She reached the top of the stairs and forced herself along the balcony. Her knees felt disconnected and she moved with a jerky rhythm past the pastoral paintings.
“Wait!” Manville called from the room below. “I’ll go with you.”
Sky slipped through the velvet curtain and ran across the living room.
Teddy was right. She was a fool to come alone.
Fear fueled every nerve and she could hear Manville’s wing tips scraping up the conservatory stairs. Sky hurried past the fireplace and reached the foyer but she could hear labored breathing from the living room. Manville was closing in.
“Don’t leave, not yet,” he said in a breathless Texas drawl.
With her peripheral vision Sky saw his body move into the foyer. Slipping the backpack from her shoulder, she held it by a strap and swung hard in a wide arc, aiming at his head.
The backpack made contact and Manville grunted, pulling back with a hand to his face.
Sky yanked the door open and darted to the Jeep. She poured Tiffany and the pack into the passenger’s seat and fumbled in the trench coat pocket for her keys. Turning the ignition, she glanced over her right shoulder and saw Manville in the open doorway holding a blood-streaked handkerchief to his face.
Sky slammed the Jeep in gear and floored the gas pedal. She careened around the U-shaped driveway and glanced in the rear view mirror. Manville was heading for the garage.
The Lamborghini.
She could never outrun the sports car, she knew that.
Sky pulled out of the drive onto Hunt Club Road and risked a left. At the next intersection she hung a right and drove fifty yards until she spotted a familiar flat tree stump glowing ghostly white.
The access trail she remembered from her walks with Arbella was just past that stump, hidden from the main road. The trail meandered through brush, all the way to the rear of the yellow Colonial mansion where Sky had spent so many mind-numbing afternoons with the Friends of the Ballet.
Sky pulled off the road into the rutted gravel path and steered the Jeep behind a grove of wild saplings. She rolled the window down and killed the engine, listening in blackness for the Lamborghini’s high squeal.
But the sports car didn’t appear. There was no traffic of any kind on the road. Manville must have gone in the other direction.
Forcing herself to sit in the dark another ten minutes, Sky called Teddy repeatedly on her cell, but all she got was the PI’s recorded message. She texted Kyle: Have new info – meet me @ Tommy Doyle’s – 25 min
Sky started the engine and backed onto the dark road.
“Bless you, Arbella.” She sent this prayer of thanks to Izzy’s long departed King Charles spaniel and reached to stroke Tiffany’s belly.
Then she headed east, toward the city.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Tommy Doyle’s Irish Pub was a Lake watering hole across the street from Sky’s office building.
The walls boasted a thousand pieces of Irish memorabilia crammed together in an egalitarian free-for-all. A patron’s eye was as likely to catch the rough hewn BLACKSMITHING sign as it was to land on a framed reprint of the gaunt figures in Watts’ The Irish Famine. Plaques celebrated Murphy’s Irish Stout and Harp Lager, antique road signs pointed toward Killarny and Kilcock, an image showed the cobbled streets of Dublin’s medieval Temple Bar district, a newspaper proclaimed the kidnapping of Derby-winning Shurgar, the racehorse with the distinctive white blaze.
A pictorial history of the Irish in Boston could be found on these walls – if you were willing to look hard enough. Passage to New York Harbor, Irish clam diggers on a Boston wharf, a series of framed newspaper advertisements for jobs in Boston circa 1883, each ad ending in ‘Positively No Irish Need Apply’.
Sky ignored the large ceramic frog holding a WAIT TO BE SEATED sign and headed for the only available table. She’d chosen Tommy Doyle’s primarily because Jake hated the bar – the owner had fallen hard for Sky after a single date, years ago, and Jake’s memory was long.
Sky sat down and waited for Kyle beneath a massive framed photograph of James Joyce. The legendary writer wore a fedora wildly askew and held a heavily ringed hand at a rakish angle, but his spectacled face bore an expression Sky always interpreted as archetypal Irish gloom.
A slim server appeared – a former love interest of Kyle’s from Dublin – wearing black apron, Doc Martens and a black pixie haircut.
