The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series)

by Steffen, P. M.

  Looking into the woman's tired eyes, Sky held the handshake an extra beat. She's angry, but not with the children. She's angry with the husband. The ex-husband. Sky released Mrs. Payne's hand.

  The woman gave her a suspicious squint. "You a psychic?"

  "No, no, no!" Kyle laughed too loudly and stepped between the women. "Doctor Stone is a psychologist. A behavioral scientist." He drew the words out for full effect.

  Sky suppressed a smile. Any hint of the nonordinary really freaked Kyle out. She tried to look scientific while Kyle went on to explain the interview procedure to Mrs. Payne and Noah.

  Meanwhile, Molly ran laps around them all, singing Ring-Around-the-Rosy and rapping the fishing rod against the linoleum floor.

  Sky kneeled down and caught the little girl in her arms. Molly squirmed with pleasure.

  "Catch any fish with this?" Sky wiggled the tip of the yellow fishing rod.

  "Not yet." Molly touched the pointed toe of Sky's red boot with a chubby finger. "Are you a cowboy?"

  "Sometimes." Sky removed a blade of grass from the girl's hair. "Can I ask you some questions about what happened this morning?”

  Molly nodded her head and slipped her hand into Sky's. They walked to the front desk, where a small, tidy officer with pointed ears let them through a rickety wooden gate. The hinges creaked painfully.

  "I want the Powder Room key," Sky said.

  The Powder Room was, in fact, an interview room on the second floor of police headquarters. One rainy morning a few years earlier, when Sky was only two days into her first murder investigation, she'd pointed out to Chief Moriarty the environmental shortcomings of his squad room: "Magnus, these constant interruptions and ringing telephones are screwing up my interviews.”

  The Chief agreed, reluctantly, to convert a storage room to Sky's specifications. Her design ran against convention, but experimental data suggested that witnesses were more likely to loosen up if the interview was conducted in a less cop-like surround. During the renovation, senior detectives, apparently sensing a perilous feminization of the homicide unit, dubbed it the Powder Room. It was in constant demand, and always seemed to yield the most instructive interviews. But the name stuck.

  Sky took a mottled brass key ring and led Molly upstairs to the second floor. She unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. The Powder Room appeared unchanged. An oak desk and chair sat under shuttered windows, flanked by a fig tree and an oak file cabinet. A small teak étagère with a carved dragon motif sat undisturbed in the corner.

  Tropical fish the shape and color of tiny limes darted endlessly through a tank of sea grass. A huge Audubon bird print, a favorite of Sky's, hung at eye level and showed a swallow-tailed hawk in mid-flight clutching a writhing snake in her talons.

  Molly circled the room three times before scrambling into an overstuffed chair. The chair was the room's single feminine note, the upholstery a profusion of pink cabbage roses. This floral exuberance was tempered somewhat by a second print hanging above the chair. It showed a pair of peregrine falcons gutting a teal.

  Sky took a tape recorder from the top shelf of the étagère and grabbed the desk chair. Facing Molly with the tape recorder on her lap, she pulled the journal from her hip pocket and looked at the drawing of the bloody patch.

  Pushing the red button on the tape recorder, Sky spoke name, date, time, subject. Molly struck various positions in rapid succession, finally settling in crosswise. Her blonde head rested against one padded arm of the chair and her legs splayed over the other arm.

  Sky took the yellow fishing rod from the child's hand and leaned it against the chair. "Molly, sometimes people don't tell me things because they think they aren't important. But I want you to tell me absolutely everything that happened from the minute you got out of bed this morning.”

  Molly nodded and furrowed her eyebrows in concentration.

  She began with Noah shaking her awake in the dark, then the cold walk to Bullough’s Pond, then fishing in the fog with her Christmas fishing pole. The walk home and the body in the woods, the sirens and police cars, the ride to the station.

  "The end!" Molly yawned.

  The child had revealed nothing particularly useful, but Sky was patient.

  "Good girl. Now I want you to tell me everything backwards." Sky tried to make a game of it because she knew the child was tiring.

