The rookie blushed and it squeezed Sky’s heart to see the pleasure he took in her words. A kid who grew up without a father could still have heroes. Monk was Axelrod’s hero, it was practically the first thing the rookie had said to Sky when they’d met at the station. She felt an inexplicable bond of kinship, like Axelrod was her kid brother or something. She resisted a strong urge to reach out and tousle his blonde hair.
“So why did you call, Doctor S?” Axelrod popped the last bit of burger in his mouth and chewed expectantly.
“I want to show you something.” Sky opened her backpack and stared at the white mailing envelope inside. It was addressed to the Newton Police Department, care of Chief Magnus Moriarty. The envelope held all the evidence she’d gathered in Texas. But she hadn’t sealed it. Not yet.
Sky shoved the McDonald’s tray out of the way and slapped the sheaf of evidence on the table in front of Axelrod.
The portrait shot of Porter Manville, Tempest High Valedictorian, rested on top of the pile. Axelrod did a double-take at the picture and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Shouldn’t you give this to Detective Farrell?”
“I am giving it to Detective Farrell. You’re my Trojan horse, Axelrod.” Sky held his gaze, silently willing the rookie to forget the politics, forget the chain of command, forget the fucking hierarchy. “What do you think Monk did when somebody came to him with evidence?” she goaded gently. “Think he brushed it off on someone else?”
Axelrod sighed with resignation and studied the picture of Manville.
Sky watched him work methodically through the stack; the Homecoming shot of Porter Manville staring into the camera and Savannah Lane, impossibly beautiful, smiling over at him; the article about the discovery of Savannah’s dead body at Hollow Pond; Savannah’s obituary; the print-out of county property records for the land tract that included Hollow Pond.
“Who’s Olivia Porter?” Axelrod said, shoving a fistful of fries in his mouth.
“Manville’s aunt.” Sky handed him a pair of ear buds and connected the wire to her cell phone. “Check this out.” She clicked on the nursing home interview with R.C. Wooten.
The boyish features turned grim.
“Maybe Manville killed this girl. It was thirty years ago, I don’t know …” Axelrod yanked the ear buds out and rifled through the evidence again. “Both women killed in or near bodies of water, both strangled, both pregnant.” He looked up at Sky and shrugged. “Okay. Just for argument’s sake, let’s say Manville killed Nicolette Mercer. How do you explain the fact that Templeton’s blood was on her body?”
Sky pulled the genetics article from her backpack and slapped it wordlessly on the table.
Axelrod frowned his way through the abstract, lingering on the passage Sky had circled in red ink. “Holy crap,” he said. “You think Manville fabricated phony blood and planted it at the crime scene? You’re saying our whole investigation is bullshit?”
“I’m saying we should take another look. Those scientists have a test, something to do with methylation analysis, I don’t understand the process. But it can determine whether the blood is natural or artificial.” Sky tapped the genetics article with her index finger. “Someone needs to run that test on Templeton’s blood. Someone with access to the evidence.”
“I don’t know, Doctor S.” Axelrod rubbed a temple like his brain was on overload. “It all seems so … so …”
“Unbelievable,” Sky finished his sentence for him. “I understand. But I went to Manville’s house in Weston. I saw a piece of Nicolette’s lingerie in a rolltop desk. I think he keeps his trophies there. The caiman tattoo he sliced off Nicolette’s body might be in that desk. Maybe even the piece of scalp from Savannah Lane. Manville killed Teddy, I’m sure of it.”
“Teddy Felson?” Axelrod gave her a quizzical look.
“I warned Teddy not to come, but he must have followed me to Manville’s place. Somehow, after I left, Manville ran him down, killed him. Dumped his body in Magni Park, right in front of my office. Have you found Teddy’s Camaro yet?”
“No.”
“Any leads?”
“No.”
“There’s more to this,” Sky said. Something was niggling at her, something about the stranger who’d broken into her office. “I’m just not sure what.” She ran a finger along her tender jaw.
“You’re having some kind of breakdown, that’s what the Chief says.” Axelrod peered at Sky with concern. “How did you get those stitches?”
“Long story.” Sky stood up and scooped the evidence into the mailing envelope. It had been worth a shot. She couldn’t fault Axelrod for his dubious attitude. It was Manville who’d destroyed her credibility. Clever man.
