The Chalk Girl (40 page)

The nurse raised her hand, hailing the new arrival, ‘Officer Wycoff?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The young policeman stepped inside the confines of the privacy curtain and faced down Rolland Mann. ‘I’ll need to see some ID, sir.’

‘What? I’m your
boss
.’

‘No, sir, that would be my sergeant. And he gets his orders from—’

‘Never mind.’ Rolland waved one hand to spare himself the litany of command ranks. He doubted that this idiot could tell him who had dared to countermand the orders of an acting police commissioner. The chief of police would never cross him; he was certain of that. His anxiety was climbing as he considered the mayor and wondered who had that little man’s ear today. Rolland pushed through the doors of the ward and walked down the corridor. He felt a constriction in his chest, the kind that came with fear. This linked to thoughts of Mallory, the whack-job cop. And, along her chain of command, he was led to the most likely adversary, Chief of Detectives Joe Goddard.

Rolland pressed the button to summon the elevator. Before the doors could open, he had formed a plan to transfer Goddard to the Criminal Justice Bureau, a place where out-of-favor chiefs were sent to be buried alive.

The unofficial investigation of Rolland Mann required a meeting in neutral territory. Riker had chosen a comfort zone for the chief of
detectives, and now he waited for the man in the southwest corner of Washington Square Park.

Riker had loved this place in the summers of his younger days when it was open twenty-four hours, an all-night, all-day circus of jugglers and fire eaters and all kinds of freaks, boys and girls with guitars, loud boom boxes and mellow horns. Oh, and the smells – pastrami and hot dogs, women’s perfume walking by, cigarette smoke and marijuana. But years ago, a curfew had been imposed by a previous mayor, whose friends had complained that their little darlings were scoring drugs in the park. Teenagers smoking dope – who knew? Fences had gone up, and one more of life’s charms had been lost to nights in Greenwich Village. Now, on hot summer days, the vendors hawked odorless ice cream and sodas from look-alike carts with white-and-green umbrellas – so clean, so sterile.

This city was going to hell.

The sun beat down on the center of a small plaza defined by curved blocks of stone, tall trees and a circle of small tables footed in cement. Benches were bolted into the asphalt floor, but these seats were not for the weary. This corner of the park was a haven for chess hustlers. Riker moseyed over to a game in progress and flashed his badge. ‘Sorry, guys, I need your table.’

Both men obliged him too eagerly, rising to leave with wide smiles, a good clue that they were carrying drugs and maybe dealing, too.

‘Not so fast,’ he said.

They dropped their smiles, correctly guessing that their escape had been entirely too easy. But all the detective wanted was conversation. He showed them a cell-phone picture of Joe Goddard, and they gave up the chief of detectives as a regular in this corner of the park.

‘Yeah, he plays every Sunday,’ said the older man.

And his young friend said, ‘That motherfucker’s a real
badass
player.’

In the parlance of New York City, there could be no higher praise.

‘Well, this is my first game with the guy,’ said Riker. ‘Any tips on strategy?’

‘Hey, man, you got a gun, right? I guess that’s all you need.’

Enough said.

The detective cut them loose and settled down at the small table. The players and dealers at neighboring tables had already slipped away. He watched people strolling through this plaza entry to the park. It was no longer easy to tell the Village residents from the tourists and the NYU students. They were all wearing clothes from the 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 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?’