  Molly brightened. In her child's warble she described her wait on the wooden bench downstairs. Her eyes were wide open now, and she peppered her recollections with gesture and pantomime. And, as most subjects did when given the peculiar task of reverse recall, Molly presented her memories in discrete scenes, like a stage play performed backwards.

  She was talking about the corpse in the woods now. "I saw red hair like my friend Briana. I think she was taking a nap." Then, she and Noah at the pond, fishing.

  "Noah put some bologna on my hook but the fish ate it and Noah told me "Bait your own hook!"" Molly mimicked Noah's voice so perfectly that Sky smiled in spite of herself. The child had a gift.

  "So I had to put the bologna on that hook all by myself, so that's why I didn't hide when those people came."

  Sky waited.

  "Noah told me, "Hide behind the boat house if anybody comes." But when I heard the woman laughing I didn't run behind the boathouse because I was putting cheese on the hook and it kept falling off and it was my last piece." Molly looked at the ceiling in mock despair.

  Sky watched an invisible vein pulse softly along the child's pale, exposed throat. Behind the blonde head, in the Audubon print, bloody entrails spilled from the falcon's beak.

  “Can you tell me what was the woman was doing, Molly?”

  “She was running. I think she wanted to fish.”

  “Why do you think she wanted to fish?”

  “Cause she was running toward the water but the man pulled her arm. He said ‘No’ and pulled her arm.”

  “Tell me about the man.”

  “He was big. Like my daddy.”

  Sky proceeded carefully, allowing Molly to lead, letting the child narrow down the possibilities. Tall, wide shoulders, dressed in black sweats, black shoes, a black hood hiding his features. A deep voice.

  “Do you think it hurt when the man pulled the woman’s arm?”

  “No, she was laughing and laughing.”

  “Was the man laughing, too?”

  Molly shook her head. No.

  "Can you tell me what the woman looked like?"

  Flipping the hood of her jacket over her head, Molly peered out and said, “She looked like this.”

  Sky wasn’t sure what Molly meant so she tried a different tack. “Who did she look like?”

  “Like nobody.” Molly shook her head vehemently. “I didn’t see her face. I heard her laugh. The man said ‘No,’ and pulled her arm and she still laughed. They ran away.”

  “Where did they run?”

  “Down the street.”

  Sky sketched a quick map of the pond, the boat house and the street. “Show me where you were on the map, Molly.”

  “Here.” The child put a finger on the north side of the boat house. “Next to a tree.”

  “Where was Noah?”

  Molly pointed to the far side of the boat house.

  “Show me where the man and woman ran.”

  Molly slid a finger north along Dexter. “They went that way. That’s the way home. Maybe they were going to my house.”

  “Were they running together or was he chasing her?”

  “Together.” She jumped up from the chair. “He ran like this.” She scooted across the floor in a crabbed stance, arms tucked in front of her body like a boxer. She circled the room twice and plopped down in the chair.

  “Did you see where they went?”

  “No. I told Noah I wanted to go home.”

  A shadow darkened the window and the door swung open.

  Kyle stepped inside. "Jake wants you downstairs," he said to Sky. He gave Molly a wink.
r />   Sky turned the tape recorder off and shot Kyle a look.

  Kyle responded with a wordless, world-weary shrug. Yes, the shrug said, interruptions are absolutely unacceptable during witness interviews. No, the shrug also said, Jake shouldn't have preemptive power, but there it was.

  He was gone before Sky could protest.

  She reminded herself that she would be off the case and back in Nantucket before the day was over.

  "Are we mad at him?" Molly gave Sky a cheerful look.

  “No, Detective O’Toole is our friend.” Sky turned the tape recorder back on. “Molly, you told Noah you wanted to go home. Did you go home right away?”

  Molly shook her head. “Noah put some more bologna on my hook. We fished.”

  “Did you hear anything while you were fishing?”

  “Noah peed in the water and it made a loud noise.” Molly giggled.

  “Is that all you heard?”

  “He farted,” Molly whispered.

  “Is there anything else I should ask you, Molly?”

  The child cocked her head and looked at the ceiling. “Nope.”

  “You’ll probably remember more things,” Sky said. “When you do, will you tell your mommy?”

  “Yes.” Molly sank into the chair with a sigh.

