The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series)

by Steffen, P. M.

  “Not good,” Sky said.

  “Your detective appeared quite confident.”

  “Jake’s wrong.” Sky explained the working relationship between Porter Manville and the research lab at Boston University. “It’s Professor Fisk’s lab, he thinks Manville is some kind of visionary. So does the research fellow that worked with Nicolette. But something didn’t feel right. I had to check him out.”

  Sky flashed her gold-tipped fingernails and told Alexei about the elaborate preparations at Francois Duquette’s salon, the Four Seasons set-up, Manville’s arrogance and his dismissive attitude at the mention of Primil’s dangerous side effects. “I beat him at chess,” she added, describing the game’s highlights and the amused gallery.

  Alexei scowled. “Is this man aware you are forensic psychologist?”

  Sky nodded. “There’s more.” She recounted her midnight run to the crime scene, the gunfire at Bullough’s Pond, the CEO’s rescue. “At least, I think it was a rescue. He pushed me down and I blacked out. I guess he drove me to the hospital. When I came to, he ignored me. But he sucked up to Jake and Kyle, big time.”

  “He was deferential to detectives?” Alexei’s frown deepened.

  “Manville knows I’m onto him,” Sky confided. “But Jake and Kyle think he’s some kind of hero. They think he saved my life. He was awarded Humanitarian of the Year, at the Diamond Ball, so …” She tried to explain the dynamic. “It was sickening to watch. Jake and Kyle were so easily manipulated. That’s never happened before.”

  Alexei bolted to his feet. “You must cease all interaction with this man. Immediately.” His delivery turned staccato. “Do you understand?”

  “He’s the one, Alexei. Manville’s the killer.”

  “I believe you, Zvezdochka. But you must leave him to men of homicide.”

  Sky tried pointing out the tricky facts of her relationship with Ellery. “It’s been ten years since I dated him but Jake is still blind with jealousy.”

  “To be honest?” Alexei shrugged. “I could kill husband of ex-wife with bare hands and not think twice. Love is love. That is not point.”

  “The Chief threatened Jake, said if we didn’t solve the case he’d bring in the FBI.” Sky could hear the edge to her voice. “I can’t leave this to the men of homicide. The men of homicide are fucking up.”

  “No matter. You are simply not equipped to deal with such a personality!” Alexei slapped the desk for emphasis. “Everything you tell me about this man, carefully crafted image, manipulation –”

  Sky interrupted, “This isn’t my first homicide investigation, Alexei.”

  A shadow crossed the therapist’s lined face. “Listen carefully to me, Zvezdochka. Malignant narcissism. You are familiar with diagnosis?”

  “Of course. Malignant narcissists tend to be charismatic, arrogant, predatory.” Sky recited the descriptors learned like a litany from Monk. Serial killer characteristics.

  “So you are aware,” Alexei said, “malignant narcissists suffer intense need for control. Complete control! This type responds badly when challenged. And they carry a grudge like you would not believe.”

  “What explains that kind of behavior?”

  “Etiology of narcissism? Infant’s lack of early attachment to mother.” Alexei shrugged, as though this were obvious. “Maternal attachment is vital. Any disruption may result in severe psychological disturbance later in life.”

  Sky didn’t say anything but Alexei seemed to read the look on her face.

  “Excuse me, Miss Behaviorist. I will not bore you further with Freudian claptrap.” He offered a tolerant grin. “Many roads lead to same truth, Zvezdochka.” Alexei gestured toward the picture of Skinner. “Little known fact: Skinner was surprisingly sympathetic to Freudian mechanisms.”

  He studied Sky for a reaction.

  When none came, Alexei threw up his hands in frustration. “Look it up! Science and Human Behavior, 1953! Freud was only psychologist Skinner referenced.” He shrugged and put a finger to his lips. “You say you beat this man at chess? In front of audience?” He shook his head. “I must inform you, that alone could bring retaliation.”

  “Manville won’t hurt me.”

  Not yet, she thought. Attraction brings distraction. She still had time.

  “What craziness do you talk?” Alexei bristled. “Why would he not hurt you?”

