The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series)

by Steffen, P. M.

  The portrait was life-size, one of those paintings where the eyes tracked the viewer; it didn’t matter where you were in the room, Sky-as-a-child was watching.

  “Jake said no kid should look so clever.” Sky laughed weakly. “Said he felt like the painting knew what he was thinking.”

  Sky wished she knew what Jake was thinking that very minute. She lifted the portrait off the wall and lugged it down the stairs and out to the Jeep, wedging it behind the driver’s seat. She slipped in and started the engine.

  Candace stood beside the driver’s door and leaned her head down.

  “Jake loves you, honey. Be forgiving. And stay away from Theresa Piranesi. She’s trouble. The kind of woman who wants what she can’t have.” Candace made a fist and pressed her thumb between her index and middle fingers. “Mal occhio,” she warned. “The evil eye.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sky stood in front of the blue door of Professor Fisk’s lab with Nicolette’s pink lanyard in her hand.

  Three hard raps on the door yielded no response so she sorted through the fourteen university-issue keys and found a match. The lock gave and Sky entered the antechamber.

  It was still early, not yet nine. Sky wanted to get in and out before Zach showed up at ten to run his rats. She walked into the east-facing room, the one where Axelrod had spotted the klieg lights of Fenway from the window; storage cabinets, refrigerator on the north wall, the computer undisturbed in the corner.

  All the graphs and charts that had been taped on the wall just yesterday were gone. Sky was relieved to see that the lab log still rested on the round table. She examined the heavy volume. It was the most ornate lab record she’d ever seen, hand-bound in pebbled leather. The black cover was trimmed in burgundy, with a narrow gold chain scrolled along the corners and down the front. The pages were lined, each page number hand-stamped in blue ink along the upper corner, four hundred and thirty-four pages total. She riffled the book and a cardboard label fell out; it appeared to be torn from a shipment of male rats. Scribbled messages on yellow sticky notes were dotted throughout the pages. A note in the professor’s looping script read:

  Nicolette, No syringes in databook, if Gestapo sees it we are in trouble. H.

  Sky smiled. Horace Fisk had a sense of humor. The Gestapo crack was likely a reference to the draconian requirements applied to animal labs, any infraction could result in lab shutdown. An abandoned syringe could be problematic.

  Sky pulled the March fifteenth graphs out of the packet and scanned the corresponding pages in the lab log. The book held two sets of data, hand recorded in ink, the first under Nicolette’s name and the second under Zach’s. Embedded in row and column ran each rat’s strain and number, weight, dosage, swim time, mobility time. Nicolette had run the highly anxious Wistar strain, seven each day. Zach’s list showed eight Sprague Dawleys each day for the week of March eleventh.

  Sky was reviewing the range of swim time values for Zach’s rats – the disappointing rats – when she happened to notice that the blue numbers stamped in the upper corners weren’t in sequence. Pages were missing. It hadn’t been immediately apparent because someone had cut the pages so close to the binding. Tacked onto page 188, which happened to be dated March eleventh, was a pink sticky note in Nicolette’s distinctive print:

  SORRY, SPILLED COFFEE. DATA TRANSCRIBED. N.

  The next page number was 195. Nicolette must have spilled coffee on exactly three pages of raw data. A sloppy thing to do in a lab. But accidents happened. Had this really been an accident? Sky decided that a purist would keep the original pages somewhere, paper-clipped, or wedged into the book. Wouldn’t Professor Fisk have insisted? Yet, pages 189 through 194 were missing.

  Sky was taking shots of the transcribed data with her cell phone to analyze later, at her office, when she heard a noise at the door. She shut the log, slipped into the wet lab, and hid in a small supply room across from the sink.

  Watching from behind the door, Sky saw a figure dart through the antechamber into the east-facing room. She heard drawers slam and the clatter of metal cabinets opening and shutting. Whoever it was seemed to be working their way around the room looking for something.

  Sky edged closer to the crack in the door and accidently nudged a cardboard box with her foot. A package of paper towels fell, landing on the supply closet floor with a dull smack.

  Sky froze. The noise from the adjoining room stopped.