  Sky pulled the stuffed toy from her coat pocket. “Got something for you. We might need to talk again, you and me. Okay?”

  Molly hugged the bear and gave Sky a conspiratorial nod. "You and me," she chirped, flashing that perfect, dimpled smile.

  Sky scooped the child up in her arms and buried her face in Molly's tangled hair. She breathed in, just for a moment, Molly's warm, fresh scent.

  The ripping sensation in her chest intensified as Sky carried Molly down the stairs. She set the child on the wooden bench next to Noah and handed Mrs. Payne her business card. “Call me if the kids mention anything.” Sky had to clear her throat. “Anything at all.” She hurried out, before it was too late.

  "What's the matter with her?" Mrs. Payne’s' nasal whine trailed after Sky as she pushed through the swinging door.

  Moving down the linoleum hallway, Sky slipped inside a small bathroom hidden under a little-used stairway near the back exit and bolted the door.

  She examined the cracks on the wall in front of her. The deepest fissure led decisively north before splintering into spidery veins that bled vaguely toward the northeast corner.

  The interview had gone reasonably well. Molly was observant, accommodating.

  Sky soaked a brown paper towel in icy tap water and held it against her eyes until the sensation in her chest subsided.

  Studying her reflection in the blotchy mirror, Sky decided that Candace was right. She wasn't doing well.

  Get through this meeting. Then get out.

  This was a short list. She could manage this list.

  Sky unlocked the bathroom door and headed toward the conference room, repeating the list like a mantra.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sky slipped into the briefing room and sat next to Kyle at the conference table. Across from her sat veteran detective Angel Butera, discussing the likelihood that the new secretary in evidence had breast implants.

  Sky decided, not for the first time, that nobody seemed less angelic than Angel Butera. His balding buzz-cut and tight brown suit gave him the look of a pro wrestler dressed for brunch. She didn't recognize the fresh-faced young man with the blonde boy scout haircut sitting next to Butera.

  "What's she doing here?" Butera shifted awkwardly in his seat. "I thought she retired."

  Sky decided to ignore the snub but Kyle looked up from his folder and offered a gap-toothed grin. "What's the matter, Butera? Balls still bruised from the Wigglesworth case?"

  “You smartass Irish fuck.” Butera shot out of his chair with startling speed and lunged toward Kyle.

  Kyle dropped his folder and rolled his chair back as Butera belly-flopped across the conference table. Kyle watched like a cat for the next move, but Butera was done. He sat down heavily and ran a handkerchief over his lumpy brow.

  Kyle slid his chair back to the table, retrieved the folder from the floor, and resumed reading.

  Some things hadn’t changed during Sky’s year on Nantucket. Kyle still baited, Butera still bit.

  The blonde stranger’s eyes were on her. Sky avoided the young man's earnest gaze and slipped around the conference table for a closer look at the glossy photographs tacked on the bulletin board.

  "Doctor Stone." Jake walked into the room. "Meet Detective Axelrod. This is Axelrod's first day in homicide."

  “Doctor.” The young man’s voice was tentative as he stood up to shake Sky’s hand.

  "She's a shrink." Butera gave a dismissive grunt.

  Sky watched Axelrod’s boyish face change.

  "You're the woman who killed Benny Gentile." Axelrod looked at Sky with open admiration.

  "She's a fucking menace," Butera said.

  "Benny Gentile was getting booked when he went for the arresting officer's service weapon." Jake’s voice was clipped, warning Butera off. "Doctor Stone happened to be there and she executed a standard police chokehold."

  Axelrod gaped at Sky. "But … you're so small."

  "Bruce Lee was only five feet four." Kyle beamed at Sky like a proud parent. "Dr. Stone is our own little stealth bomber. Under the radar." He added a hand gesture for emphasis and pointed a bony finger at Butera. "No charges were filed on that case, by the way. Benny was a pedophile. Rape and abuse of a child, remember that conviction, Butera? A real piece of shit. She did the world a favor."

  Detective Axelrod continued to stare at Sky with round eyes. She met his gaze out of professional habit but her heart wasn't in it. The subject of Benny Gentile depressed her.