“Hello, Adine,” Sky greeted her. The women shared a brief history of double dating, back when Kyle was between wives.
“Sky.” Adine’s voice carried a strong Irish inflection. “I’m glad to see you back in the Lake. The place needs some dressing up. I was sorry to hear about …” she shrugged wordlessly and put a hand on Sky’s shoulder. “Are you alone, then?”
“I’m meeting Kyle.”
“Ah. Detective O’Toole.” A bemused look rippled across Adine’s smoky eyes. “Still married to that whiny bitch, is he?”
Sky nodded. “But I don’t think she’s happy.”
“No?” Adine gave a dismissive sniff. “Well, some women are never happy, are they?” The server looked around the bar before leaning in to whisper in Sky’s ear. “Rocco Piranesi may rule the Lake but his daughter Theresa is a wicked cunt.” She pulled back and resumed a normal tone. “What might I get you while you’re waiting for Himself?”
Sky ordered ginger ale to calm her stomach. During the drive to town she’d gone over and over the evening’s events, but she still wasn’t sure exactly what Manville had had in mind. Was his attention sexual? The way he’d touched her when she’d first arrived, that was the touch of an interested man. But the remark about meeting his match, what did it mean? The panic attack made things so difficult to tease out.
Sky watched Adine take orders at the next table and texted Teddy. No response. It wasn’t like him.
Tiffany dozed on the chair next to her, curled up on the London Fog. It was Trivia night in the bar and the crowd erupted with intermittent groans or applause, mostly college students and working professionals letting off steam. Tiffany slept through it all.
“I can resist anything but temptation, darling – so what’s the new information?” Kyle sat down at the table clutching a Harp Lager with a head of foam thick as whipped cream.
“I went to Manville’s place.” Sky related the evening’s discoveries. As she neared the end of her story, her voice took on a breathless quality that she couldn’t seem to control so she decided to omit the part where she attacked Manville. Why distract the detective with incidentals?
“Let me get this straight.” Kyle took a thoughtful swig of beer. “You called me from a cozy evening with the Masters’ tournament over a thong and a ringing phone? Wait!” He cupped an ear. “I think I hear the DA laughing his ass off.”
“What about this?” Sky handed him the heart trinket. “It’s jewelry from Nicolette’s cell.”
“Cell phone jewelry?” Kyle poked at the charm in his palm. “Didn’t know there was such a thing. God help me if my wife finds out. Our credit cards are maxed. You found this at Manville’s place?”
“Not exactly. It was in his garbage.”
Kyle snorted. “Teddy knows better. So do you.” He shoved the charm across the table toward Sky like a game piece. “Can’t use it. Worthless.”
“Yes, as evidence. But with the thong? And the phone? It establishes a relationship. A sexual relationship.”
“So what?” Kyle belched. “How does it follow that he killed her?”
“Manville was lying when he said he didn’t know Nicolette well. He’s a liar,” Sky stressed.
“People lie about sex all the time. Besides, aren’t there sanctions against fraternization with students?” Kyle blinked at Sky over his wire rims. “I seem to recall Professor Fisk’s wife mentioning that.”
“But Manville lied during a murder investigation.” Sky’s protest woke the dog.
“Your old boyfriend lied, too. Or have you forgotte
n?” Kyle leaned over the table and scooped up Tiffany. “For some inexplicable reason this beast is growing on me. She’s got attitude.” He held the Shih Tzu in the crook of his arm and rubbed her ears. “Can I give this dog to my wife? Something to keep her company when she gets back from the Berkshires? Maybe she’ll quit busting my balls.”
He doesn’t care, Sky thought. He’s hardly listening.
Kyle absently inspected the memorabilia on the wall next to their table, like he was marking time. Something caught his eye and he pointed to a small photograph dwarfed by the James Joyce portrait above it, a grainy newspaper shot of a smiling man in a top hat. Reading the caption aloud, Kyle said, “Newly elected Mayor James Michael Curley boldly announces in 1914: ‘The day of the Puritan has passed. The Anglo-Saxon is a joke. A new and better America is here.’"
