They entered the building and Professor Fisk paused in the stairwell and pointed to a framed listing of faculty. “Carl Sagan’s first wife was in our department for twenty-two years. Cell biologist, a real spitfire. Defected to UMass in 1988. Lives in Amherst, now.” He chuckled softly. “Next door to Emily Dickinson.” He pulled a package of Hall’s cherry cough drops from a pocket and slipped one in his mouth as he climbed the stairs.
“Nicolette helped set up this lab, she and Zach Rozario,” he slurped the lozenge. “I got a nice fat grant, plenty of money for equipment, plenty of money for research fellows to run said equipment.” He selected a key as they reached the second floor.
Their footsteps echoed through the corridor as they walked through the deserted building. Axelrod pointed to a steel shower head projecting directly into the hallway.
“Emergency shower,” the professor explained. “Regulations require it. In case you come into contact with toxic materials.”
Axelrod patted his cowlick and moved closer to the group.
They reached the east end of the hall. A plaque to the right of the door read Horace Fisk, Behavioral Neurobiology.
The professor paused at the door, his voice barely audible. “Difficult to imagine this lab without Nicolette, somehow. Poor girl. Just finished writing up her dissertation proposal. So close to finishing.” His pear-shaped body seemed to deflate as he unlocked the blue lab door.
They entered a small antechamber banked by a chest of metal drawers and a tall gray cabinet. A workbench just inside the door was littered with equipment components: needle nosed pliers, screwdrivers, assorted wires in shades of red, yellow, and black. One inner doorway led to a larger room with a massive window facing east. A second door opened onto a wet lab; beakers of various shapes and sizes were scattered along the counter next to a deep sink. Beyond the sink, Sky saw two additional rooms shrouded in darkness.
“This way,” Professor Fisk led them into the east room.
Sky held back, her eye caught by a shiny Polaroid pinned to the bulletin board. In the snapshot, a sober Nicolette stood with exaggerated stiffness, a rat in either hand. Her hair, vivid against the white of a lab coat, fell in red waves to her waist.
Sky slipped the snapshot into her pocket and caught up with the men.
“We enter all of our experimental data over there.” Professor Fisk gestured towards a computer resting along an inside wall.
“Storage cabinets, a refrigerator for blood assays,” he pointed to each in turn.
“Hey!” Axelrod was peering out the east window with a child’s excitement. “Isn’t that Fenway Park?”
“Indeed. You can spot just a bit of the ballpark over there.” The professor pointed toward a set of klieg lights in the distance.
“Ortiz is looking good this year,” Kyle murmured.
He referred to designated hitter David Ortiz. Kyle and Jake were rabid Red Sox fans. Before her accident, before the isolation of Nantucket, the three of them – Sky, Jake, and Kyle – had taken such pleasure in the games. Day games, night games, double headers. Together they’d witnessed the curse of the Bambino, broken.
Thinking of Jake, memories of sitting in the bleachers in the sun, cold beer and kisses under hot skies, made her suddenly feel very blue.
Sky tried to shake off the mood. “Professor, when did you last see Nicolette?”
“Late Friday afternoon.” The professor walked to a round table in the center of the room. “She presented the latest graphs at our weekly lab meeting. Four o’clock, every Friday.” He scooped up a thick black book from the table and gave it an affectionate pat. “Lab log,” he said in a low voice. “Raw data. Sacred.”
“Who attended last Friday’s lab meeting?” Sky asked.
“Myself, Nicolette, Zach.”
“Why four chairs?”
“On occasion, the gentleman who funds our current research sits in. Porter Manville, CEO of Wellbiogen, a pharmaceutical company in Waltham.”
“He’s a biologist?” Sky set the rubber rat on the table.
“Porter has a background in chemistry.” Professor Fisk grabbed the rat and stuffed it into his pocket. “But he is so much more than a chemist.” The professor stood a bit taller, as though energized by the mere mention of his benefactor. “Porter Manville is that rare blend of entrepreneur and scientist. A true visionary.” The professor’s eyes had the gleam of the disciple. From his jacket pocket, the rat tail stuck straight up, like an exclamation point.
