The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series)

by Steffen, P. M.

  Sky had heard enough.

  “Can I look around upstairs, Candace?” Sky tossed the doughnut in the trash. “I think I left a box of clothes in the third floor closet.”

  “The walk-in? Sure, honey. If you don’t find it there, look in the efficiency. I threw a bunch of stuff in there last fall. Go up the back steps, it’s unlocked. The gal who rents your place is gone for the day. And probably half the night. Poor thing practically lives at the law library. Boston College runs those first-year law students ragged.” Candace threw a quick hand up. “I almost forgot! You have a letter.”

  She disappeared into the living room and returned with a white envelope.

  “Here it is. The mailman delivered it yesterday. Or maybe the day before.” Candace looked at the oven clock. “I’ve got to run, honey. I’m late for work. Here’s puppy.” She ruffled Tiffany’s brindle coat and returned the dog to Sky’s lap. “Finish your coffee, eat a doughnut. Just let yourself out through the upstairs apartment when you leave.”

  Tiffany, thrilled to be back in Sky’s orbit, snorted and jumped at her face, making it impossible to read the return address. Sky slipped the letter into her pocket.

  She considered sharing her doubts about Ellery’s arrest with Candace. But to what end? Kyle was right, she needed proof. The press conference had confirmed her worst fears: Jake was after Ellery like he was settling an old score.

  “Keep your doors locked, Candace.” Sky gripped her old friend’s arm. “Promise me.”

  “Don’t worry about me, honey. I keep a loaded gun under my pillow. Besides, Jake arrested the killer, right?” Candace gave Sky’s cheek an affectionate pat. “It’s you I worry about. You’re so thin. Maybe you’ll put on some weight now that this investigation is over. Can I have this dog?”

  “I’m keeping her,” Sky said, to her own surprise.

  “Let me know if you change your mind.” Candace slipped a gigantic mustard yellow purse over her shoulder. “That dog has the most soulful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  Candace waved goodbye and left.

  A few seconds later, Sky heard the Malibu roar to life. The engine was so loud the windows rattled.

  “Candace needs a new muffler,” Sky informed the dog.

  After topping off the mug of coffee, she took the back staircase up to her old apartment. Entering through the kitchen, she followed carpeted steps to the third floor bedroom.

  Too bad Candace had already rented the place. Maybe Sky could get back to her old life, if she lived here again – her life before Jake.

  The box of clothes rested just inside the walk-in closet.

  Sky thought about the impending dinner at Porter Manville’s place. She needed to get into the man’s house, look around. That was the goal of the moment.

  “Think there’s something in this old box I can wear tonight?” she asked the dog.

  A wave of exhaustion swept through her, so sudden and intense that Sky barely managed to drag the clothes from the closet before collapsing on the carpeted floor.

  Tiffany wiggled out of her arms and bit at some orange fabric hanging over the side of the box. Sky pulled the item out of the dog’s mouth and held it up.

  “Maternity top,” she explained. “Isabella Oliver,” she read the label. It was a tunic the color of orange marmalade. “I wore it too much,” Sky confessed. “But Jake loved the way I looked in it. Like I had a basketball stuck under my shirt, he said.”

  Sky stuffed the tunic into the box and closed the flaps. What possessed her to look for this box? She certainly didn’t need maternity clothes.

  The idea of pregnancy gnawed at Sky and Theresa Piranesi’s toxic smile emanated from thin air.

  Sky felt herself grow afraid.

  Her heart skipped a beat and she clenched her fists.

  Panic attack.

  Her gut contracted and Sky shoved the box with a foot, gripped by a claustrophobic need for more space. She sucked in the bedroom’s stale air, intending to will the fear away, when a loud thud shook the floor below.

  Tiffany trotted toward the steps and sniffed suspiciously at the air.

  Sky looked toward the doorway with a sense of dread. Candace had probably forgotten to tell Sky something, she would appear in the bedroom any moment.

  Sky couldn’t let Candace find her this way. It was too humiliating. She was about to call out to her old friend, tell her she’d be down in a minute, a stall for time, when it occurred to her that she hadn’t heard Candace return.

