The Chalk Girl

same summer catalogue, and every head of hair was a color found in nature – no more neon highlights or rainbow Mohawks. The oddball madness was long gone – and he missed it.

Riker opened a paper sack and pulled out his recent purchase from a toy store. This chess set was a cheap one, cheesy as they come, with plastic pieces and a board of stiff paper. He had not played this game since Kathy Mallory’s puppy days. After he had taught her enough to finally beat him, the little thief had stolen one of his chessmen as a souvenir, and he had never thought to replace it.

He leaned back. No clouds today. The sun was—

A massive bulk blocked out the light. The detective raised his eyes to see the chief of D’s casing the plaza, looking for faces out of place, an old habit of the fine cop he used to be – back in the days when he was dangerous in a good way.

Joe Goddard looked down at the detective’s sorry plastic chessmen with disdain. ‘You better have something for me.’

‘I do,’ said Riker. ‘I got solid proof that a high-ranking cop buried evidence of murder. Actually, he was just sitting on it. But that’s a firing offense, right? And maybe some jail time for obstruction.’

‘It took you guys long enough.’ The chief sat down on the other side of the small table. ‘Let’s see it.’

Riker took his time fumbling in his pockets for a match. He lit a cigarette and killed a few more seconds exhaling a blue cloud of smoke. Then he tapped the board in an invitation to play. ‘White or black?’

‘What?’ The chief’s eyes narrowed with the understanding that there was another kind of game in the works. ‘You don’t wanna screw with me, Riker.’ And never mind the rule of white goes first. The chief picked up a black pawn and slammed it down on an adjoining square. The other pieces rattled. ‘Time’s running out for you and your partner – especially your partner.’

The detective nudged a white pawn two squares down the board. Next, he borrowed a leaf from the Mallory Manual for Survival in Copland: When in trouble with the boss, shoot first. ‘You lied to us.’ Riker slipped sheets of paper off his lap and laid them down on the edge of the table. This was Goddard’s own evidence, copies of Patrolman Kayhill’s old notes, written fifteen years ago on the night a child was cut down from a tree.

Silence. Then came the slam of another black pawn. ‘Explain yourself, or kiss your badge goodbye.’

Riker’s move. ‘That doesn’t scare me.’ He launched another white pawn. ‘But I’m so good at my job, sometimes I scare myself.’ His eyes were on the chessboard, and, for all he knew, the chief was pointing a gun at his head. ‘You were right about Officer Kayhill. Alzheimer’s fried his brain.’ He looked up to see a flicker of surprise cross the chief’s face – just a flicker. ‘The nursing home tells me his wife died a while back. These days, Kayhill only has one visitor – and it’s not you. So I had to wonder how you got the old guy’s personal notes. I looked up his daughter. Nice lady. She lives on Staten Island. That’s where Kayhill was transferred the day after he found the Nadler kid strung up in the Ramble.’

In quick succession, more pawns were moved to open the backfield for the power pieces, and one of Riker’s captured chessmen went flying off the board to clatter on the asphalt. ‘Kayhill’s daughter remembers you coming out to the island to see her old man. You were a captain then – like visiting royalty. She’s not sure exactly when you showed up, but she says they were still unpacking boxes from the move. I figure that’s when you collected her father’s personal notes on the Ramble assault. I bet I can pin that date down to Rocket Mann’s first big promotion. Did that get your attention? Him going from a baby dick to a gold shield?’

Goddard’s bishop was rushing down the board in a play of sudden death, when Riker said, ‘Fifteen years ago, Officer Kayhill had no ID for the park victim. So . . . it took me a while to figure out how you made the jump to Ernest Nadler.’

The chief flung a captured pawn at the low stone wall with enough force to crack the plastic man. ‘I told you . . . and your partner. The Nadler kid was missing three days before—’

‘His death certificate was issued a month later,’ said Riker. ‘If he died from his injuries, it was murder. No other way to read it. But you couldn’t find any record of an investigation. You knew Rocket Mann buried that case. You’ve known it for fifteen years. Oh, and thanks for giving us your old copy of the Nadler kid’s death certificate. Funny thing about that. I mean the date – but not the day the boy died. You picked up your copy the next day – when it was filed at the Hall of Records.’