  “He’s a raging sexist, for starters. And pathologically self-confident.” Sky pictured Manville in Professor Fisk’s lab, holding the hunting knife. “From his perspective, I pose no threat. I’m female. Therefore, I’m harmless.”

  “Please enlighten me. How are you not threat to this man? You work for Homicide.”

  “Not any more.” Sky looked down at Tiffany and her voice grew small. “Jake fired me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Jake fired me.”

  “So! You do not even have protection afforded by police? Absurd!” He shook his head harder. “I can not allow it!”

  “I have to go.” Alexei’s tone was making the lump above Sky’s ear throb. She stood to leave but the room tilted in a sickening spiral and she braced herself against the chair. “Do you have something for the panic attacks or not?”

  “Stubborn,” Alexei muttered. He pulled a pad from his desk drawer and scribbled something. “Alprazolam,” he said, handing her the prescription.

  “Xanax?”

  “Just so. Benzodiazepine. Smallest dosage. Take one when panic comes. Two, if absolutely necessary.”

  Sky slipped the prescription in her pocket and waited for the dizziness to pass.

  Maybe Kyle was right. Maybe she had a concussion.

  “Drug is temporary measure,” Alexei’s voice turned gruff. “No substitute for therapy. You look terrible. Go home. Sleep.”

  “I can’t. I have a date tonight.” Sky didn’t elaborate but Alexei seemed to intuit the situation. He stood at attention by his office door and watched her leave.

  “Someone needs to save you from yourself,” he grumbled.

  Sky headed for the elevator with the dog under her arm. She knew the therapist was watching so she made a painful effort to hide her limp.

  “Do not pursue this man,” Alexei pleaded down the dark hallway. “I fear for you, Zvezdochka.”

  Sky left Harvard and drove to the Newton police station.

  The next two hours were spent giving Kyle a statement and pouring through mug shots for a white male, approximately five feet six inches, stocky, maybe two hundred pounds, black tattoo wrapped around a bull neck. Sky did her best to avoid eye contact with anyone; Jake had fired her and everybody knew it. It was embarrassing.

  She was on her third Styrofoam cup of muddy coffee when Magnus beckoned to her from his door with a curt hand gesture. Sky abandoned the mug shots, handed Tiffany to Kyle, and limped to the Chief’s office.

  Magnus sat at his desk glowering at her over a laptop screen. He snapped the computer shut and waved her to a chair. “Any luck with the mugshots?”

  “No.” Sky fiddled briefly with the strap of her back pack and dove right in. “Jake took me off the Mercer case. For no good reason. Can’t you override that decision?”

  “Sorry, kiddo.” Magnus shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. There’s always the next case.”

  “No,” Sky protested. “There is only this case. There is only this murder. And I’m wasting my time here.” She stood up. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Hold on, hold on. Not so fast. My God, you remind me of Monk.” Magnus rearranged his massive frame in the tufted leather desk chair. “I’ve got something for you, Sky. Something I’ve had for … well, since before you were born.” He opened his mouth to say something else but the words didn’t come. Instead, he picked up the sword-shaped letter opener. The furrows in his face grew deeper as he tapped an erratic rhythm against the palm of his hand.

  Sky had never seen the Chief so tentative and unsure of himself. “So what is it?” she said.

  Magnus rol
led out of the chair and drew the vertical blinds closed on either side of the office door. Something else he rarely did.

  When he snapped the deadbolt shut on the door, Sky started to get nervous. Something was really freaking him out.

  “Magnus? What is it?”

  “Your father’s service weapon,” he blurted. “It happened during the Back Bay murders. Monk’s first field-office assignment. I was with Boston PD, we were on a call together. I went back to the car, I was looking for something in the glove compartment and found Monk’s firearm. I took it. I took his gun and hid it in my jacket.”

  The words tumbled from his mouth so quickly that it took Sky a moment to register what he’d actually said.

  She was too shocked to speak.

  “It was a prank. A stupid joke. I had every intention of giving it back. I’d give it back and we’d both have a good laugh.” The Chiefs face was a knot of pain and regret. “When Monk found it missing, he was so angry, so disgusted with himself …” Magnus shut his eyes against the memory. “So help me God, I was afraid to tell him. Scared shitless.” He opened his eyes and looked at Sky. “Not much frightens me. But Monk … well …” Magnus laughed uneasily. “Your father could have that effect on people.”