  Footsteps approached, the sound of hard-soled shoes on linoleum. A florescent glare lit the wet lab and a man walked into the room, not ten feet from where Sky hid.

  He stood motionless, as though listening, the way a feral animal listens for unseen prey. In his right hand, a hunting knife.

  Sky held her breath and watched.

  He was tall and the dark suit he wore only accentuated a latent physicality. His hair was streaked with silver through the temples. Pale eyes and a hawk nose shadowed by a heavy brow. His wide mouth could have been called generous, but there was something cruel about his thin lips. The strong set of his jaw suggested a man accustomed to power.

  Visionary, that was the word the professor had used.

  Sky realized she was staring at Porter Manville.

  The picture she’d downloaded at the office failed to capture the energy the man radiated, the sense of controlled urgency. The knuckles of his hand grew white as he gripped the hunting knife; Sky caught the glint of a gold signet on his index finger.

  Manville looked about the room, seeming to consider his options. His eyes were directed at the sink, with its measuring instruments and beakers. A slight turn of his head, and his eyes focused directly into the supply closet.

  Sky’s heart thudded and she felt like vomiting.

  His body inclined in her direction. A quick smile played on his mouth, as though an amusing thought had just occurred to him. He made an abrupt turn and walked out of the room, still holding the knife.

  Sky heard the lab door slam shut and she stood in the dark, sick with relief. He’d spent less than thirty seconds in the wet lab but the sight of the hunting knife had been so startling.

  She ran to the window in the east room and looked down over the street. It was only a few seconds before she spotted the red Lamborghini disappearing north on Blanford.

  Sky left the lab and headed the Jeep west on Commonwealth in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Ten minutes later she stood in front of Nicolette’s apartment.

  Jenna didn’t answer the doorbell.

  Sky pulled out the pink lanyard, entered using Nicolette’s key, and headed straight for the bedroom.

  She rechecked all the pockets in Nicolette’s clothes and looked between the mattress and box spring. She pulled off the pink sheets and shook them. Then she felt inside the toes of the fleece-lined boots, the pink mules, and the Ralph Lauren leopard flats.

  She unzipped the largest pocket of the pink Jansport backpack and pulled out the sheaf of journal reprints. A black running bra slid out with the reprints and fell to the floor.

  Sky picked up the bra. Made of stretchy cotton, it was worn and faded from use. It had a racer back and went on over the head, no closure, no adjustable straps. A white Nike swoosh adorned the front. Sky turned the bra inside out and discovered a hidden mesh pocket in the lining, empty.

  She rolled up the sheaf of journal reprints and slipped them in her coat pocket.

  The dingy Allston dwelling took Sky back to her undergraduate days at Iowa. She looked around the bedroom because something was nagging at her. Then she remembered. She’d roomed briefly with a kid from New Jersey, a spacey girl who was overly fond of weed. The girl had insisted on storing her stash behind the light switch in her bedroom.

  Sky grabbed a metal nail file from the desk and unscrewed the paint-stained switch plate next to the door. Nothing. Systematically working her way around the apartment, Sky checked all the switch plates she could find – bathroom, living room, kitchen. Nothing.

  She snapped a picture of everyt
hing on the shelf with her cell phone: textbooks, Mensa word games, Salinger’s Nine Stories, encyclopedia of spells, Karma CD, framed snapshot.

  Sky slipped the Karma CD in her pocket and paused.

  Picking up the photograph, she studied the women in the picture. One looked so much like Nicolette that she could have been a twin. The other woman was older, had her arm around Nicolette, probably her mother. Sky noticed a bulge, something appeared to be wedged between the snapshot and the frame liner. Sky twisted the small wings that held the cardboard backing in place and a folded wad of papers flipped onto the mattress. Sky opened the wad and spread the pages out on the bed.

  They were lined, and filled with hand written data. Each page carried a number hand-stamped in blue ink on the upper corner.

  The missing log pages. Sky noted that none of the pages were stained with coffee. She refolded the wad, secured it in her backpack, and left the apartment.

  The Jeep’s windshield wipers slapped a jerky rhythm as Sky drove into Newton through misting rain. She was waiting at a traffic light on Washington when she spotted Jake’s black Mustang illegally parked in front of the courthouse. Sky could make out Jake in the driver’s seat, his head turned toward a figure in the passenger’s side with long dark hair. They embraced and Sky nearly rammed into the car in front of her.