“By the way, remember this?” Sky handed Axelrod the slip of paper that read: A) TELL MR. VIPER NO – ERECTILE NORM ETC.
“You found Mr. Viper?”
“There is no Mr. Viper. I figured it out on the plane flight home. Nicolette must have come up with it. It’s an anagram. A recombination of the letters in the names Nicolette Mercer and Porter Manville.” Sky waited while Axelrod silently solved the word puzzle for himself.
“You’re right,” he shrugged, handing it back.
“When is Teddy’s funeral?” Sky added the slip of paper to the evidence and sealed the envelope.
“Tomorrow morning.” Axelrod eyed the remains of his uneaten dinner. He appeared to have lost his appetite. “Ten o’clock. Our Lady’s Parish.”
A gust of wind whipped sleet against the restaurant window and Sky decided that spring was skipping Boston this year.
Tomorrow, Teddy’s cold body would be lowered into a dark hole. No more manicotti formaggio, or scuffling for a skip-trace, or gambling at Foxwoods for Teddy.
Sky hefted the backpack over her shoulder. “See you at the funeral,” she said, heading for the exit.
Axelrod intercepted her at the door.
“Manville’s complaint went to the prosecutor’s office this afternoon. It’s just a matter of time before the arrest warrant is issued. Don’t go to that funeral, Doctor S. The whole department will be there.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
A nor’easter gripped Boston with hurricane force and the bones of the old mansion groaned.
Sky left her bedroom with Tiffany and the pink Valentino clutch under one arm, the Manolo Blahniks dangling from her fingers.
The dim hallway exuded an eerie gloom. Raj kept Sky’s bedroom fresh and aired, but the rest of the wing had been closed off, the furniture shrouded in sheeting against dust and decay. Izzy’s ancient bust of Pallas Athena gleamed from an alcove pedestal, the warrior’s marble eyes seemed to carry an unspoken taunt.
Sky had insinuated herself into Manville’s world, burrowed into his past, pursued every lead, exhausted every trick.
To what end?
Her professional reputation was so compromised she couldn’t even manage to sway a rookie detective with viable evidence. Once the arrest warrant was issued, she’d be a fugitive in her own town. Porter Manville was walling her up, brick by brick, in this dark mausoleum.
The Westminster Chimes floated up from the second story landing and the longcase clock struck eight.
They were late.
Sky tugged at the hem of the little black dress with her free hand. “We’ll get through this dinner,” she whispered to the dog. “I’ll figure something out.”
After dropping the envelope of evidence in the nearest mailbox, she’d left Chinatown, reaching Back Bay just as the nor’easter broke in earnest. The box she’d mailed from the Deadwood was sitting in the vestibule when Raj had waved her in from the storm, an hour ago. “Your grandmother is expecting Forbes Winthrop for dinner,” Raj had warned. Tiffany had skittered around Sky’s feet in a welcome-home spasm of ecstasy so intense that Sky feared the pregnant Shih Tzu would go into labor right there on the marble floor. “Cocktails at eight,” the butler had added with his lop-sided grin. “In the drawing room.”
The third fl
oor hall light flickered and died.
Sky reached the stairwell and groped the banister in the dark, making her way to the second story landing. A light from the first floor threw deep shadows across the wall and a figure materialized at the foot of the stairs.
“Skylar! There you are.” Her cousin Forbes held an Old Fashioned glass in one hand and a hurricane lamp in the other. “I’ve been sent to fetch you. Seems we can’t have a storm in this burg without losing power.” The Brahmin voice dropped to a loud whisper. “I’ve got a surprise for you. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Sky descended the last flight and sat on the bottom step, slipping the titanium heels on. “I’m not very good company, Forbes. I’ve had a bad day.”
“Nothing a stiff drink won’t cure, I trust. This is the pooch you rescued from the hotel skank, eh? Well done.” Forbes set the lamp down and stroked Tiffany’s head with a long finger. “Raj is quite the mixologist. This Sazerac is spectacular. I’m tempted to steal him away from your grandmother.” Forbes offered Sky his arm. “Come, we shall secure you libation.”
Forbes escorted Sky down the wide central hallway, stopping every few feet to lift the lantern and admire a painting. He was commenting on the luminosity of a Fitz Hugh Lane seascape when Sky’s cell phone rang inside the Valentino clutch. Harlem Shuffle. Jake’s ring.