  “Where is it?” Sky asked. “Where’s the gun?”

  Magnus went to a corner closet and pulled out a black duffel bag. “The Chiefs Special,” he said. “Smith & Wesson .38 snubnose. The Bureau switched to Glock semiautomatics in the late eighties, this is practically an antique, but …” He cleared his throat. “I keep it cleaned and oiled. It’s like new.” He shrugged. “I’ve lived with the guilt long enough. I can’t return it to Monk, it’s too late for that. So I’m doing the next best thing.” He crossed the room and dropped the bag at her feet. “I know you don’t like guns, Sky. But I’m giving it to you. Right now, on this day.”

  The black canvas bag was nondescript, the kind every cop owned, used for lugging tactical gear.

  Sky opened the zipper and checked the contents. A box of Buffalo Bore cartridges, a cleaning kit, and a black gun case with a carrying handle.

  She reached inside and unlatched the gun case.

  The revolver rested on a bed of gray foam. It had a blued steel frame with a two-inch barrel. Sky stroked the wooden grip with an index finger and thought about her father. The arguments, until she’d agreed to sessions at the range.

  Monk’s voice was in her ear, ticking off the revolver’s advantages: easy to master, even for a novice like Sky. More accurate than a semiautomatic. Chambered for more powerful rounds. The short barrel meant concealability. Revolvers had their disadvantages, Monk had taught her that, too. Loud, limited to six shots, slow to reload. And the trigger pull was greater.

  She’d never thanked her father, Sky realized. Not once, during all those lessons, all those practice sessions. Making her dry fire at home with an empty gun so Sky could get the feel for the trigger pull.

  Sky was a decent shot, thanks to Monk. An ungrateful daughter, that’s what she was. Poor Monk, always trying to protect her from some imagined horror.

  And here he was, even now, handing her a gun from the grave.

  Sky snapped the latches shut and zipped the bag. A strange calm had descended over her at the sight of Monk’s revolver, she wasn’t sure why. She stood up and slipped the duffel bag over her shoulder.

  “Are we good?” Magnus seemed invigorated by the confession, he stood taller, broader.

  “Yeah. We’re good.” What else was there to say?

  Sky unlocked the deadbolt and left the office.

  Kyle was waiting at his desk with the dog on his lap. “I called Teddy, told him about your little adventure. He’ll be here any minute to pick you up.”

  Sky started to protest but Kyle cut her off. “No driving. If need be, darling, I’ll arrest you.” He wasn’t joking.

  Teddy showed up, glad-handing old friends and flirting with the women as he moved through the station. He displayed an irritating enthusiasm for his task, chauffeuring Sky to the Lake and walking her from the car to her office like some kind of body guard.

  “I’m taking no chances, boss. Just getting you back to the ranch in one piece.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Bad dog.” Sky plucked the copper bishop from Tiffany’s mouth and dried it with the sleeve of her sweater.

  The Shih Tzu had managed to snag the game piece while Sky sat on her office sofa transferring Whip’s chess set from box to board. The chess board rested on an abandoned speaker cabinet retrieved from a storage closet at the end of the hall.

  Issuing a dismissive snort at the loss of the bishop, the pregnant Shih Tzu proceeded to waddle back and forth in a small arc around the cabinet, gauging her chances of a second steal.

  It was nearly six o’clock. The office window framed a late afternoon sky bruised with purple clouds.

  Teddy sat at Sky’s computer, trolling for information on Porter Manville. “I got nothin’,” he complained. “Not even a parking ticket. Don’t get me wrong, Porter Manville is all over the place. But it’s awards, patents, parties, magazine articles. Toast of the town, this guy.”

  Sky placed the last copper pawn on the chess board. “Did you check out that Phoenix Documentary website?”