  Had she been too preoccupied to notice the Malibu’s deafening muffler? Rising to her feet, Sky stepped to the window and looked down over Norwood Avenue. No Malibu in sight.

  Tiffany gave a throaty growl.

  Sky scooped the dog up and listened.

  Below, the floor boards of the dining room creaked and someone whispered ‘Shit’.

  Tiffany’s growl escalated to a piercing bark.

  Sky slipped into the walk-in closet with the dog in her arms and pulled the door shut behind her. Feeling her way in the dark, she stumbled to the back of the closet and groped through a densely packed rack of clothes until she hit solid surface.

  Tracing a spiral pattern, Sky felt blindly with her right hand until she hit a knob. Yes, this was the door Candace had described, the door that led to the illegal apartment.

  Sky twisted the doorknob hard and pushed awkwardly with a shoulder through the hanging clothes with Tiffany barking at full volume.

  The door gave and Sky nearly fell into the efficiency.

  She barely had time to steady herself when an arm reached through the closet doorway. The hand grasped at her, so close that Sky could make out inky stripes blotched along the index and middle fingers. A prison tattoo.

  Sky twisted to the right and leaned against the door with the full weight of her body, crushing the arm just above the wrist.

  “You fucking bitch!” a man’s voice shouted. The arm disappeared.

  Sky slid the flimsy lock shut and waded through a jumble of stacked chairs and boxes to the front door while the closet knob rattled behind her.

  An enraged snarl came from the other side of the wall, followed by a full body slam against the closet door.

  Sky stumbled over a fallen table lamp and broke her fall with her free hand when she heard the lock give way.

  A man tripped forward into the room just as Sky reached the front door of the efficiency.

  She pulled the door open and flew down three flights of winding steps with Tiffany yapping wildly under her arm.

  The staircase led to an enclosed porch at the back of the house.

  Sky squeezed between an abandoned desk and dresser and opened the outside door.

  Leaping from the top of the porch steps, she landed on scrubby grass and ran to the Jeep.

  She slipped into the driver’s seat and scanned her surroundings. Two high school girls shuffled in tandem down the sidewalk, texting on their respective cells. Otherwise, the street was deserted, no other cars.

  Sky fumbled at the ignition while Tiffany barked full throttle from the passenger’s seat.

  Glancing toward the side yard, Sky saw a solid, squat man with razor cut hair and a thick tattoo that coiled around a bull neck. He wore jeans and a nondescript jacket.

  Panting from the chase, the man pivoted toward the Jeep and stood with legs apart. He lifted both arms straight and Sky caught the barrel of a revolver pointed in her direction.

  Sky gunned the Jeep down Norwood just as a bullet ripped through the soft canvas roof. She veered onto Clarendon for a block and took the next left.

  When she reached the east side of Cabot Park she called Kyle on speed dial and explained the situation between gasps for air.

  “He shot at us,” she said, fighting back angry tears. “He nearly hit Tiffany.”

  “I’ll get someone there,” Kyle promised. “I’m still in Cambridge. Go to the station, start flipping through pictures. We’ll nail this asshole.”

  Sky gave Kyle a bri
ef description of the gunman. “Tell them to look for a bullet,” she added, “on the ground. Corner of Norwood and Clarendon.”

  “Did you hear me, Sky? Go directly to the station. That’s an order.” Kyle hung up.

  Sky called Candace just as the police sirens sounded. Two wailing black and whites passed her as she headed for the Mass Pike. Which happened to be in the opposite direction of the police station.

  Candace wasn’t picking up. Sky left a message and turned to Tiffany.

  “One stop before the station,” she told the agitated Shih Tzu. “I think it’s time I saw my shrink.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sky meant to drive straight to William James Hall. Instead, she was sitting in the basement bar of Grendel’s in Harvard Square clutching a cup of coffee in her shaking hands.

  The leap from Candace’s back porch had left her legs feeling rubbery and her left knee throbbed. She’d managed to catch her breath during the drive to Cambridge but the adrenaline rush had her mind racing. That thug with the tattooed neck wanted her dead. Could he be the shooter at Bullough’s Pond?

  Guilt insinuated itself.

  The police station, that’s where she should be, looking through mug shots. Fresh memories were the most reliable, she’d said it to the detectives so many times. So why the sudden need to see Alexei?