“What sort of research?” Sky asked.
“Are you familiar with the drug floetazine?”
It had been a while since her last psychopharmacology course, still Sky managed to pull something from memory. “Serotonin reuptake inhibitor?”
“Correct,” Professor Fisk gave a nod. “Trade name is Primil.”
Axelrod piped up. “Wasn’t that Memphis minister taking Primil when he murdered his family?”
“Yes, detective. One of many such cases, I’m afraid. And the impetus for our research, in a sense.” The professor opened the door of a file cabinet and pulled out a large envelope. “I put this packet together for Nicolette and Zach. It includes most of our bibliographical material, a description of equipment and so on. Perhaps you might find it of some interest.”
Sky took the envelope and pulled out the top article. Professor Fisk was first author. “Appearance of Extreme Suicidal Fixation During Floetazine Treatment,” she read aloud. “This is a psychiatry journal. I thought you were a biologist.”
“I took double degrees in biology and medicine at Harvard, did my residency in psychiatry. I have a small private practice.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “That particular article describes a half dozen case histories of depressed patients who became suicidal just a few weeks into treatment with Primil. I took them off the drug immediately, but they remained suicidal for some time afterwards.”
He popped another cough drop in his mouth. “One patient actually put a loaded gun to his head. Another had to be restrained from cutting herself with a knife. Reports continued to surface, linking Primil with suicidal and violent tendencies.” He turned to Axelrod. “That Memphis minister you mentioned is but one example, detective. At any rate, Porter left a message on my answering machine one day, praising that particular article and requesting an interview. He failed to mention any university affiliation so naturally I ignored the message.” The professor chuckled. “I was forced to pay attention when he pulled up to the biology department in a red Lamborghini Countach.”
“Sweet,” Axelrod said.
“Nothing sweeter,” Kyle agreed. “Year?”
The professor’s tone turned solemn. “1989.”
“Twenty-fifth anniversary edition.” Kyle groaned with appreciation.
Sky said, “This CEO drives a sports car. So what?” She was looking for some relevance to the case.
“Doctor Stone,” Kyle said. “The Lamborghini is no ordinary vehicle. We’re talking last-of-the-line model. The most aggressive Countach ever made.” He looked deeply into Sky’s eyes. “Zero to sixty in under five seconds.”
“Sounds like a death-trap,” she said.
The men exchanged sympathetic looks.
“When is the last time the three of you saw Mr. Lamborghini?” Sky asked.
“Mr. Manville,” the professor corrected her. “That ought to be here, somewhere.” He paged through the lab log. “Porter was here last month. March fifteenth.” He set the log on the table. “I remember now. The Ides of March. Zach and Nicolette were a bit demoralized that day. The weekly data,” he offered a philosophical shrug, “not quite what we were expecting. Porter treated us to dinner at Papa Razzi – the one on Newbury Street – after the lab meeting. To cheer up the troops.”
“Professor,” Sky said, “do you know someone named Mr. Viper?”
“No, that name is not familiar to me.”
“Horace!” A male voice called out and the outer door flew open. A beefy young ma
n with a mop of black corkscrew curls pushed a metal cart through the antechamber and into the east room.
“Zach Rosario,” Professor Fisk said, introducing Sky and the detectives.
Sky offered a brief explanation for their visit.
At the news of Nicolette’s death, the young man abandoned his cart and collapsed on a chair. “Holy shit.”
The features of Zach Rosario’s face were squeezed into the center, which had the effect of accentuating his double chin and fleshy cheeks. His small black eyes darted back and forth between Sky and the detectives. “Holy shit,” he repeated.
Zach carried the faint odor of sweaty feet. Sky noted his worn leather boat shoes, no socks. A black Led Zeppelin t-shirt stretched tight over his belly; it depicted a blimp crashing into the Eiffel Tower.
“How did she die?” he asked.
“The investigation is ongoing,” Kyle said. “We’re not releasing that information.”