  “Yeah, I called the website number. Asked to speak with the director of The Science of Happy. Got transferred to some chick with a foreign accent who claimed the director was out of the country on another project. Gone for at least six months. No number, no e-mail address.” Teddy shrugged. “In other words, I got the brush-off.” He leaned back in his chair. “So I call Wellbiogen, claim I’m part of the Phoenix Documentary film crew, ask to speak to their media representative. Jesus, Sky, she drilled me a new asshole. Said it’d been nearly six months, what was the hold up, why couldn’t she get hold of anyone at Phoenix Documentary? Demanded I send her a copy of the film immediately. She was wicked pissed.”

  “I wonder what Manville thinks about it,” Sky mused.

  “He threw that demo away,” Teddy pointed out. “He probably doesn’t think about it at all. The guy has a million and one things on his plate.”

  Sky picked up her cell. The telephone number from the Papa Razzi napkin was on speed dial, prefaced by *67 so her own number wouldn’t show on the other end. She pushed the button for the hundredth time that day. If Porter Manville gave the napkin to Nicolette, it was reasonable to assume that it was Porter Manville’s number. Sky let it ring, hoping to hear the CEO’s velvet voice on the other end.

  No answer. No message.

  Sky rearranged the chess men in an effort to calm herself. Had she been the target of gunfire at Bullough’s? She’d had her doubts because Porter Manville’s account wasn’t to be trusted. But there was nothing vague about the thug who’d chased her through Candace’s house and shot at her.

  “So, boss. What’s the plan for tonight?” Teddy looked up from the computer screen. “After you get into Manville’s house, I mean.”

  Good question. She didn’t exactly have a plan.

  Maybe Jake was right. Maybe she’d forgotten how to do her job. Maybe she’d stayed on Nantucket too long.

  “What should I wear tonight, Teddy?”

  “A Colt 45,” he said, jamming a stick of Juicy Fruit in his mouth.

  Sky heard the click click click of tiny teeth on metal, the dog was chewing on something again.

  “Tiffany, come here.”

  The tone in Sky’s voice prompted the Shih Tzu to scuttle behind the sofa.

  It wasn’t a game piece the dog was chewing on because all of Whip’s chess men sat on their respective squares with their queens, awaiting the next battle. Pinprick teeth marks riddled the unfortunate copper bishop’s face.

  Sky walked over and gently unwedged the Shih Tzu from her hiding place at the end of the sofa.

  “Give it up.” Sky poked an index finger in Tiffany’s wide mouth and felt along the nubby canines until something dropped on the Persian ru
g.

  The dog wasn’t very old, Sky had decided, because she chewed anything and everything. Like a puppy.

  Tiffany needed toys.

  “That dog is a real pain in the ass, boss.” Teddy wore an indulgent grin. “What’d she get this time?”

  “I’m not sure.” Sky picked up the roundish object that had fallen from Tiffany’s mouth. It was the size and shape of a lumpy chick pea with a short chain dangling from one end. The whole thing was blackened with a crusty patina of filth. “Smells like dead skunk.” Sky nearly tossed the dog’s treasure in the waste basket when she spotted a dull gleam. “Be right back.”

  She jogged down the hall to the pink bathroom and held the object under a warm faucet, picking at it with a gold-tipped fingernail until the layers of muck softened and flaked off.

  It was a piece of jewelry.

  A brisk scrubbing with a paper towel revealed a silver heart, dome-shaped and rimmed with cut-outs of minuscule stars and hearts. Embedded in the center were diamond chips in the shape of a five-point star. The chain had four links and a lobsterclaw clasp.

  Returning to the office, Sky found the business card from Zach Rosario and punched in the lab number on her cell. On the fifth ring, someone answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Professor Fisk? This is Sky Stone.”

  “See here, Doctor –”

  “You told me Nicolette had jewelry hanging from her phone,” Sky said. “Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember. Nicolette was never without that cell phone, you’d think it was glued to her hand. Pink metallic, with two dangly trinkets.”

  “Can you describe those trinkets?”

  “One was a heart.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “A silver heart. Rounded. Like the lockets girls wore many years ago. Nicolette was convinced those silly baubles carried magic powers. She would rub the heart and say, ‘This is for my love life.’”

  “And the second dangly?”

  “A silver starfish. Nicolette said the starfish represented her doctorate.” His voice faltered. “She’d say, ‘I’m reaching for the stars, Horace’.”