  Tracing the morning’s events, Sky realized that it wasn’t just the gunman she feared. It was that panic attack in the upstairs bedroom at Candace’s. It seemed to come out of nowhere and it terrified her to think it might happen again.

  Maybe Alexei had something, some kind of drug Sky could take to keep the panic away.

  An early lunch crowd was wandering in. Two eye-catching Gen Xer’s took a nearby table and Sky eavesdropped, glad for the distraction. The women gossiped about their most recent dates, complained about their bosses, argued over a Facebook remark, made plans to go to the gym together after work.

  Sky listened to their girlish chatter with a growing sense of bewilderment.

  These women were her contemporaries. So why did she feel a thousand years old? Something had gone terribly wrong.

  Sky left a generous tip on the bar and limped past the beautiful Gen Xer’s on her way out. Which didn’t help her mood a bit.

  The elevator at William James Hall opened and Sky followed whacking sounds to Room 740.

  Peeking in the open doorway, she spied Alexei Gudzenko, dressed in his signature gray suit, hammering a nail into his office wall. Tiffany yipped at the commotion and Alexei’s gray head shot up.

  “Zvezdochka? You look terrible.” He tugged at his vest. “What is wrong?”

  “Another panic attack.” Sky stepped inside. “I was hoping you could write me a prescription.”

  Alexei pointed to a chair. “You and small friend will sit.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” Sky protested.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  Sky sat. Tiffany sighed and curled up on her lap.

  Alexei delivered two more serious whacks to the nail before picking up a picture that was propped against his desk.

  “B.F. Skinner,” he announced, hanging the picture over the freshly pounded nail. “September 1971.” He stepped away from the wall and admired his handiwork.

  It was a Time magazine cover, triple-matted in a red metal frame. A detailed sketch of the famous behaviorist covered most of the page, Skinner’s pensive face gazed unhappily toward some unseen vanishing point. Although the magazine cover was nearly forty years old, it struck an oddly modern note among Alexei’s collection of antiquities and Egyptian artifacts.

  “Premier psychologist of twentieth century.” Alexei took a seat at his desk. “Possibly of any century. Fred, to his friends.” His brow furrowed. “I tell you, Sky, twenty years he is gone and I miss him still. Fred was genius. And decent bridge player.” Alexei leaned back and crossed his stout legs at the knee. “Such a mind this world does not often see. Though Fred would argue: ‘Mind’ is not scientific term!’”

  Sky had to smile. Skinnerian theory was a specialty of hers. As a graduate student, she’d penned a paper entitled “Zen and the Art of Verbal Behavior.” It was a tongue-in-cheek treatise pointing out certain commonalties between Skinner’s analysis of language and the Zen Buddhist approach to mind. Sky was about to mention the paper when she noticed a change in Alexei’s expression, a disturbing intensity in the therapist’s eyes.

  “Of course, we studied and managed human behavior in Motherland,” he said. “Regrettably, other branches of knowledge competed with psychology.” He jabbed at the air with a finger. “Marxist theory, foundation of Soviet Union! Unfortunately for psychology, Marxist theory included human behavior in its domain.”

  Marxist theory held little interest for Sky, she had her own issues. But she said nothing. There was no rushing Alexei, once he got started.

  “Being superior to any other branch of science, naturally, Marx’s theory suppressed all others. Academic freedom did not exist.” Alexei gestured to the newly hung picture. “Time Magazine issue was secret treasure smuggled into Moscow. Read alone, at night, in kitchen. Shades drawn. Embedded in Pravda.” Alexei pointed to the magazine cover. “Fred’s signature, bottom right corner, do you see?”

  Sky could just make out the dedication: To Alexei, warm regards, Fred Skinner

  “You must understand, Zvezdochka. I obtained doctorate from Moscow State University under Luria’s tutelage. Then to Moscow’s Serbsky Institute for Social and Forensic Psychiatry. Fred found these two facts intriguing.”

  “You studied with Alexander Luria?” Sky was impressed. Luria was the most frequently cited Russian scholar in the psychology literature. Some considered Luria the first neuropsychologist.