Smirking at Sky, Kyle raised the Harp Lager in a toast. “Here’s to the Irish takeover of Boston. May your Anglo-Saxon ancestors continue to roll over in the family mausoleum.”
Kyle studied Sky for a response and grew sober. “Sorry, darling. You know how this place affects me – me Irish heritage and all that.”
The detective’s indifference bewildered Sky, but she decided to press on anyway. She described the setup with the phony pink folder. “Manville wanted that eye witness testimony, Kyle. I could see it in his face.”
“That is not evidence.” Kyle handed the dog back to her and frowned. “You’re not thinking clearly. The doctor told me to watch for signs of confusion.” He flicked a finger at Sky’s ear. “I think that bump is affecting your judgment, darling.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I feel great.”
“Really? Because you’re flushed as hell.” Kyle reached across the table and put a palm against her cheek. “Jesus, Sky. You’re burning up.”
Sky jerked her head from his touch. “Are you listening to me?”
“Okay, okay.” Kyle raised a conciliatory hand. “I’ll tell Jake about the thong, the ringing phone, the heart trinket. First thing tomorrow morning.” His tone was that of a parent indulging a fussy child. “We’ll give the millionaire award winning humanitarian another look. If it makes you feel better.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Sky’s voice cracked with anger. “It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it? If a man brought you this evidence you’d be all over it.”
“You cut to the quick, darling. You’re my muse, for Christ’s sake.”
“Fuck you.”
It was all Sky could think to say and she instantly regretted her words. Kyle didn’t have a sexist bone in his body, she knew that better than anyone. He was always first to champion Sky’s arguments, he always came to her defense. Until now.
“Well, I probably shouldn’t bring this up,” Kyle said, “because you’re not technically working for homicide at the moment …” He scraped a fingernail against the Harp label and avoided Sky’s eyes.
“What?” she demanded. “Tell me.”
“We’ve got Ellery Templeton’s DNA.”
Sky blinked at him. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” he nodded. “Nicolette must have scratched Templeton during the struggle.”
“I don’t remember seeing any blood on the body.”
“There was blood,” Kyle insisted. “A smear on her neck, just below her left earlobe. Another smear on her right wrist. Wasn’t much. But it was enough.”
The bruising on Nicolette’s throat was extensive, Sky did remember that. Easy enough to miss blood with all that discoloration.
But Ellery’s blood? Laid back, that was Ellery Templeton’s style. Had the musician changed that much?
Kyle continued. “After Templeton’s arrest we got a search warrant and collected a buccal swab, inside his cheek. Crime lab worked straight through the night. Complete DNA testing.” Kyle fanned his fingers to emphasize the point. “We’ve linked Templeton directly to the victim’s body.”
“You’re certain it’s Ellery’s?”
“A perfect match.” Kyle gave a suggestive twist to the neck of the Harp bottle with thumb and forefinger. “Ellery Templeton is fucked. Don’t fight it, darling. Case closed.” He offered a toothy grin. “Be happy. Now we can concentrate on finding the asshole that shot at you. I want you to come into the station tomorrow, take another look at those mug shots.”
Sky stared at the heart trinket and tried to reconcile this new information with her gut feeling about Porter Manville. DNA was the gold standard in evidence. Irrefutable.
“So you lost your mojo,” Kyle shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. There’s a first time for everybody, love. Even the profiler’s daughter.”
Sky secured Tiffany under her arm and slid out of the booth, too consumed with confusion to respond to the detective’s gentle tease. She pushed through a raucous trio of college boys and thought about Manville’s bizarre transformation earlier that evening.
The panic attack at the piano, she thought. Maybe it wasn’t Manville who was acting strangely. Maybe the panic attack had distorted Sky’s perceptions. Maybe she was wrong about everything.
“Wait! I have something for you,” Kyle called after her.
Sky pushed out of the pub door as a police car whipped by, siren at full blast. The distressed scream of an ambulance followed. The ambulance careened around the corner at Kildare’s Pub and came to a stop in front of Magni Park. A firetruck blocked traffic in both directions on Watertown Street. Pedestrians ran past Sky toward the park.