Sky was studying a collection of graphs someone had scotch-taped to the walls. Most were computer-generated column charts, some yellowed with age, others freshly printed. She peeled off two pages dated March fifteenth, slipped them into the research packet, and turned to the graduate student. “Is this your usual lab time, Zach?”
“Yeah. I come in around ten. Nicolette’s long gone by the time I get here.”
“My dear boy,” the professor said. “Under the circumstances, I think we should suspend the lab work for today.”
“No problem.” Zach jumped up. “I’ll take the rats back.” He started pushing the cart out of the room and paused at the door. “Horace, did you get a chance to look at that proposal?”
“I read it, yes.” The professor took a sheaf of papers from the counter and handed them to Zach. “I’m afraid we can’t do this particular series of experiments. Just too elaborate for our limited resources. Sorry.”
Zach’s shoulders sagged as he took the papers.
Sky moved to hold the lab door open. “I’ll walk with you, if you don’t mind, Zach. Where are we going?”
Zach shoved the cart into the hallway. “The LALQ. Stands for Laboratory Animal Living Quarters. In the next building.”
Eight rat cages of clear plastic sat on Zach’s cart. They were the size of a shoe box, four per shelf. Each cage held a dusting of wood shavings and a white rat. The rats appeared unperturbed with the trip.
Zach, on the other hand, nearly jumped out of his skin when Sky’s trench coat accidentally brushed against his leg.
“I haven’t seen Nicolette since Friday’s lab meeting,” he offered, stopping in front of an elevator. He wiped the palm of each hand on his black chinos.
“Did she have any enemies?” Sky was studying Zach’s curls. They looked like they hadn’t seen a comb in some time.
“Nicolette didn’t have too many fans around here, I gotta say it.” He punched the button and the door opened to a ridiculously small elevator. Zach shoved the cart in so hard it smacked against the inside wall. The rats froze in their boxes. “Miss Victoria’s Secret had Horace snowed, but the rest of the graduate students knew better.”
“Miss Victoria’s Secret?” Sky stepped into the elevator and stood next to the rat cart.
“That hair. That face.” Zach wedged himself into the elevator with a grunt. “But she was no Candace Pert.”
Who was? Sky thought. Zach referred to the brilliant neuroscientist who’d discovered the opiate receptor while she was a graduate student at Johns Hopkins. Pert’s major professor walked away with the prestigious Lasker Award for the ground-breaking research – it was his lab, after all – but everyone in the field knew that Candace had done the work.
The door closed in slow motion and Zach pressed the third floor button. The elevator groaned twice and started with a jolt. Seeing the look on Sky’s face, Zach reassured her. “No worries. It always makes that noise. We haven’t crashed yet.”
“Did any of the graduate students want Nicolette dead?”
“No,” Zach shook his head. “Some wanted to sleep with her, for sure. But kill her? No way.”
“And you, Zach. Did you want to sleep with Nicolette?”
“Sure.” He reddened. “Every guy she met wanted to sleep with her. So what? She thought she was too good for anybody around here. Last I heard, she was dating that guitar player.”
The elevator’s close quarters magnified Zach’s funky foot odor. Sky held her breath and considered the contrast between Ellery Templeton and Zach Rosario. From a dating perspective, it wasn’t much of a contest.
“Do you know someone named Mr. Viper?” Sky showed Zach the note she’d found in Nicolette’s apartment.
“Never heard of him.”
The elevator reached the third floor and the door opened onto a bright, wide hallway.
“Professor Fisk mentioned that Nicolette was starting her dissertation.” Sky stepped out and held the elevator door open for Zach.
“That’s right. She read some lame article on social defeat. Horace gave her the green light to start running a pilot study.” Zach pushed the cart into the hallway.
“Did Nicolette and Professor Fisk have more than a professor-student relationship?”
“I’m not saying Nicolette was sleeping with Horace. She got a shitload of help from him, though.” He mumbled something unintelligible and shoved the cart toward the south end of the hall.
Sky decided it was time to poke Zach Rosario with a sharp stick. “And how is your dissertation coming?”