  “Indeed, I had that privilege.” Alexei stroked his trim gray beard. “It was sixties, hypnosis was popular treatment for various psychological problems. As one of Luria’s favored students, I moved up quickly through ranks.” Alexei palmed an object from his desktop and held it up. “Paperweight,” he said. “Made in 1870 by Boston and Sandwich Glass Company. Look carefully. You can just make out wild flowers. See millefiori centers?”

  Sky saw a gnarl of blue and white stripes among ugly globs of green.

  “The artist intended to create double flower,” he explained. “But design exploded in making. A mistake, you see.”

  Alexei turned the paperweight in his hand as he spoke. “Have you ever heard term Psikhushka? No matter. A colloquialism for psychiatric hospital. Soviet authorities used Psikhushka in war against dissidents. Logic being that no sane person would declaim against Soviet government! I am sorry to report our Serbsky Institute participated in such activities. To isolate, to discredit, to break physically and emotionally. We were very creative group.” Alexei’s voice wavered, the Russian accent thickened. “You cannot imagine the horrors. Radiation torture. Electric shock. Insulin injection. Lumbar puncture …” His voice trailed off and he set the paperweight down.

  “Did you know I was married? Yes, beautiful Anna. Black hair and sparkling eyes. We worked together, fell in love. Had daughter, Galina. So like her mother.”

  Sky was too shocked to say anything. Until this moment, Alexei had never spoken of his old life, even when she’d prodded.

  “Anna believed in Communist Party. I did not.” Alexei jabbed at the paperweight with an index finger. “September, 1979. I attended symposium in Boston. Forensic Psychology and Psychiatry. Alexei Vladislav Gudzenko, honored guest speaker!” He sighed. “I applied for asylum. I have never looked back.”

  “What happened to your wife?”

  “Anna? She divorced me. Remarried. With embarrassing speed, I must add. One of Andropov’s toadies.” He shrugged. “I never stopped loving her. But I had to live with myself, did I not?”

  “And your daughter?”

  “She is doctor of forensic science, like yourself!” His eyes narrowed. “Two summers ago I returned to Moscow. First trip in thirty years. Gal
ina refused to see me.”

  Alexei’s confession was so unexpected, Sky scarcely knew how to respond. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Ah! Why do I tell you these things? You did not come here to listen to old man’s tale of woe.” Alexei gestured toward the sketch of Skinner. “Something in Fred’s face brings memories.”

  Sky studied a new cluster of antiquities that Alexei had arranged on a Persian rug in the corner. A Greek vase dominated the grouping, the bell-shaped body decorated with palmettes, tendrils, and a figure in a baggy tunic holding a grotesque comic mask. Next to the vase, an intricate head of Buddha, a statue of the Egyptian goddess Isis with a lunar orb atop her head, and a dozen ancient bronze figurines.

  She’d failed her friend.

  All the lunches through the years, the rambling conversations – how could Sky have missed the pain? She considered the ancient artifacts from a new perspective and decided that Alexei’s obsessive collection was born of immense loss.

  “Enough!” Alexei seemed to read her thoughts. He raised a hand, an indication that the subject was closed. Leaning back in the chair, he stared intently at Sky. “Tell me, Zvezdochka. What is happening in your life that you are having panic attack? I seem to recall last one had something to do with your detective?”

  “Yes. At the crime scene.”

  “Continue.”

  Sky rearranged Tiffany on her lap and began a halting account of events: Theresa Piranesi’s shocking declaration of love for Jake and the detective’s midnight visit to Sky’s office.

  “Jake and I …” she paused, embarrassed.

  “Reconciled?” Alexei suggested.

  “Yes … well, no …” Sky stumbled over her words. “I saw him with Theresa the next day.” Sky ran her fingers along Tiffany’s swollen belly. “Jake says Theresa is pregnant. He says it was a moment of weakness. Theresa’s uncle says Theresa and Jake are getting married.”

  “And you, Zvezdochka. What do you say?”

  “I hate him.”

  “Oh yes, is very apparent.” Alexei jumped up and moved around the desk to give the red frame a slight adjustment. “I saw your detective on television this morning,” he said. “Heartbreak Hill killer apprehended. Good work.”