  Sky drove to the station lot and parked at a broken meter, absorbing the distorted image of Jake and the woman, a sensation of being punched in the chest. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

  Pulling the amber prescription bottle of beta blockers from her bag, Sky chewed and swallowed the bitter tablets, thinking: This is my life. I’m taking drugs to get through a meeting.

  She entered the police station through the back door and went directly to the briefing room, where Kyle and Axelrod sat nursing coffees.

  “Darling, please tell us you found something.”

  “No cell phone. No purse.” Sky took a gulp of Kyle’s coffee in an attempt to wash the bitter taste of pills from her mouth. “But I did find these hidden behind a picture frame in Nicolette’s bedroom.” She tossed the log pages on the table and sat down.

  “What the hell does it all mean?” Kyle held a creased sheet up. “Just a bunch of numbers. And, speaking of numbers,” he twisted a toothpick between his teeth with a thumb and forefinger, “Ellery Templeton can’t seem to find a number for that alleged guitar dealer in New York.”

  “No alibi,” the rookie added.

  “Thank you for stating the obvious, Axelrod. We’d be lost without you.” Kyle turned to Sky and peered at her over his wire rims. “Concentrate those powers of deduction on the guitar player, darling. Until further notice, our prime suspect happens to be your old boyfriend.”

  “What boyfriend?” Jake came through the briefing room door and stood at the end of the table. The crisp white of his shirt offered stark contrast to the black shoulder holster. The barrel of the baby Glock nestled unseen along his ribcage, only the handle showed.

  Jake looked from Kyle to Sky. “What boyfriend?” he repeated.

  “Doctor Stone dated Ellery Templeton. Back in the day.” Kyle took a jesting tone. “Ten years ago, wasn’t it, darling?"

  “The guitar player?” Jake snorted.

  “Grammy winner,” Sky said. “Best contemporary blues album, two years running. Boston’s answer to B.B. King, according to Rolling Stone.” The lingering image of Theresa Piranesi hung at the edge of her consciousness and Sky wanted to draw blood. “I don’t have to tell you how talented Ellery is, Jake.” She’d never mentioned her connection with the musician because Jake was such a fan, had all of Ellery’s music on his iPod. Why spoil that?

  Jake retreated behind an expressionless mask and addressed Kyle. “So what did Templeton have to say?”

  “Kyle wasn’t there,” Sky said. The memory of Jake’s body intruded and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the artificial calm of the little blue pills. “I spoke with Ellery alone.”

  Jake rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “That didn’t strike you as a bad idea?”

  “Ellery trusts me,” Sky insisted. “Kyle and Axelrod would have made him nervous.”

  “Damn straight,” Kyle agreed. “Templeton should be nervous. Nervous as hell.”

  “Ellery didn’t murder Nicolette.” Sky felt like a broken record.

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me you dated Templeton?”

  When Sky didn’t respond, Jake pushed. “We were engaged.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Theresa?” Sky shot back. Anger bubbled up and she added, “I met her last night. Lovely person. Congratulations.” The words just slipped out. Sky was appalled by her own behavior.

  Axelrod shifted in his chair and Kyle cleared his throat.

  Jake’s expression didn’t change but Sky watched his left hand clench. The index finger of his right hand tapped a rhythm on the handle of the baby Glock.

  “Autopsy?” Kyle changed the subject. “Anything remotely interesting from Vanessa Hatcher?” He spoke the medical examiner’s name with exaggerated precision.

  “Asphyxiation by strangulation,” Jake said. “Soft tissue damage in the neck indicated obstruction of arterial flow in the carotids.”

  “Any sign of sexual activity?” Kyle asked.

  “Affirmative. Traces of semen. Vaginal penetration two to five hours before the body was found.” Jake shrugged. “No evidence of force.”

  “Consensual sex before she was murdered,” Sky said.

  “She was pregnant. Approximately eight weeks.” Jake’s voice had a guttural quality and he avoided Sky’s eyes.

