then.’

The three Coles queued up at the coffin and took turns spitting on the corpse.

‘That’s different,’ said Riker.

The pop-eyed funeral director was obviously another Harrow of Harrow and Sons, an older version of Riker’s escort. This distinguished gentleman sucked in his breath, and then, wits recovered, moved toward the desecrators. Mallory snagged him by one arm and pulled him back to the coffin, commanding the man as if he were a dog, saying, ‘Stay.’ Now she followed close behind the little family of vandals. Their leader was angry as he approached the dead man’s mother.

‘Mr Cole, thank you for coming.’ Grace Driscol-Bledsoe said this with surprisingly little sarcasm. The man expelled a huge glob of mucus, and it rolled down the front of the lady’s silk blouse. Without missing a beat, she said, ‘Always a pleasure.’

Mallory and Riker followed the Cole family outside, and there on the sidewalk they learned that these people were residents of a small Connecticut town where Humphrey had attended prep school. The father then held his tongue until his wife and daughter were safely ensconced in a taxi. ‘He raped my child when she was six years old, but the town wouldn’t prosecute. They wouldn’t even arrest him. The parents and the politicians, they did this dirty backroom deal, and that little bastard was sent to a mental institution – more like a spa for rich people. So we sued the parents.’

Riker looked up from his notebook to ask, ‘What grounds?’

‘Negligence. They neglected to warn the town that their son was a monster.’ Mr Cole’s anger and pain seemed brand-new, as if the assault had happened only this morning and not years ago. ‘They knew what their kid was. They always knew. That’s why they settled out of court.’ The man climbed into the waiting taxi, and the damaged little family rolled away.

‘The settlement almost put a small dent in my husband’s stock portfolio.’

The detectives turned around to see Grace Driscol-Bledsoe standing behind them atop the steps of the funeral home.

‘Of course, the lawsuit was ridiculous. It would’ve been dismissed for lack of merit, but my late husband actually gave the Coles more than they asked for.’ She descended the stairs, stopping short of the final step, no doubt liking the advantage of looking down on them. ‘He wanted to spare the little girl a painful court appearance. My John was a sentimental man.’

‘You mean, he knew his kid was a cockroach,’ said Riker. ‘So how did Humphrey wind up with all that money?’

‘When John sold his company, the proceeds went into a trust for our son’s psychiatric care. One condition – the boy would be institutionalized until he was cured.’ She bestowed a patronizing smile on Riker. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Detective. Pedophiles are only cured when they run out of money to pay their therapists. And we did our best to make sure that wouldn’t happen. But after my husband’s death, Humphrey hired lawyers to break the trust fund and get him out of the asylum. The court case dragged on for years. Even after taxes and legal fees, my son had more than a hundred million dollars . . . but only three months to enjoy it.’

‘And now all that money comes back to you,’ said Mallory.

‘So I’m told.’

‘My partner loves money motives,’ said Riker. ‘But I guess we’re looking at an insanity defense, right? Maybe it runs in the family?’

‘Oh, my son wasn’t insane – just a pedestrian little pervert.’

‘He’s talking about Phoebe,’ said Mallory. ‘Your crazy daughter is on our short list.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with her.’

‘What?’ Riker tilted his head to one side. ‘She talks to people who aren’t there.’

‘No, she doesn’t. She only listens.’ Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe’s tone implied that this was a perfectly rational thing to say.

‘Okay,’ said Riker. ‘Phoebe only hears invisible people. That’s still—’

‘That’s a symptom of incompetent therapy, not mental illness. And I can name six people who visit cemeteries and converse with gravestones.’

‘So Phoebe has a psychiatric history,’ said Mallory, ‘and her invisible friend is dead.’

‘Dead and real short,’ said Riker. ‘Kid size. She always looks down when he talks to her.’ And now for a long shot. ‘This invisible, dead kid – what’s his name – Ernest?’

Bonanza.

Riker caught the startled look in the woman’s eye, only a flicker, gone in a second. Then he looked past her to see three men in suits walking down the stairs of the funeral home. Such beautiful suits. They gathered around Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe as she stepped down to the sidewalk. Mallory was focused on the action down the street, where yet another suit was opening the door to a waiting limo, and Phoebe Bledsoe ducked inside of it, escaping.

Riker smiled. ‘Nicely done.’ So the lady had only spoken to them to draw fire from her daughter. ‘But now we have to wonder why Phoebe needs your protection.’

Mallory stepped close to the society matron. Closer – threatening distance. ‘You just moved your own kid to the top of our suspect list.’

Both women were tall, meeting eye to eye, and this had all the makings of a showdown, three hired guns and a diva against Mallory. One of the lawyers whispered in Grace Driscol-Bledsoe’s ear. Evidently, she was that rare client who heeded her legal advisers, and the attorneys walked off with her in the lockstep of a marching band. Another limo door was opened, and the lady vanished.

There was no funeral for the other murder victim from the Ramble. And this was due to lack of interest by the parents of Agatha Sutton. So said the victim’s younger brother when he met the detectives at the door to his sister’s apartment. The boy looked to be in his early twenties, and his teeth were perfect, a hallmark of expensive orthodontia in his childhood. Now the score was three for three; all of the Hunger Artist’s victims had come down from money.

Barry Sutton wore a long-sleeved shirt in the heat of summer, a sure sign that he was covering the needle marks of drug addiction.

‘We’re sorry for your loss,’ said Riker.

‘Save it for someone who cares. My sister was an animal.’ The youngster jangled a ring of keys. ‘Mom and Dad are in Italy for the summer.’ He tried one key in the lock and then another. ‘They won’t be back anytime soon, not on Aggy’s account.’

‘Okay,’ said Riker. ‘How did you get along with your sister?’

‘I didn’t.’ He tried the third key. No luck. ‘Sorry. This is my father’s set. I’ve only been here once before to look at the place with a real-estate agent. My parents bought this condo for Aggy.’

‘Odd they didn’t pony up for her surgery,’ said Mallory. ‘The medical examiner told us your sister had an operable tumor . . . and her symptoms were hard to miss.’

‘Our family doctor warned them that removing the tumor might cure Aggy. They liked her better when she was insane. They could cope with insanity.’

The fourth key turned in the lock, and Barry Sutton led the detectives inside. A simple dress lay on the floor in a pile with a pair of sandals and underwear – the same way they had found Humphrey’s clothing and Willy’s. The killer had also bopped and dropped Aggy a short distance from the door.