The Chalk Girl

a little boy – evidence buried in a government computer. You couldn’t buy it or destroy it. Did that scare you? That wasn’t blackmail. It was insurance so you wouldn’t hurt Annie, his wife. But Rolland Mann couldn’t spell that out for you. He didn’t want you to know she existed. So you bribed and extorted politicians to move his career along – all for nothing. He would’ve settled for keeping Annie safe.’

‘Very romantic, Mallory. I didn’t think you had it in you.’ And now the diva impressed the detective by calmly bending down to flick a cockroach off the toe of her shoe. ‘But you’ll never get a conviction based on that theory.’ She plucked a small handkerchief from her dress pocket. The embroidered linen was so fine it was almost transparent. She wiped the fingernail that had come in contact with the insect.

So the woman of steel was . . . squeamish.

‘You’re a realist, Mallory. You know I’ll never see the inside of a courtroom.’

True enough. This woman had too many hostages in high office, too much extortion evidence banked away to suffer one day in jail.

‘But what’ve you got left, Grace? I took away your control of the Driscol Institute. No more power. I took all your cash, too. And then there’s Humphrey’s millions. I can keep that money frozen in probate till you die . . . For my last trick, I can take Phoebe away from you.’

Grace crushed the handkerchief in her hand, her only sign of anxiety. ‘We both know my daughter will never stand trial for murder. Not if she’s—’

‘Crazy? Well, Grace, that might be a stretch. Phoebe has great organizational skills. You know why she moved into that cottage behind the school? She needed privacy to assemble her murder kit – starting with the dolly she stole from your landscaper. And that was seven years ago. She’s the queen of long-range planners. Impressed the hell out of everybody. We’ve never seen this kind of premeditation.’

Grace feigned interest in a twitchy roach that sat on a cardboard carton at her eye level, and they watched one another, the socialite and the bug. This duo never noticed the detective unholstering her weapon. And then – BAM – the roach was smashed under the butt of the gun. Grace jumped in her skin, and the handkerchief fluttered to the floor.

So satisfying.

‘Now, what was I saying?’ Mallory leaned down to pick up the delicate square of fine linen, and she used it to clean bug guts from her revolver. ‘Oh, right – premeditation. Your daughter found the lawyers to get Humphrey out of that asylum. She needed all three victims in town at the same time. Phoebe was so patient – years of waiting and collecting things to kill them. Most of the stuff in her murder kit was stolen, but not the chloroform. She couldn’t use yours. Phoebe says that bottle is almost as old as you are – a souvenir from your father’s day. So she mixed up her own batch with an Internet recipe.’

Done with cleaning her gun, Mallory waved the roach-stained handkerchief, scattering tiny body parts as she spoke. ‘And your daughter knows right from wrong. All of this makes her legally sane – but that doesn’t mean she’s not crazy. It’s my call. I can do what I want with Phoebe. All those politicians you bought? . . . They belong to me now.’

The two women stared at each other, both of them so very still. Taking them for furniture, a mouse crept between them and sat down to lick its front paws.

Mallory smiled.

The mouse ran for cover.

‘What do you want, Detective?’

Lying came easily, and Mallory was believed when she said, ‘Restitution.’

And so their deal was begun. Grace’s daughter would be judged incompetent to stand trial by reason of mental defect. Within a year or so, when some incompetent psychiatrist could be found to pronounce Phoebe cured, Toby Wilder would become the richest drug addict in New York City – if he could stay alive long enough to collect – just long enough for the ultimate endgame, one that had nothing to do with money. A beautiful and terrible payback would come when Grace was not expecting it.

Lessons of Phoebe: Mallory had learned how to wait.

FORTY-FIVE

My father doesn’t own a gun. I’ve looked everywhere, in every drawer and closet, all through the night.

—Ernest Nadler

This week, the Louis Markowitz Floating Poker Game had assembled at Rabbi Kaplan’s home in suburban Brooklyn, a borough where people were not stacked up in towers, but lived in proper houses with lawns front and back. He opened a window to an evening breeze, and the scent of mown grass came inside to mingle with odors of beer and cigar smoke. David Kaplan joined the small gathering around his favorite piece of furniture, an oak table with a green felt top, to indulge his love of cards and close friends.

Edward Slope, wielding a knife, presided over platters with all the makings for triple-decker sandwiches, and Robin Duffy exchanged Charles Butler’s money for poker chips. White chips were a nickel, and red cost a dime. But the blue ones were twenty-five cents – high stakes.

The foster child of the game’s founder was rarely in attendance anymore. It was the rabbi’s theory that Kathy Mallory had lost patience with rules that allowed deuces wild when the moon was full. Jacks, of course, were always wild when it rained, and treys whenever it snowed. The rabbi would concede that a hundred such rules were perhaps too many. Or maybe Kathy had simply grown tired of winning so easily. Nevertheless, he set out the - traditional chair for her, though he knew she would certainly not come tonight.

Maybe next week.

David Kaplan was a patient man, and he had great faith in the power of enduring love to drive her to the screaming edge of crazy and wear her down. Eventually. But not tonight.

And so it was a great surprise to hear his doorbell ring.

Detective Riker followed the rabbi into the den, and he smiled to see familiar faces. All the men on Mallory’s hit list were seated in club chairs around the poker table. ‘Lou always said I had a standing invitation. You guys got a problem with that?’

‘Not at all.’ Dr Slope used his cigar to point the detective to the empty chair. ‘You were always welcome, but Lou told us you hated the game.’

‘He meant I’d hate this game.’ And now that Riker had set the tone for his visit, he pulled up a chair, lit up a cigarette and accepted a cold beer from his host. ‘I hear you guys play like old ladies.’ He popped the bottle cap. ‘I heard that from Mallory. I think she was twelve years old at the time.’ The detective laid two papers down in front of the chief medical examiner. ‘Could you sign these?’

The top sheet was the standard form to admit a junkie to the doctor’s private rehab clinic for treatment. Edward Slope scanned the second sheet, a voucher, the city’s promise to pay. ‘No way this is legal. Willy Fallon pleaded out. Why would Toby Wilder be—’

‘Maybe it’s not strictly legal,’ said Riker, ‘but it’s fair. That kid lost four years of his life – and more.’

Slope pushed the papers to one side, unsigned. ‘Then Mr Wilder can sue the city. And good luck to him.’

The detective shrugged as he dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. Robin Duffy exchanged it for chips that would have totaled a thousand dollars in a game for grown-ups. But long ago the stakes were fixed within the limits of a child’s allowance money. Lou Markowitz had devised this ritual poker night around his Kathy, a cold little alien spawn who would have gone friendless without these players, these very decent men.

Riker had come here to slaughter them.

He had not expected Slope to sign off on a city voucher. The chief medical examiner was legendary for scrupulous honesty. ‘Okay, screw the voucher. What about all those charity beds?’

‘Every bed has a long waiting list,’ said Edward Slope.

No sale.

As guest of honor, Riker was offered the deck. He dealt out cards with the skill and speed of a born hustler,