The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series)

by Steffen, P. M.

  Sky studied her reflection in the library’s glass entrance. She wore faded denim cut-offs, a pair of yellow flip-flops, and a red bandana halter beneath a man’s white Fruit of the Loom v-neck t-shirt. All had been purchased an hour ago from the Ben Franklin Five and Dime on Main Street, along with some knockoff Ray-Ban sunglasses and a scoop of maple nut goodies from the old-fashioned candy counter. She looked absurdly young in the cheap summer clothes. Like a kid at the county fair.

  A black-masked bird with yellow cheeks landed on a stunted juniper and trilled a piercing melody as an elderly gentleman pushed his walker past the library steps. Sky felt the curious sensation of a world moving in slow motion.

  The spell was broken by the ring of Kyle’s police siren. Sky took the call.

  “Darling, where the hell are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Yeah, Jeeves said the same thing. In a much nicer way, I might add.”

  “His name is Raj.” Sky held the phone between ear and shoulder and twisted the excess fabric of the t-shirt into a single knot at her left hip. “Raj is from Nepal. You can see the Himalayas from his mother’s kitchen window.”

  “No shit. That explains his copacetic vibe.”

  “Kyle, did you find a thumb drive when you went through Nicolette’s apartment on Monday?”

  “No.” The distinctive click of a Bic came through the line, followed shortly by a commanding exhale. “Interesting question, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Porter Manville asked me the same thing yesterday. Said he’d mislaid a thumbdrive. Thought maybe Nicolette picked it up by accident at the lab. Thought we might have it in evidence.” Kyle paused. “So what do you know about that thumbdrive?”

  “Nothing. You should quit smoking.” Sky slipped the Ray-Bans on. Even in the shade of the library portico, the Texas sun was blinding. She thought about the stranger who’d ransacked her office, looking for a thumbdrive. Were he and Manville looking for the same thumbdrive?

  “So why are you calling?” she asked.

  “It’s Magnus. He’s worried about you. Sent me to take you to the hospital. That’s why I’m standing in front of your grandmother’s freakin’ mansion. This is where you grew up? I’ve stayed in smaller hotels. What the hell is in all these rooms, anyway? This sucker is four stories high.”

  “Magnus isn’t worried about me. He’s worried about his reputation. It’s all about the politics. When exactly did he become Porter Manville’s bitch?”

  “So you spend a few days with a headshrinker, what’s the harm? This is serious stuff, darling. If Manville’s complaint goes to the prosecutor's office – ” Kyle paused. “Jake told me about your theory.”

  “What theory?”

  “You think Manville murdered Teddy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you, Sky. Teddy’s dead, so now it’s personal. That’s dangerous.” Frustration darkened his voice. “Where the hell are you?”

  Sky yanked at the hem of the cut-offs. “Kyle, what’s the best predictor of future behavior?”

  “Past behavior,” he said without skipping a beat.

  “Yes,” Sky agreed. “Behavior from the past.” She watched the black-masked bird rip a strip of bark from the juniper tree and fly off.

  “You’re being cryptic again, darling. So what the hell am I supposed to tell the Chief?”

  “Tell Magnus I don’t work for him anymore.” Sky terminated the call and turned off the phone.

  Flipping the Ray-Bans up like a crown, she pushed through the wrought iron door and entered the chill atmosphere of the Tempest Public Library.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  A dome of stained glass bathed Sky in a bluish light as she entered the octagonal library rotunda. In the center of the marble floor, resting on a pedestal, was a bronze bust of Herman Melville.

  Heavily bearded, with a full lower lip and razor cheeks, Melville gazed at Sky with brooding eyes. A sidebar proclaimed him first author published by the Library of America. Gift of Mrs. Benjamin Yost.

  It startled Sky to find this Son of the Northeast honored in landlocked Tempest. Moby Dick, Melville’s magnum opus, was based on the true account of the Essex, a whaling ship out of Nantucket. Best known for being attacked and sunk in November of 1820 by a giant sperm whale. The gruesome tale of wreckage and cannibalism was retold by staff members daily at the Nantucket Whaling Museum, a few blocks from Sky’s house on Brant Point.