  So the subject of pregnancy caused him pain, too. Sky noted the strangeness of working with Jake, sleeping with Jake. But the thing they hadn’t done was talk to each other. Why was talking so difficult? Like maneuvering though land mines.

  “I got this from Nicolette’s tattoo artist.” Sky placed the computer print-out of the caimen tattoo on the table next to the log pages. “One body, two counts of murder,” she said. “Pregnancy suggests motive.”

  Jake studied the tattoo. “A crocodile? Unusual choice.” He made no mention of tramp stamps, as he’d done at the crime scene. Sky suspected that Nicolette had finally become flesh and blood for Jake.

  “Nicolette’s last forty-eight hours.” Jake handed a time line to each member of the team.

  Sky scanned the page. “I’ll talk to Francois Duquette at the Newton Centre Salon. According to the roommate, he gave Nicolette a trim on Saturday.”

  “A hair dresser?” Kyle arched a skeptical eyebrow.

  “A woman’s relationship with her hairdresser can be very close,” Sky insisted. “A friend of mine drives to New York City because that’s where her hairdresser relocated and she doesn’t trust anyone else. Ten hour drive, all in all.”

  Kyle’s mouth dropped open and the toothpick fell out.

  “Trudy’s blonde,” Sky added. “Pays three hundred dollars for a hair foil. Not including tip. And she makes her appointments three months in advance.”

  “Holy crap. Who knew?” Kyle gave his close-cropped gray hair a thoughtful rub. “Three hundred dollars? I pay my Lake barber fifteen bucks. Yet another reason to celebrate being male.”

  Magnus crashed through the briefing room door and made directly for the bulletin board where the eight by ten glossies of Nicolette’s body were pinned. He stared at a close-up of Nicolette’s swollen, mottled face. “The mayor is freaking out on me,” Magnus said. “He’s afraid this murder will affect real estate values. Not that I particularly care what the mayor thinks.” He pivoted and addressed the team. “Why, you might be asking yourselves, am I angry?” He gestured toward the glossies. “Because every goddam news cycle is leading with this girl. Makes us look like amateurs. I expect action.” His expression suggested a man ready to pounce. “Farrell, if you can’t handle this investigation I’m considering a joint task force. Bring in the bureau.”

  “Tha
t’s great, Chief.” Kyle’s tone dripped sarcasm. “We’ll do the grunt work, we’ll give those FBI dicks everything we’ve got. They’ll give us nothing and take credit for solving the case.” He turned to Sky. “I wouldn’t care so much if they weren’t so fucking sanctimonious about their process.” He gestured with air quotes.

  “So give me something,” Magnus said.

  “Our current suspects.” Sky placed the photographs on the conference table. “This first shot is Professor Horace Fisk, Nicolette’s boss and mentor. The second is Zach Rosario, resentful yet horny research fellow. Runs the lab with Nicolette.” It wasn’t a flattering shot. Zach was all jowls and corkscrew curls.

  Jake gave Sky a loaded look and pointed to the third face. “Ellery Templeton. Boyfriend.”

  “Ellery Templeton, boyfriend and player,” Kyle added. “We met one of Templeton’s paramours at his place in Charlestown. The fair Fiona.” Kyle offered Jake an abbreviated version of the conversation with willowy, foul-mouthed Fiona. “She’s British.”

  Jake appeared to take some pleasure at this mention of Fiona Thatcher. Sky watched him stifle a smug smile. She did not think of herself as a violent person, but she felt the sudden urge to punch him. He really was unbearable.

  She set the final picture down. “Porter Manville, CEO of Wellbiogen, the pharmaceutical company that funds Fisk’s research.” Sky didn’t mention that she’d just seen Manville at the lab, or that she’d hidden in the closet. Which sounded like something a child might do.

  Magnus pointed to Manville’s picture. “I know this guy. Met him last summer at the mayor’s annual barbecue. He let me drive his Lamborghini. I took it for a spin on Route 128. That car can go from zero to sixty in five seconds.”

  “We are aware, yes,” Kyle said. “Think you might be able to get him in here for an interview, Chief?”

  Magnus issued a rare smile. “I have every confidence in Doctor Stone’s methods. No need for me to interfere at this point.” He picked up a log page. “What’s this?”