  "Stone?" The rookie's mouth worked into a wide grin. "You're Monk Stone's daughter." He looked like he'd just won the lottery.

  "Shut up and sit down, Axelrod." Jake's body stiffened at the mention of Monk's name. Sky wrote it off to professional jealousy. Guess that hadn’t changed, either.

  She pretended to read something in her notebook but she could feel young Axelrod’s mind working over this new information.

  Jake slammed the door shut and briefed the team on the case. When he was finished, there was a short pause. Then everyone seemed to talk at once.

  "Bullough’s Pond!" Axelrod blurted. "I played hockey on that pond in the winter!” He blushed and ran his hand over a blonde cowlick. “When I was a kid, I mean."

  "I skinny-dipped there with my first wife," Kyle chimed in.

  "Why Bullough’s Pond? And just before the marathon?" Butera seemed genuinely puzzled.

  Sky agreed. Bullough’s Pond did seem an unlikely place to find a dead body. It was like finding one in your back yard.

  Jake adjusted the shoulder strap of his holster. "Anything from the kids?”

  Kyle said, “Noah Payne and his sister Molly left their mother’s residence on Pulsifer around three o’clock this morning and walked approximately half a mile to Bullough’s Pond, where they fished along the east edge. Noah reports wearing ear buds the entire time, he was listening to his iPod. I asked him to show me how loud.” Kyle grimaced. “It was break-your-ear-drum setting. Said his sister yanked on his arm, maybe twenty-five minutes after arrival, complaining about bait. He gives her more bologna, they fish maybe ten more minutes before they pack up and start home. They walk down Dexter, cut through the woods, where Noah comes on the body. He calls his mother, the kids high tail it home. That’s it. Says except for the body, he didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear anyone, didn’t smell anyone.”

  “Did he see any cars, trucks, bikes?”

  “Negative.”

  Jake turned to Sky. “What about the girl?”

  "Molly saw a woman and a man. Listen.” Sky played the interview tape for the detectives.

  “Six feet, athletic build, dressed in black, deep voice. That’s it?” Jake raked a hand through his hair. “We’ll get a sk
etch artist, see what the girl comes up with.”

  “Molly said they were both wearing hoods. She couldn’t see their faces. The victim was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. That corroborates Molly’s story. Probably the best we’ll get is a body sketch.”

  Sky watched Jake's jaw work, it signaled his frustration.

  Grind away, she thought. You’ve got a crime scene in the woods, and no spatial relationships between killer, victim and scene. And this murder is a strangulation, so no bullets, no gun casings, no ropes, no knives – and, if the killer wore gloves, no fingerprints.

  Sky caught herself. Let the detectives chase down the answers. She was here to conduct preliminary interviews. Period.

  "Butera, Axelrod. Knock on every door." Jake jabbed a red pin into the wall map of Newton. "There's always somebody up in the middle of the night, staring out a window." Newton had the shape of a clenched fist and the red pin was sticking dead center.

  Butera snorted at the assignment and stood up. He shot Sky a sour look and swaggered toward the door.

  "Doctor Stone." Axelrod stopped at Sky's chair and cleared his throat. "It would be a great honor to talk with you about your father. He's a hero of mine."

  "Axelrod," Jake said. "Do you want to leave this room with all your teeth?"

  Axelrod gave Sky an informal salute and sprinted after Butera.

  Jake unbuckled his holster and set it on the conference table. The concealed barrel of the baby Glock pointed toward Axelrod's vacant chair.

  “Rookies,” Kyle chuckled. "You gotta love 'em."

  "Check missing person reports." Jake tossed Kyle a green file and looked out the narrow window. "Fucking fog."

  The first twenty-four hours of an investigation were critical. Time without an ID was time wasted. Kyle threw Sky a smile and left. Sky stood up to follow, but Jake blocked the door with his body.

  "I need to listen to Molly’s interview, Jake. Maybe we missed something.” Sky rifled through the journal for the child's address. Had she written it down?

  "The kid can wait five minutes.” Jake took the journal from her hand. “I've waited a year.”

  Sky shrank from the hurt in his voice. It was Molly she needed to concentrate on, but she could feel Jake pulling at her like an undertow. Invisible but dangerous.