The Chalk Girl

packed and left by the door – as if she could ever leave. On the coffee table, a newspaper was opened to the continuing story of the Hunger Artist and three victims strung up in the Ramble. Though they had never spoken of it, perhaps they should. Annie was clearly making connections. Tomorrow’s newspaper might hint at a new development in the case, a tie to a little boy who died long ago – and the double suicide of Mr and Mrs Nadler. That would send his nervous wife right over the screaming edge.

He had never told her how the boy’s parents had died.

Mallory unbagged lunch for two, spreading cartons of noodles and pork fried rice across the joined desks. She looked up at her partner, suspicious when she said, ‘Really – how did you get Chief Goddard to give up the numbers?’

‘I told you. I traded my cell-phone picture of him with his head in that trashcan.’ Brat. She never liked his stories. Riker flipped through his notebook. ‘Rocket Mann’s first call was to Grace Driscol-Bledsoe. Just time enough to go to voice mail, no time for a message. The second call was to his home number. Three seconds. Then he calls home again. That one lasted three minutes. Who’s he talking to – an answering machine? He’s got no kids, no wife.’

THIRTY-FOUR

The hall is crowded when a hand comes over my shoulder and into my shirt pocket. Then I feel another hand in the back pocket of my pants – and another one. Later, in the school garden, behind a tree, I pull out the three notes. They all say the same thing, ‘Soon!’

—Ernest Nadler

Their ears would lift up if they were only dogs. That was Jack Coffey’s thought when every man in the squad room turned toward the sound of clicking high heels. But this was no sweet young thing coming their way, and the detectives returned to their work – all except Riker. Like a gawker watching a slow train wreck in the making, the detective’s eyes followed the society matron as she walked down the aisle of desks. A boxcar line of lawyers and the companion Hoffman trailed behind her.

Lieutenant Coffey could have predicted this visit within an hour of the motion filed to freeze the probate of Humphrey Bledsoe’s estate. With a slight nod of acknowledgment, Grace Driscol-Bledsoe sailed past him and through the door to his private office, where her followers filled the space to standing room only. Coffey signaled for Riker to join the party.

The detective took his own time, gathering papers from his desk, and he made a call to Mallory, letting her know that all the lawyers had turned out in force. Silence prevailed in Coffey’s office until Riker walked in and announced, ‘My partner loves money motives.’ He handed the lady a transcript of her son’s school records. ‘Your kid wasn’t too bright. Mallory thinks busting the trust fund wasn’t Humphrey’s own idea. Did you give him a hand with that?’

‘As you already know, Detective, I detested my son. Why would I help him?’

Good point. As mother material, this woman rivaled Medea.

Riker grinned. ‘Humphrey’s millions – that’s a motive. You had no way to get at it, not while your kid was locked up in that asylum. And we gotta wonder where all that money came from.’

‘I told you. My late husband funded Humphrey’s—’

‘Yeah, yeah. He was a political consultant. A lobbyist, right? There’s a lot of cash in peddling influence. We think his racket was tied to the Driscol Institute. And that’s where you come in, lady.’

The lawyers spoke over one another’s threats until Coffey yelled, ‘Hey! You’re in my house now! Shut the hell up!’ He turned a smile on Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe. In a more civil tone, he asked, ‘So . . . how dirty was your husband’s money?’

The lady smiled, enjoying this. ‘Is it relevant to my son’s murder?’

‘You bet,’ said Riker. ‘If your husband saw an audit coming his way, the kid’s trust fund was a great holding pen for the whole fortune. But the guy didn’t count on dying young – or his son busting that trust. Then Humphrey gets murdered, and all those millions come back to you – washed clean. Killing your own kid is an original method of laundering money. We’ve never seen it done that way before.’

Still smiling, she said, ‘And you think I’m capable of that.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Riker, ‘but it’s not my job to flatter you. So you don’t wanna help us close this case? Fine by me. If nobody stands trial for your son’s murder, we can freeze Humphrey’s millions for the next hundred years. Or not. It’s our call.’

Jack Coffey was watching the expressions of the attorneys. They all worried in silence. And now he knew the bluff was going to pan out. The lady’s face was not so easy to read.

But then she asked, ‘How may I help you?’

Dead Ernest was only the flotsam of scattered thoughts today. Phoebe Bledsoe sat alone at the table – so very thirsty – waiting for a waitress to notice her, but they kept passing her by – a typical day at the top of the lunch-hour rush, though she went unnoticed in every crowd at any hour.

When Toby Wilder walked into the restaurant, he did not see her, either – except as an appendage of her usual table. If she were not here, he might only notice that a piece of the furniture was missing. But now, as the young man settled in a chair by the window, his eyes fixed on a new arrival, and he could not look away.

Phoebe turned to see the detective, the insane one, standing just inside the open door. The heads of other diners were also turning to look at this tall, pretty blonde. Invisible Phoebe held her breath as Mallory’s searching gaze settled on Toby Wilder, and the woman showed a flash of recognition.

Oh, no, not him.

And then Detective Mallory’s green eyes moved on – slowly – like gun sights, seeking, seeking. Gotcha.

Phoebe flinched.

The detective stepped up to the table and pulled out a chair. ‘Mind if I sit with you for a few minutes?’ Her voice seemed so normal today, words rising and falling with human inflections.

‘I’m not supposed to talk to you, Detective – not without an attorney present.’

‘Right now, the lawyers are all tied up with your mother. Call me Mallory.’ She remained standing as she looked around the room, then zeroed in on a passing waitress and, with only one raised hand, stopped that frazzled woman in her tracks. Apparently, Mallory had superpowers, for now the waitress came to her, smiling, eagerly offering up a menu – only one menu – because Phoebe was invisible.

A hand went to Mallory’s hip, and the waitress was at a loss to understand what had displeased her. The detective pointed to Phoebe and said, ‘I’m with her.’

The invisible woman was promptly promoted to a very important person. Now Phoebe listened to a recital of the day’s specials and was asked for her preference in salad dressings. A busboy was flagged down, and his tray was raided for a basket of breadsticks and buns, silverware – and an icy glass of water.

So thirsty. Thank you, thank you.

When the waitress had departed with the luncheon order, Mallory settled into a chair on the other side of the table. Her face was not unfriendly, and there was nothing crazy about her eyes today; they were merely unsettling. ‘I’m curious about the family finances. When your father set up Humphrey’s trust fund, was that like a bribe so your brother wouldn’t leave the asylum?’

‘A bribe? No, that trust couldn’t be revoked. So it’s not like Daddy could threaten to take the money back. And the trust income wasn’t paid to Humphrey. It went to his custodian, the asylum.’

‘So your brother was a cash cow . . . and the doctors were never going to let him go.’

‘Ironically, that was the argument his lawyers used to break the trust fund and get him released.’

‘And what about you, Phoebe? You got nothing when your father died. He didn’t care about you at all. Did that make you angry?’

‘He loved me.’ There was no defensiveness in Phoebe’s tone. This was more like a schoolgirl delivery of incontrovertible fact. The earth revolves around the sun, and Daddy loved me.

Nodding, the detective appeared to have no quarrel with this. There was only curiosity in her voice when she