Immoral Certainty by Robert K. Tanenbaum

face.
    “The bogeyman, huh? And what did the bogeyman look like?”
    “He have no hair, an’ no ears, an’ big eyes an’ big, big, teef.”
    “What’s going on here, Pete? We doin’ some bedtime stories?”
    “I think we got something, but I can’t figure it yet.”
    “What is it?”
    “Tell you later. What did you find?”
    “Just this. It didn’t fit with the scene.” He held out a small, heart-shaped box covered in gold foil. The name of a Belgian chocolatière was embossed on the top.
    Balducci took the box and held it out to Carmen. “Do you know what this is, honey?”
    “Lucy candy. She give me one piece.”
    “And where did Lucy get the candy?”
    “Bogeyman.”
    “What is this ‘bogeyman’ business, Pete?” asked Raney.
    Balducci gave him a warning look, stood up, and patted the little girl on the head. He picked up the doll, the one from the Bogeyman. It felt dense and heavy, like a nightstick.
    “We’re going to have to take this along, Missus. It’s evidence,” he said.
    The woman nodded, glad to see them going, but little Carmen began to sniffle.
    As the two policemen left the apartment, she broke out in a wail. “Wan’ my dolly,” she cried, betrayed by the nice man. They were down at the first landing when the slaps began. They could hear them, sharp and solid, through the door. The slaps went on and on, and the shrieks, but by that time the two men were far enough away that they could pretend that they didn’t hear.
    Driving downtown, Balducci took the opportunity to study the doll more carefully. He clucked and muttered for a mile or so on the East Side Drive, until Raney said, “Pete, will you stop it with that doll, for cryin’ out loud! What the fuck is goin’ on here? Bogeyman?”
    “Jimmy, I got four daughters. I put a lot of cash into dolls over the years, you know? I never seen nothing like this one.”
    “She could have ripped it off.”
    “Fuck, she could have! Look at this thing, Jimmy!” He propped it up on the dashboard. It was a fourteen inch doll dressed in a royal blue shot-silk traveling dress of the eighteen-seventies, with matching bonnet, the elegant costume only slightly soiled by grubby hands.
    “Look—porcelain head, handpainted, same with the arms and feet. The dress is real silk, hand stitched. And this trim, here, is real lace, and not just real lace, but made to scale. The stitches are so fine you can hardly see them. This thing must have cost, shit, a grand easy, maybe more. Places that sell dolls like this, it’s by appointment only and they keep the goods locked up until they see your money. You think a seven year old PR kid could have lifted something like this? What, she found it in the garbage, in East Harlem?”
    “OK, I get the picture. But now the question is, if we assume that some guy gave her the doll, and the chocolate, why’d he do it? The first-class treatment, I mean. For Lucy Segura, if he’d a wanted to win her over, he could’ve gone into Macy’s and picked up something for fourteen ninety-five that would’ve knocked her socks off. Same with the ten-dollar imported candy. A Mars bar would’ve done it. Not to mention, there’s probably not that many of those dolls. We could trace it.”
    Balducci looked at the doll. He closed its blue eyes with his fingertips, gently, and let them pop open again. The hair was done in chestnut ringlets, probably real hair, he thought.
    “Yeah, we could trace it. Which we’ll start tomorrow. But about why: Christ, Jimmy, we know the guy’s crazy. Maybe he’s dumb, too. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
    “I hope so,” said Raney. “I’d like to meet the mutt. I bet he packs a knife. Or a gun. In fact, I think I might have his gun in my trunk.”
    Balducci scowled at his partner. “I didn’t hear that, Jimmy. No bullshit like that, OK? I’m too short for any of that stuff. I mean it!”
    Jimmy Raney flashed his fallen angel grin. “Hey, Petey, just a joke. You know me. By the book,