On one absence from the NYPD, her destination had been deep in the Southland, and on another trip, she had followed Route 66, but this time was different. It worried Charles, and he was honor bound to worry all alone. Upon her return to New York City, information from Mallory had been couched in bare compass points, though she had agreed that Mount Rushmore was big, and the Mississippi River was indeed mighty. Only one thing was certain: She had been on a very long road trip to nowhere. Whenever he recalled her meandering route, the wide circles and ever-changing directions, he formed a picture of Mallory spiraling, tumbling – falling through America.
On the other side of the bridge, the car rolled through a Brooklyn neighborhood of single-family houses with driveways and dogs in the yards. And the silence had become awkward.
‘I thought Coco was absolutely charming,’ said Robin, in a safe change of topic. ‘She doesn’t have a little girl’s conversations.’
‘No, she has what’s called a cocktail-party personality,’ said Charles. ‘That kind of patter is a skill that Williams children develop to form relationships with people.’ The sad irony was in the superficial quality of Coco’s best trick – the very thing that prevented her from forming a meaningful relationship with anyone.
‘What will become of her if I can’t locate any family to take her in?’
‘Coco will go into foster care,’ said Charles. ‘If she survives that, she’ll grow up, get a job . . . and live alone.’ Did that sound like anyone else they both knew?
His passenger fell silent again, perhaps considering the commonalities of one broken child and another. Though, unlike Coco, Mallory never sought love or warmth from human contact; she only liked to hunt humans, and all her conversation revolved around death.
Charles glanced at the dashboard clock. By now the detectives would have found the runaway moon that, according to Coco, had gone to live in a box.
EIGHT
The rule is clear. No running in the halls. But no teacher ever reprimands me. I think they all know that I’m running from a beating, a biting or a toilet-bowl drowning, whatever the day will bring.
—Ernest Nadler
Summer-school children poured out of yellow buses, their screams and laughter chiming in with the babble of other tourists waiting for the doors to open.
Coco’s shoulders hunched. Both hands covered her ears, and her eyes shut tight, shutting out the noise and the bustle of the crowd. The two detectives and the little girl retreated to the high ground above the fray. The path sloped upward to a bench in the small park of flowers and trees that surrounded the Museum of Natural History. The trio sat down and faced a gigantic square box of glass and steel that was home to an entire solar system. The majestic structure rose seven stories above the ground floor of the museum’s planetarium.
‘I know it looks different in daylight,’ said Mallory. The child beside her had seen this landmark only once, just a fleeting glance on a scary night, and her memory of it was somewhat flawed. ‘Is that what you saw from Uncle Red’s window?’
The little girl nodded. Upon closer inspection in the morning light, Coco had been crushed to learn that it was not the moon that filled out this immense glass box, but only a pale white replica of the sun. In perfect scale, it dwarfed planets that were made of smaller balls suspended by wires to hang in frozen orbits. And that monster-size sun did not even float; it was securely anchored to the floor.
Riker patted Coco’s hand. ‘What a gyp, huh?’
Mallory rose from the bench and turned around to face West 81st Street and a lineup of boxes on a grander scale, enormous buildings made of gray stones, brown bricks and, farther down, red ones, some with elaborate façades. This was Money Country, a land of liveried doormen and awnings to shelter the tenants on short walks to the curb and waiting limousines. Hundreds of windows faced the planetarium, and one of those apartments belonged to her comatose crime victim from the Ramble.
Evidently Charles Butler had not yet returned from Brooklyn to find a note slipped under his door by a SoHo patrolman, a polite request to report for shrink duty uptown. Riker turned to his partner. ‘We should get him a cell phone.’
Mallory’s mouth dipped down on one side. ‘Yeah, right.’
Riker envied the technologically retarded psychologist, who had an answering machine – a gift from Mallory – but never turned it on. The man strolled through an average day with no disturbing messages or any urgent summons. As an alien in a television nation, he was never made anxious by manic broadcasters with red alerts and terrorist forecasts, for he preferred to read newspapers, which told him only what had actually happened. Nor was he troubled by the jarring street noise of the hustling millions; it rarely penetrated the rolled-up windows of his Mercedes. And so Charles Butler smoothly navigated the most nerve-jangling town on earth.
‘Here they come.’ Mallory pointed toward the patrol car double-parking near the corner of 81st Street and Central Park West. The uniforms stepped out of the vehicle. ‘There’s only three of them.’
‘That’s all the West Side could spare,’ said Riker. ‘They’re helping the park precinct comb the trees for more victims.’
And now the assembled officers were told to conduct a block-long search of sixteen-story buildings to find the apartment of a man with no name. ‘And these pictures won’t help,’ said Mallory, as she handed each of them a photograph of the comatose crime victim. ‘None of the doormen knew who he was. His hair color’s different.’ Starvation and dehydration had also worked changes on Uncle Red. ‘So the neighbors might not recognize him, either.’
‘You gotta be kidding.’ The senior patrolman folded his arms. ‘How the hell are we supposed to know when we got the right place? Half these apartments are empty – people out to lunch, off to work.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Riker. He was counting on the likelihood that Coco had been the last one to leave Uncle Red’s place. ‘You’re looking for the only unlocked front door in New York City.’
Bless the rampant paranoia of a three-dead-bolt town.
Except for the monkey, all the appointments were white – the couch, the rugs and curtains. The victim’s clothing lay in a loose pile on the floor near the entrance. According to wallet ID pulled from a pants pocket, this was the home of Humphrey Bledsoe, a.k.a. Uncle Red, and Coco confirmed it by the only lamp in the sparsely furnished living room. Its base was a ceramic blue monkey. ‘This light was on.’ She ran one small hand over the animal’s face. ‘I remember this.’
Mallory looked up at the ceiling fixture, only a bare socket, and the bulb in the table lamp was low-wattage. So the room had been dimly lit when the stranger had come to take away Uncle Red bound and naked.
The child never ventured more than a few feet from Mallory’s side, dogging the detective down an interior hallway of seven doors in a cursory search of the apartment, a palace by New York standards. ‘Which room was yours?’
‘The dark one.’ Coco would not elaborate, and Mallory did not press for more detail.
Charles Butler had warned her not to challenge any responses, but only to take what was offered. The child was very fragile; he had mentioned that three times. And yet this damaged little girl had survived for days in Central Park. By the lack of a sunburn on such fair skin, Charles had deduced that Coco had most likely suffered a meltdown, and then curled up in a ball in the safest place she could find. Mallory concurred, informed by the feral years of her own childhood – and days like that.