“Dead man,” a voice shouted.
Sky ran to the park and slipped in the front gate. Crossing diagonally past park benches and trees, she pushed through a cluster of rubberneckers and saw Teddy Felson’s body on the ground next to a trash barrel. Two uniforms Sky didn’t recognize were in the process of securing the crime scene.
“Can’t see any bullet holes,” one officer observed, waving onlookers back with an arm. “Looks like a broken neck. Where’s the fucking coroner?”
Teddy’s brown eyes were open to the night, his handsome features frozen in an expression of mild surprise, as though someone had just tapped him on the shoulder. Peeking from the pocket of his blue work shirt, Sky saw the folded picture of the Imperia pasta machine.
“Move!” An officer blocked Sky and waved Vanessa Hatcher into the rapidly closing circle.
CSI agents descended from all directions, like flies.
Sky spotted Jake’s black Mustang skidding to a stop beneath the lamp on Bridge Street. He climbed out in jeans and the Red Sox jacket.
“It’s Teddy,” Sky said, meeting him at the curb.
“Teddy?” Jake kicked the door of the Mustang shut with a confused expression.
“Teddy Felson.” Sky choked on the name. “I was with him a few hours ago. In the parking lot behind the police station.”
Jake had a strange look on his face. “Teddy was working for you. And now he’s dead?”
It sounded like an accusation and Sky hit back. “You threatened to kill him with your bare hands. At Genuine John’s.”
Jake blinked wordlessly at the absurd statement and Sky turned away because she didn’t want him to see her cry.
The commotion of sirens and emergency vehicles had drawn curious neighbors to the street. Elderly women and Dunkin’ Donuts patrons elbowed past Sky to jockey for position along the park perimeter.
Sky put Tiffany on the ground. She was watching the dog stretch her short legs on the grass strip next to the street when a curious relationship dawned on her. She picked the dog up and walked around the corner to check the logistics from the Watertown side of the park.
Yes, it was unmistakable. Teddy’s body lay in a direct line to her office window.
Teddy must have followed her to Weston, somehow Manville got to him after Sky drove off in the Jeep.
She worked her way back through the crowd, to Jake. “Manville killed Teddy,” she said, “and dumped his body here.”
“What? Are you still stuck on that? What’s the mot
ive? Why would Porter kill Felson?”
“To show me his expertise, his talent, his proficiency, whatever you want to call it.” Sky pointed to her office building. “He’s shoving it in my face, Jake. I can feel Manville’s mind operate.”
“I arrested Templeton. You saw me. Did you bother to watch the press conference?” He leaned down and whispered. "What happened? You were better than most detectives. Now look at you." He eyed the dog with disgust. "You’re a rich brat playing cops and robbers. You should have stayed on Nantucket."
Sky looked toward the park, but Teddy’s body was obscured by a growing crowd of agents and officers. “God speed,” she whispered to her friend. With Tiffany in her arms, she maneuvered through a knot of gawkers and slipped around the fire engine to her office building across the street.
Someone called her name and Sky glanced back toward the park to see a leggy figure in a fitted coat reclining against the Mustang. The street lamp illuminated dark hair and crimson lips.
Theresa Piranesi.
She must have been in Jake’s car the whole time, watching Sky and Jake argue on the sidewalk.
Theresa looked in Sky’s direction and grinned as she drew both hands over her belly.
Sky unlocked the door and escaped into the building. She climbed the steps to the second floor and released Tiffany.
The Shih Tzu gave two exploratory sniffs and waddled down the hall to Sky’s office. Waggling the tight knob of her tail, she pushed on the door with a paw and disappeared inside.
Sky froze.
She’d locked that door. She was sure of it.
And she’d taken the only other existing key from Jake’s hand, two nights ago at Kildare’s.
Was it Manville? Sky dismissed the idea at once. Tiffany’s response to Manville was reliably hostile.
The dog’s silence suggested someone familiar because Tiffany barked at all strangers. Whoever it was had access to the outer door. Had to be the landlord, Sky decided. He occasionally showed up after hours for maintenance chores.
The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) Page 33
