The Chalk Girl

The detectives stepped out of the car and walked up Central Park West. As they turned the corner onto a quiet side street, Mallory made a cell-phone call to CSU and tortured Heller with the news that a little girl had done what his team could not do: Coco had identified makes and models for the winch and drill used by the Hunger Artist. And then she suggested that he take his botched chloroform test and farm it out to a lab with better equipment, adding that she was fresh out of children to develop more evidence.

Riker could easily fill in the gaps of this conversation with obscenities, and when her call had ended, he asked, ‘Did Heller make any death threats?’

‘No, he’s in a good mood today. He says we’re even now.’

What? Had Heller forgiven Mallory for hog-tying and bagging his new CSI? Naw – not a chance. However, she had trained CSI Pollard to pay attention to details, and Heller might see that as a win. But why share this thought with her? Why spoil her day?

The next call was made to District Attorney Hamlin. The man had received Charles Butler’s hastily written affidavit, and then he had found a judge to sign off on a child’s genius for identifying motors. Pocketing her phone, Mallory said, ‘Our warrant’s on the way.’

It was a thousand-to-one shot that anything from the murder kit would be found, but they were not searching for any of those items today.

Their stroll ended halfway down the block when they paused to case a private home guarded by stone lions at the top of a short flight of stairs. It was twice the width of the surrounding brownstones but no taller. Looking upward, they could see only tips of rooftop foliage. The detectives crossed the street and pressed all the buzzers for an apartment building next door. The first tenant to answer the intercom was drafted into service, and she led them up – and up – to the fifth floor of a century-old building with nothing as fancy as an elevator. And yet Riker, though short of breath, made no vows to quit smoking.

At the top of the last flight of stairs, they dismissed their guide and stepped out onto a roof of chimneys and cable lines, weathered deck chairs and tar paper pocked with pigeon droppings. It was a grim far cry from the lush garden atop the adjoining roof. They climbed over the low parapet and onto a soft carpet of grass. All around them were the trees, ferns and flowers of a smallish park in the sky. At the center of this fairyland, they found a small structure for the door leading down into the house, its walls hidden by ivy. Near the street side, a patio had been carved out with flagstones and decorated with a table and padded wrought-iron chairs.

And an ashtray!

Riker was a happy man when he sat down and lit up a cigarette. ‘It just doesn’t get any better than this.’

‘It will.’ His partner settled a heavy knapsack on the table, pulled out her phone and placed a call. When she had worked through the responding Hoffman, and when the lady of the house was at last on the line, Mallory said, ‘You’ve got cops on the roof.’

The three of them were gathered on the rooftop patio, and Grace Driscol-Bledsoe had selected Riker as the pushover cop. Her small talk was directed toward him, and then she won his heart by lighting up a proffered cigarette.

Mallory quietly endured the bonding ritual of smokers. And when the older woman finally looked her way, the detective flashed her a Gotcha smile and laid the old ViCAP questionnaire on the table. ‘I think you’ve seen this before.’

The society matron’s upper lip curled back with this unexpected and nasty surprise, but she was a quick- recovery artist. Turning to Riker, fellow smoker, one of her people, she insisted that he must call her Grace. ‘And what should I call you?’

‘Detective. Me and my partner, we got the same first name.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘We were hoping you’d clear something up for us – Grace.’ He picked up the ViCAP questionnaire. ‘Rolland Mann was blackmailing you with this. So we figure it wasn’t his own idea to murder the Nadler kid.’

Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe never glanced at the sheets in his hand. Her smile was still in place when she said, ‘You suspect Rolland of extortion and murder? Poor dead Rolland. Well then, as I see it, your job is done. Good work.’

Riker feigned incredulity, and Mallory knew he had to fake it because nothing surprised him anymore. ‘Are you trying out your defense strategy on us? We don’t like Rolland for the Hunger Artist murders. And Willy Fallon didn’t string herself up in the Ramble.’

‘So we need another stone killer,’ said Mallory. ‘Somebody with the patience of a long-range planner.’ She turned an admiring glance on the environs. ‘That was smart – Grace – planting the trees back from the street – no sidewalk advertising for unreported income.’

‘Seven years ago,’ said Riker, ‘the Driscol Institute paid to reinforce this roof.’

‘The Institute is responsible for maintaining my house. Perfectly legal.’

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘You needed the extra support for this damn park. How many tons of soil—’

‘A legitimate business expense,’ said Grace. ‘The Driscol Institute owns my house, and I host the charity’s fund-raisers.’

‘Not up here,’ said Mallory. ‘We talked to your caterer, the one who bills the Institute for your weekly fund- raisers. He’s never even seen the roof.’ The detective opened her knapsack and pulled out a heavy paperbound volume. She slammed it down on the table, and the glass ashtray danced close to the edge. ‘That’s the Institute’s charter. It covers bare maintenance on the mansion . . . no rooftop landscaping.’ The wave of Mallory’s hand encompassed all the trees and shrubs. ‘So the Driscol Institute paid a contractor to shore up the roof. I’ve seen the canceled check and a legitimate work order. But you’re the one who paid for the landscaping – in cash – lots of it. Where did all that money come from?’

Riker reached down behind his chair to pluck a brilliant pink flower, and Grace gasped. He twirled the stem in his fingers. ‘I’ve never seen one like this before. Real expensive, huh?’ He tossed the flower over one shoulder. ‘Did your landscaper pitch a fit when his dolly got stolen?’ And when her silence dragged out too long, he said, ‘A dolly – maybe you call it a hand truck. You know, two wheels, long handle. This one had a car battery attached. Your landscaper used it to power a joist. That’s how he lifted those trees up here – and tons of soil.’

‘Cheaper than a crane,’ said Mallory. ‘Easier to hide what you were doing – with unreported, untaxed income. Crane operators require city permits – a paper trail you couldn’t afford.’

‘But a joist is overkill,’ said Riker. ‘If you only wanna string up a few bodies, a light winch will do just fine – three times in a row.’ He laid down his notebook. It was open to a page that listed the brand names of items from the murder kit. ‘This particular dolly had a wider platform than most. You’d need something like that to transport an unconscious victim to the Ramble.’

The woman was slow to respond. When she finally spoke, her tone was condescending. ‘Is that how I did it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘You covered the theft of the dolly with cash and a sweet tip for the landscaper. No police report. What were the odds that the cops would ever trace it back to you seven years later?’

‘Indeed.’ The socialite seemed to agree with him – smiling, nodding, much too calm, even if she did have the best lawyers that dirty money could buy.

Mallory stared at Grace’s cigarette. The ash at the end had gone dark and smokeless. ‘You don’t inhale. That’s probably wise.’ She leaned forward and lightly touched the silver pendant chained to the older woman’s neck. ‘Will that gizmo work up here?’

Grace’s hand instinctively went to her breast to cover the medic-alert medallion that dangled there. ‘Yes, there’s an electronic responder in that little building over there.’ She nodded toward the small structure for the roof door. ‘Would you like a demonstration, Detective Mallory?’

‘I know how panic buttons work. It’s a service for old people – a lot older than you – and people with medical problems, the ones who live alone. But you’ve got Hoffman.’

‘You got a live-in nurse,’ said Riker. ‘And you’re still so freaked out, you wear that medallion. Don’t you trust Hoffman to call the ambulance? Afraid she might not like you that much?’

‘She can’t be too paranoid,’ said Mallory. ‘She’s already had a stroke.’

Riker made a show of consulting his notebook for the plunder of Mallory’s raid on insurance-company files. ‘She’s had two strokes.’