  She studied the quote carved into the pedestal.

  “All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters

  round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden

  turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever present

  perils of life.”

  What passed through Nicolette Mercer’s mind in those last seconds of life? Sky wondered. Did she surrender to the inevitable as hands circled her neck, fingers tightened? Did she give up?

  No, Sky decided. Nicolette fought to the end. Nicolette was a fighter.

  Sky didn’t know how she knew this, she just did. She also knew that Nicolette Mercer was no match for Porter Manville. She pictured the green satin panties, squirreled away in the pigeonhole of Manville’s rolltop desk. And the twelve point buck mounted on his office wall at Wellbiogen.

  Trophies.

  And what was the purpose of a trophy? To evoke the memory of the hunt, the thrill of the kill.

  Sky grazed a finger over Melville’s bronze beard, for luck, and crossed the rotunda to study a schematic of the library.

  The Stack Room was directly opposite the entrance. The rotunda was flanked on either side by corridors leading to North and South Reading Rooms, the Children’s Nook, and the Reference Room.

  Sky looked up at the balcony and spotted the painting Butch Yost had described. She took marble stairs to the Mezzanine. Just past the massive oil painting was a narrow door labeled CUSTODIAL. Easy to miss, because so much called to the eye. Library arches embellished with hand painted garlands, stairwells with frescoes celebrating Copernicus and Darwin. Across the rotunda balcony, on either side of the Daughters of the American Revolution Room entrance, Sky saw a sculpture of Shakespeare and Dante’s death mask.

  She pushed the custodial door open and flipped a switch.

  A bare ceiling bulb exposed brooms, a battered Kirby vacuum cleaner, feather dusters and a wheeled bucket containing a dry string mop and a ragged piñata. Sky nudged a pile of rags aside with her foot and took two steps to the wall. Lifting a dingy tarp, she discovered dozens of slim volumes with blank spines slumped on a makeshift shelf. Sky selected one at random.

  A stylized tiger was embossed on dark leather with the title “Bluebonnet Blossom” angled along the right edge. Beneath the tiger, the slogan EVERY MOMENT A MEMORY. Dated 1959.

  Searching systematically through each volume, Sky slipped the ’79, ’81 and ’82 issues in her backpack and moved on to a battered cardboard carton.

  She opened the box.

  Marilyn Monroe smiled up at her from a 1952 issue of Life Magazine. A teaser in the upper right hand corner read: “THERE IS A CASE FOR PLANETARY SAUCERS”. Beneath that, a tattered issue of Playboy dated March 1986 with a woman wearing the trademark bunny costume and a runner entitled “HOW TO KISS A GIRL.”

  Beneath the magazines, Sky found a slender stack of newpapers tied together with twine. The topmost issue was a Tempest Daily Telegram dated 25 April 1964 with the headline: “East Texas Jolted by Tremors.” The newspapers were brittle with age and Sky was tempted to ignore them. Why waste her time on news that old?

  But there was something odd about the bundle. It was the twine, Sky decided. Cherry red, and carefully tied with a bow in the center. Like a present. Sky started to untie the bow when she heard footsteps on the rotunda floor.

  She slipped the packet of newspapers in the open backpack and listened.

  The footsteps came to a stop outside the door.

>   Sky tossed the tarp over the bookshelf and slipped the backpack over her shoulder just as the door swung open.

  “What are you doing in here?” The woman in the plaid shirtwaist eyed Sky with suspicion.

  “I thought it was a bathroom,” Sky lied.

  “One assumes a patron of the library can read.” The woman focused on Sky’s cut-offs and gave a sigh of resignation. “Down the hall to your right, the door with the skirted icon.”

  Sky stepped out of the custodial closet under the woman’s glare and headed for the marble steps. The yellow flip-flops slapped against her heels as she descended to the first floor and slipped into the deserted West Reading Room.

  Mahogany bookshelves lined green walls beneath a vaulted ceiling. On the west wall, an arched window opened to a vast blue horizon.

  After checking to make sure she was alone in the room, Sky sat on a leather sofa near the marble fireplace and pulled out the yearbooks.