“Go ahead without me,” Sky urged. “I won’t be long.”
“As you wish.” Forbes set the lamp on the floor next to her and headed toward the drawing room with a leggy stride. “Don’t tarry, cousin. My surprise awaits.”
Sky took the call.
“Who’s Butch Yost?” Jake’s voice was low and rough, the way it got when he drank too much. “Why is he sending you flowers?”
“What kind of flowers?”
“The card says ‘Miss you, sweet thing. The offer is still open.’” Jake paused. “What the hell does that mean? What offer?”
Sky hung up on him.
She turned her phone off and thought about Butch Yost’s blue eyes. The cowboy must have looked up her address online, had the flowers sent to her old place. The place she’d shared with Jake.
“Maybe we should take Butch up on his offer.” Sky kissed Tiffany’s domed head. “Make a road trip to the Triple Y.”
A tempting glow emanated from the drawing room but Sky dawdled. She was imagining Tiffany chasing butterflies through a vast field of bluebonnets when a laugh bumped her back to reality.
Something in the sonorous register made her stop in her tracks.
“Here she is.” Forbes stepped into the hallway and pulled Sky into the drawing room. “I say, old girl. Are you quite alright? You’ve gone a bit pale.”
Porter Manville lounged in a Queen Anne chair in front of the open fireplace, gently swirling a goblet of wine. He was impeccably dressed in charcoal grey with a striped tie of silver and black. Izzy sat next to him, wearing one of her trademark ensembles, a jacket of lacquer-red brocade and voluminous black palazzo pants.
“Doctor Stone.” Manville rose to his feet with an alligator smile. “What a pleasure to see you.” The honeyed voice resonated across the drawing room but Sky caught the challenge in Manville’s pale eyes: I’m in your home. With your family. Go ahead, bring up the whole nasty arrest warrant business. There’s nothing I can’t spin.
He sat back down with a satisfied grin and shot Sky an insolent wink. “I’m trying to convince your grandmother to return to the Diamond board.” Manville put a possessive hand on Izzy’s tiny shoulder. “It’s a damn shame to let a lifetime’s experience go to waste, Mrs. Winthrop.”
“You’re much too formal, Porter. You must call me Izzy. I insist.”
Forbes nudged a drink into Sky’s free hand. “This’ll cure what ails you, cousin. Bottoms up,” he urged. “Sazaracs are a bit butch. But I believe you’re fond of gin gimlets. Watch out, it’s a double.”
Sky chugged the drink and handed the empty glass to Forbes.
She hadn’t eaten much all day, a few nuts and a limp tuna wrap in the Dallas airport. The alcohol bloomed through her body, bringing calm and a steadier hand.
The drawing room was reserved for entertaining, a showcase for Izzy’s collection of Chinese export porcelain. Smells of lemon oil and cedar mixed with the burning logs that sizzled and popped in the fireplace. A pair of orange joss-stick elephants and a jade dragon graced the oak mantel, mirrors magnified the glow of a dozen silver candelabras, two decanted bottles of wine rested on a walnut cabinet.
This scene of domestic tranquility made Sky appreciate, more than ever, Manville’s ability to ingratiate himself into any situation. Izzy was making a fuss over him, petting and cooing as though Manville were some long-lost relative.
Sky picked up one of Izzy’s treasures, a double-handled cup decorated along the front with two tiny men fully sculpted in porcelain. Both had facial features and the shaved pate of medieval Japan. One of the men wore a blue and white robe and looked as though he’d traveled a long way, he was handing an object to the other man with a posture of desperation.
Sky set the cup down and wondered what Magnus would do with the envelope of evidence. It would arrive at the police station tomorrow but there was no guarantee the Chief would even open it. She’d been so sure that Manville would make a mistake, grow careless, expose himself. That hadn’t happened.
Well, maybe Manville needed a nudge.
Sky sauntered across the dark Persian carpet, aware of the exaggerated sway the spike heels gave to her hips.
“That dress is very short,” her grandmother observed. She turned to Manville and shrugged. “Well, why not? She has the legs. What’s that along your jawline?” Izzy squinted up at Sky’s face. “Are those stitches?”