This time, a white pawn landed quietly in the grass – ten yards away. The chief turned back to the detective. ‘You don’t know when I—’

‘Yeah, I do.’ Riker pushed a chessman to another square, and it hung out there alone in a dangerous neighborhood of the board. ‘So I know you kept tabs on Ernest Nadler for a solid month. It’s like you were just . . . waiting for that little kid to die.’

One move of the black bishop and a swipe of the chief’s hand cleared the white pawn from the table. This one bounced twice. ‘You’re fired.’

‘I’m so fucking good at my job, I don’t think I’ll ever get fired.’ The detective countered with his white rook and watched the chief’s bishop retreat – though the piece was not in peril. Riker’s queen was. Goddard could have taken it, but now he was dragging out the kill. It was the kind of play that said, You wanna dance? Okay, we’ll dance . . . for a while. The chief laced his fingers together and waited on the detective’s next move.

‘Your copy of the death certificate has an issue date,’ said Riker. ‘It’s hand- stamped – real light. It could’ve passed for a smudge. Not surprising you missed that detail.’ He laid a different copy of the document on the table. ‘Here, see? It showed up better on this Xerox – after I jumped up the toner in the machine. The heavy ink brings out the numbers. That’s a trick I learned from an old buddy in Documents. Fifteen years ago, you had solid proof that Rocket Mann buried the kid’s murder – and you sat on it – ’cause you knew it would come in handy one day. So now you’re wondering who else knows? . . . Nobody. I put your copy in an evidence bag. Then I went down to the Hall of Records and got me a new one.’

With the swipe of one hand, the chief wiped the board clean. The detective never broke eye contact as he listened to the chinks of plastic chessmen raining on the ground.

‘What do you want, Riker?’

And what did he want? Well, job security for his partner. But what he said was, ‘Names and numbers. The ones you pulled from Mann’s phone. You remember – that throwaway you found in the trash?’ Riker pulled out his own cell and clicked through pictures till he came to one of Rolland Mann tossing his phone. ‘I took that shot the day we interviewed him. You wanted us to flush him out. We did. And then we tailed him. I counted three calls while we were following Rocket Mann – and you.’ Riker called up another picture.

Chief Goddard looked down at the tiny screen to see a photograph of himself rutting around in a city trashcan for Rolland Mann’s thrown-away cell phone.

‘There was no time for a connection on his first two calls,’ said Riker, ‘but the guy had a conversation on the third try.’ When the chief hesitated, Riker folded his arms. ‘Why would you even wanna hold out on us? You plan to keep that weasel for a pet? Or do you want him gone?’ The detective opened his notebook to a clean page, and he pulled out a pen. ‘Who did Rocket Mann call that day?’

‘Three calls,’ said the chief, ‘but two of them went to the same number.’

The detective scribbled Goddard’s next words in a quick line ending with a question mark. Then he folded his notebook and rose from the table. ‘Oh, while I was down at the Hall of Records? I noticed your name was still on file – and the date you picked up your copy of Ernest Nadler’s death certificate . . . but I don’t think anybody’s gonna go looking through those old records.’ He shrugged. ‘Why would they?’ Ah, but now – an afterthought. ‘Well, Mallory might – if she knew about this.’ He held up an evidence bag with the chief’s own copy of the document, and he left it on the chessboard as a gesture of goodwill – and checkmate.

Riker had arrested cops before, but he had never extorted one. In mere proximity to Mallory, people’s better angels were always dropping like dead houseflies.

Rolland Mann returned home in the middle of the day. His wife dropped a glass from her shaky hand, and it shattered on the kitchen floor. She was terrified. Did he reprimand her? No, he never did that. Long ago, he had become accustomed to her panic attacks, though they had always been occasioned by a fear of public places.

In their early years together, she had preferred to remain indoors, so afraid of being recognized. And now she was housebound. At home, she always felt safe – until now.

He led her into the living room, and they sat down together on the couch. He glanced at the suitcase she had