  Indexes for volumes ’79 and ’81 yielded nothing. But 1982 carried a fat listing:

  MANVILLE, PORTER ‘BO’: Football, 1,2,3,4; Wrestling 1,2,3,4;

  Track 1,2,3,4; Baseball 1,2; Freshman Vice President 1;

  Student Council 1,2,3,4; Student Council President 2,3,4; Class

  President 1,3,4; Honor Society 1,2,3,4; German Club 1,2,3,4; Science

  Club 1,2,3,4; Letterman’s Club 2,3,4; Letterman’s President 3;

  Homecoming King 4.

  Just inside the cover, a full page photograph of Porter Manville, Valedictorian. Beneath shaggy eighties hair, a young face with a driven aspect – the nose and jaw seemed softened by his football player’s bull neck.

  But the pale eyes were the same.

  Manville was on nearly every page of an extensive Sports section. The cheerleaders rated a single spread, followed by Homecoming.

  Sky studied the Homecoming King and Queen. Manville stared into the camera with a distant half smile while a girl with an abundance of permed black hair beamed up at him. On either side of the couple stood the Queen’s attendants, each with a smiling escort at her elbow. The first attendant was pretty in a nondescript way. The second attendant was a real looker. She had a cover girl smile and thick blonde hair that fell past her shoulders in fat curls.

  Sky spent the next two hours combing through every page of the ’79, ’81 and ’82 volumes: Sports, Music, Organizations – a shot of Manville looking into a microscope under a National Honor Society banner – Drama, Prom, Student Council.

  But nothing jumped out at Sky. On paper, Manville looked the perfect high school student.

  A complete waste of time, she told herself.

  Frustrated, Sky stuffed the volumes in her backpack. After a moment’s thought, she went to the Reference Room.

  “You?” The woman in the shirtwaist gave Sky’s yellow flip-flops a disapproving frown from behind the reference desk.

  “I’m researching Tempest history,” Sky said.

  “Online catalogues and data bases,” the librarian pointed to a row of computers. “Census records, county wills, and death certificates are in the northeast corner. County and municipal records and Confederate War soldiers to your right.”

  “Where are the local newspapers?” Sky asked.

  “Current issues are in the Reading Room.”

  “I’m interested in Tempest Daily Telegrams from the late ‘70’s and early ‘80’s.”

  “On microfiche.” The librarian waved to a machine near the door. “Instructions are posted.”

  Sky started with county death certificates from the ‘70’s.

  It was tedious work.

  Two hours later she’d made it through 1977 with two names, boys who had died in their teens. Sky decided to take a break.

  She exited the library rotunda into a wall of heat.

  The Wells Fargo sign read 101º. The sidewalks were deserted.

  Sky fished a maple nut goodie from the bag of dime store candy. She chewed the sugary treat and thought about Butch Yost. They had a dinner date that evening. Eight o’clock in the Deadwood restaurant.

  Another waste of time. But a deal was a deal.

  She dialed the Deadwood and asked the front desk clerk about local clothing boutiques.

  “I recommend The Hope Chest. Best you’ll find outside Dallas,” the clerk promised with a perky drawl. “Hope is the owner. She does her own buying. Just got back from Paris a couple weeks ago. Of course, that would be for the upcoming fall line, but don’t worry. Hope will fix you up.”

  Sky called the boutique and scheduled a late afternoon appointment with the owner. “Something black,” she said, giving the woman her dress size.

  She hung up and wiped sweat from her forehead. Even in the shade, the air was sweltering.

  Sky tried to picture Butch riding across the ranch to check on the archeologists but she couldn’t decide on his horse. Would he favor a pinto? Too small. Maybe a bay. Or an enormous spotted Appaloosa.

  Snap out of it, she told herself.

  Popping another maple nut goodie in her mouth, Sky returned to the Reference Room. She found three more names among the county death certificates, all teenage girls. None of the documents indicated homicide.

  Sky studied the list.

  Derrick Shafer – blunt force trauma, car accident 3/2/77

  William Walters – blunt force trauma due to car accident 4/16/78

  Sue Ann Fife – diabetes mellitus 12/18/80

  Savanna Lane – accidental drowning 6/29/82

  Maura Thompson – pneumonia 8/14/82

  She pulled Temple Daily Telegram microfiche and slipped each card under the glass, searching for articles about the departed teens.