“I was diving,” Sky lied. “A nail caught me.”
Forbes sauntered over with a tray of plump figs arranged in concentric circles. “I believe they’re stuffed with mascarpone,” he pointed out, setting the tray on a gilt-bronze centre table. “And just where might this lethal body of water be located, Skylar?”
“Texas,” she said, selecting the fattest fig. “A place called Hollow Pond.” She bit into the hors d’oeuvre and glanced at Manville.
He wore an amused, attentive expression. This game they were playing appeared to be very much to his liking.
Sky studied his face in the firelight. The hawk nose was still a bit swollen from the brass knuckles but the bruising had faded. Just a trace of discoloration remained beneath his left eye.
“Texas?” Izzy seemed confused. “That’s where you’ve been? Why Texas?”
“I came across a thirty-year old drowning. A girl named Savannah Lane. I talked to a few people, did some investigating.” Sky looked directly at Manville. “Turns out it was a coverup. The girl was murdered.”
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Izzy’s lips crumpled into a thin line of disapproval. “You get more like your father every day.”
“The dead can’t speak for themselves,” Sky heard herself say.
Manville drained his wine glass and stood up, so close that Sky could make out the lion rampant on his gold signet ring. He wore the same lapis cuff links he’d had on that night, in Weston.
“Your father?” Manville strolled to the walnut cabinet and refilled the goblet with wine. “What’s his line of work?”
“You don’t know?” Forbes stepped over to Manville and gave him an affable clap on the back. “Monk Stone, old man! Legendary FBI agent! Invented profiling. Based it on his research with serial killers, isn’t that right, cousin?” Forbes finished off his Sazarac and issued a deep sigh. “Your work makes my life seem so pedestrian, Skylar. Do tell us more about this murder!”
“She’ll do no such thing. I won’t allow it.” Izzy stroked her French twist with arthritic fingers. “Law enforcement is a dreary subject. Now Forbes, what was that you were saying a moment ago, something about my Fitz Hugh Lane? Help me up. We’ll look at it together.”
“The lantern is st
ill in the hallway,” Sky said helpfully.
“You don’t mind, Porter?” Forbes helped the old woman up from her chair. “You’ll keep our Skylar company for a few minutes?” He took Izzy’s arm in his and they made a leisurely exit from the drawing room.
When they were out of sight, Manville stepped to the open fireplace and picked up a brass poker. “You’re tenacious, Doctor. Admirable, considering your recent tragedy.” He jabbed carelessly at the blazing logs. “You’re suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. Do you realize that?”
Tiffany sniffed twice at the air and snarled. Sky shushed her and shifted the rotund dog in her arms. “Do you know R. C. Wooton?” she said.
“Should I?”
“He performed the autopsy on Savannah Lane. I interviewed him four days ago.”
The poker slipped from Manville’s hand and clattered to the brick hearth. He turned to Sky with a hint of a smile. “A thirty-year old autopsy? Good luck with that.” He held out his hand to Sky. There was something in it.
It was the pink baby sweater, the one Sky had taken from the bassinette in the basement of her old apartment the morning of the Heartbreak Hill murder.
“Found it on my kitchen floor,” Manville explained. “Beneath the table. You must have dropped it the night you were over. While you were feeding the dog.”
Sky reached for the sweater. Manville grabbed her by the wrist and held tight.
“Pity you had to take things this far.” He stared at her with a strange, detached look. “You really are quite beautiful.”
He released his grip and Sky wrenched her hand away.
“Tough year on Nantucket, wasn’t it?” Manville tossed her the sweater. “Losing the child sent you into a tailspin.”
“You know nothing about it.” Sky’s breath grew short as she folded the baby sweater and stuffed it into the clutch.
“Oh, but I do, Doctor. I know quite a bit about it.” Manville pulled a nondescript spiral notebook from the inside pocket of his suit coat and opened the cover. “Pursuant to client request,” he read. “Commenced surveillance of Skylar Stone on June 4 to determine her current activities following injury and loss of her full-term infant. Both due to a car accident suffered on May 6. It was confirmed that she resides at 913 Easter Street, Nantucket Island. Subject drives a black 1996 Ford Ranger pick-up. Apparently the vehicle was present on the property at the time of her arrival on June 3.”
The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) Page 42