“It ain’t coming,” he spat out the words. “I was hoping to start a preliminary study. But Horace just shot me down.” Zach held up the papers the professor had given him a few moments earlier. “My research proposal. DOA.”
“Tell me about it,” Sky prompted.
“Sure thing. I create a natural environment for the rats, a colony with males, females, pinkies. I introduce some stressors, like noise.” Zach began to warm to his subject and started motioning with his arms. “Maybe some crowding, or some resident-intruder action. Then I run them on the swim test to assess the effects of floetazine. You know, something creative, for god’s sake.” Zach waggled the papers. “I’ve got a bibliography and a ten-page proposal here. Took me six months of prep work.”
Sky shrugged. This was business as usual, in her experience.
Zach took a derisive tone. “Nicolette’s trite germ of an idea? Now that’s something Horace could get behind. But my concept is too elaborate. Son of a bitch.” His voice grew hoarse. “And there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Horace has me by the short hairs. I’m like an indentured servant, to be totally honest.”
“Professor Fisk is demanding?”
“You tell me,” Zach said. “For starters, I write all the computer stuff, every bit of it. I designed the spreadsheet, I write programs for the equipment, I handle the statistics, I even designed the lab website.” He pulled a business card from the back pocket of his chinos and handed it to Sky.
“I run sixteen rats a day,” he continued, “five days a week. Every week.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. “And I cover Horace’s classes at least twice a month.” The corkscrew curls quivered with every movement of Zach’s head. “Not to mention the ridiculous errands I run for the man. Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What kind of errands?”
“Last week I delivered mail to his ex-wife. His ex-wife, for Christ’s sake. I wasted most of my afternoon hunting her down.”
“What kind of mail?”
“The return address was some drug company.” Zach’s eyes squinted in the effort at recall. “Genie Pharmaceutical. That’s it. You know the ad, the genie coming out of the bottle to fix what ails you?”
Who didn’t know the ad? The drug company was a multinational corporation. Ran commercials virtually nonstop on television, computer browsers, radio.
“Tell me about Professor Fisk’s ex-wife.”
“Not much to tell, I just handed her the packet and left. Her name is Madeleine
. She was old, I guess. Gray hair. Lives on Mount Auburn, about two blocks from Harvard Square.” Zach scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Sky. “This is her address.”
“Sounds like you have your hands full, Zach.”
“Damn straight. And the cherry on top? Horace gave Nicolette first author status on our next research article. Horace made that particular announcement at the lab meeting last Friday. Nicolette’s off and running and I’m sitting there with my thumb up my ass.”
Zach suddenly stopped talking and clutched the handle of the cart with both hands. He looked straight ahead as they entered a glass-walled passageway. “This skywalk connects to the science center,” he adopted a tour guide’s neutral tone.
Sky found Zach’s clumsy segue amusing. Looking down from the vantage point of the skywalk, she spied a fat seagull pecking furiously at a brown paper bag in the middle of the deserted street.
She offered Zach an encouraging smile. “Where were you last night? And early this morning?”
“Me?” A ripple of alarm played across Zach’s small features. “I slept in yesterday. Got up around noon.” He chewed on his lip. “Hung around the apartment watching ESPN on the tube. Read a couple of articles on floetazine. Went out for pizza at Uno’s with Carl – that’s my roommate – had a couple of Heinekens at the bar. Then I walked to the Coolidge Corner Theatre to catch the midnight show.”
Sky knew the theatre. On Harvard Street, in Brookline. It appeared tiny when you looked at it from the street. But you stepped inside and it was very grand, very retro. Like an opera house. Her mind flashed back two years, she and Jake slouched in the theatre’s front row waiting for the film, drinking hot chocolate, eating popcorn with real butter. Jake, teasing Sky about looking like Audrey Hepburn. “Same big eyes, same determined jaw,” he’d said. “Easy to spot in a line-up.” He’d laughed and kissed her. The velvet curtains opened and Breakfast at Tiffany’s began.
The memory made Sky’s body go slack. She could almost smell Jake’s cologne.
The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) Page 7