  The boys’ deaths appeared straightforward. Derrick Shafer ran a red light during a heavy rain and hit a school bus on his way to class. William Walters ran into a tree on prom night, an apparent case of drunk driving. His date suffered a broken arm, but was otherwise unhurt. Sue Ann Fife and Maura Thompson had both been hospitalized for some time prior to death. Unlikely homicides, Sky decided.

  That left Savannah Lane. Accidental drowning, 1982.

  Sky found an article entitled “Autopsy Gives Cause of Death as Drowning” on the front page of the June 30 issue:

  A preliminary autopsy performed Wednesday evening by Dr. R.J. Wooten indicated accidental drowning as the cause of death of 17 year old Savannah Lane. The recent Tempest High graduate’s body was found Wednesday morning in Hollow Pond. Toxicology results will be finalized in about six weeks, according to Sheriff Ronald Kelly. A unidentified man called 911 about 7:15 a.m. Wednesday to report finding Lane’s body. It appeared that she was swimming alone, according to authorities.

  Sky scanned the microfiche for more articles but found only the girl’s obituary, accompanied by a grainy photograph that looked familiar. She printed copies of the article and the obituary. Then she pulled out the ’82 Tempest High yearbook and flipped to the Homecoming page.

  There she was, Savannah Lane, Homecoming Queen Attendant. The one with blonde curls and the Miss America smile.

  There’s something here, Sky thought. Something important.

  She jotted a few notes in her journal and printed two copies of the Homecoming spread. She blew up one of the copies to enlarge Savannah’s likeness and walked to the reference desk.

  “Excuse me,” Sky said to the librarian in the shirtwaist. “Do you remember a girl by the name of Savannah Lane?”

  A startled look registered on the woman’s face. “I remember her quite well. Savannah died many years ago in a swimming accident.”

  Sky waited, but the librarian remained silent.

  “Can you tell me something about her?” Sky prodded.

  The woman paused for a moment, seeming to arrange her memories. “Savannah and her mother lived in an apartment above the old Rexall Drug. No father in the picture.” The stern features softened. “Her mother worked at the town diner, they were poor as church mice. But Savannah always had lovely clothes.”
The librarian clasped her hands. “Savannah was not from one of our good families, but she was so … so …” The woman seemed at a loss for words.

  “She was pretty,” Sky said. “I saw her picture.”

  “Photographs did not do Savannah justice,” the librarian insisted. “She glowed from within, like one of those Hollywood starlets from the thirties.”

  Sky offered an earnest frown. “She was that beautiful?”

  “Oh, yes. I have a most vivid recollection. It was the summer she died.” The librarian closed her eyes. “It was a glorious June morning. I was watering the sweet alyssum along the sidewalk. Savannah rode past the house with two boys in a red Cadillac convertible. She sat high on the back of the seat, laughing. With all that blonde hair swirling about her face, she looked every bit a princess on a parade float. To this very day, the fragrance of sweet alyssum reminds me of Savannah Lane.” The librarian opened her eyes and blinked at Sky. “Photographs did not do her justice,” she repeated.

  The soliloquy took Sky by surprise.

  The librarian had been in love with Savannah Lane, Sky decided. Or something close to it. The woman’s words tumbled out like they’d been bottled up for the last thirty years. Sky glanced at the librarian’s left hand. No wedding ring.

  “Does Savannah’s mother still live in Tempest?”

  “She moved away after the accident. California, if memory serves.” The librarian leaned forward on her elbows with a thoughtful expression. “Angela Lane was terribly angry. Told everyone who came into the diner that she suspected foul play, said Savannah was an excellent swimmer. Angela claimed the Tempest police were incompetent.”

  “Was there a murder investigation?”

  “No,” the librarian scoffed. “Who would murder such a lovely girl? It was a grief reaction, pure and simple. Savannah was her only child. I don’t think anyone blamed Angela for going a little crazy. She did shock the town when she chose to have Savannah cremated. Unusual, in those days. She took Savannah’s ashes with her when she left town. There’s not even a headstone,” she added with a note of melancholy.