The Chalk Girl

maybe hallucinating.’ Jack Coffey pushed a yellow pad across his desk. ‘And put it in writing.’

She did. And when she had left his office, he turned to the street window and looked down at the foot traffic on the sidewalk below. It took him a while to locate Officer Chu among the locals. The young shadow cop was that good at blending in. The lieutenant kept watch until Willy Fallon left the building – and Chu followed her down the street.

The assistant district attorney with the yellow bowtie had no secretary of his own, no gatekeeper to turn away stoned socialites. But Cedrick Carlyle had no fear. Mr and Mrs Fallon, the power couple of Fallon Industries, had retired from public life to hide behind the walls of the family compound in Connecticut, a safe haven where their daughter was persona non grata.

Willy Fallon leaned over his desk, clicking through pictures on her cell phone to show him shots of a man who was giant size in proportion to a redheaded child. ‘Who is this guy?’

‘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.

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