The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (24 page)

And the white gown dazzled from all perspectives.

Francois was right, Sky realized. The Balenciaga was a work of art. It belonged in a museum.

She collapsed on the salmon-colored sofa and promptly got a case of the hiccups. Crying sometimes had that effect on her, but the hiccups seemed especially intense tonight. She tried holding her breath. It didn’t work.

Meanwhile, the hotel heiress had come in with an emaciated companion in a flouncy gown made entirely of yellow ruffles. Both women studied themselves in the mirror at close range. They appeared not to notice Sky.

“What a roomful of losers,” the hotel heiress said. “I dyed my snatch for this?”

Yellow Ruffle’s mouth dropped open and the heiress laughed.

“I forgot to show you!” The heiress hiked her sarong up and revealed a perfectly shaved, perfectly square bush, dyed the same soft blue as her gown. “My Tiffany box!” she shouted. The heiress performed an impromptu can-can dance around the carpeted lounge while her friend shrieked with delight.

A small movement caught Sky’s eye.

Shivering in a corner sat the tiny dog the heiress had been holding earlier, in the valet line. The heiress nearly stepped on the poor animal with her spike heels and Sky jumped up.

“Careful,” she said, scooping up the dog. It blinked at her with bulbous brown eyes and sneezed in her face.

“You want her? Keep her. She hates me.” The hotel heiress quit dancing and started combing her straight blonde hair. “The little bitch bit me.”

“That is one butt-ugly dog, dude,” her emaciated companion weighed in. “A real gargoyle. And so fat!”

“It’s not even mine,” the heiress complained. “Someone left her in a basket, dumped her at the front door of my condo. That doorman is history. I thought the dog might enjoy a little partying but she’s been nothing but a pain. Ungrateful little snot.”

Sky hated to see the dog maltreated. The poor thing was clearly unloved. “I’ll pay you,” she offered.

“Don’t bother. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

“What’s her name?” Sky asked.

“I have no idea. I call her Dog.” The heiress was still brushing her hair, but she paused briefly and met Sky’s eyes in the mirror. “She hasn’t bitten you?” She wiped at her nose and turned to her skinny friend. “The stupid dog must like her. Let’s do another line and check out the swag. I hear they have Cartier.”

They headed for the door, but the heiress held back a moment and gave Sky a final once-over. “Nice dress. Balenciaga.” She gave an approving nod.

The women left Sky alone in the lounge, holding the dog.

Sky returned to the sofa and studied the creature on her lap.

It was one of those flat-faced dogs with dwarfed legs, a Shih Tzu. The coat was a mottled mix of gray and brown, with black tips. The heiress’s friend had been right about one thing; underneath all the wavy hair, the animal was chubby.

The dog blinked at Sky as if to say “Now what?”

“You are a severe inconvenience to me.” Sky looked the dog straight in the eye. “What am I going to do with you?”

The dog sneezed in Sky’s face and collapsed in a small coil on her lap.

“Fine.” Sky slipped the evening bag to her elbow and cradled the dog in her left arm.

The dog just fit.

Sky stood and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Now she looked every bit the authentic party girl. The pooch only added to the conceit.

Boosted by a newfound confidence, Sky left the bathroom and found Kyle in line at the psychic’s caravan.

“What the hell is that?” he said.

“My new puppy.” Sky gave the detective a brief account of the heiress’s tale.

“Just dumped it at her door, huh?” Kyle frowned at the dog. “Does this beast have a name?”

“She most certainly does.” Sky held the creature snug to her breast and kissed the tiny head. “I’m calling her Tiffany.”

“Perfect,” Kyle said, slipping the
David
mask back on.

The caravan curtain flipped open and Madame Tatiana poked her face out. Her head was wrapped in a purple scarf, and kohl-rimmed eyes gave her the look of an Egyptian.

“You,” she nodded to Sky.

Kyle made a move to accompany Sky, but Madame Tatiana motioned him to stay back. “Only the girl.”

“Have a good session, darling,” he said. “Be sure to ask Miss Knows All Tells All where the hell your CEO is.”

Sky took rickety wooden steps into the dimly lit caravan with the dog in her arms.

Madame Tatiana was the caricature of a gypsy fortune teller. Gold hoop earrings and a flowing skirt with dozens of metal coins sewn to the waistband made her jangle as she moved about the caravan.

“Please to sit,” Madame Tatiana said, lighting three white candles at a makeshift altar. A small Rayovac lantern offered the only other source of illumination, it hung from a nail on the caravan wall next to Sky’s head.

Sky took a seat at the small table with the dog on her lap. Something about the place evoked a wave of memory. Sky realized it was the static drone of a transistor radio, a sound she hadn’t heard in years. South Dakota. A huge crystal ball rested on a wooden stand in front of her. Sky gazed into the heart of the flawless orb, half expecting to see Elwood Two Dogs and the rolling hills of Pine Ridge Reservation.

Madame Tatiana took the seat across from Sky and began to speak when a gravelly voice called out. Sky was startled to see an elderly woman staring at her from the other end of the caravan. She was an older, thicker version of Madame Tatiana, with a wide face and heavy dark brows. Had she been there the whole time?

The old babushka spoke some kind of Slavic tongue as she riffled a deck of cards. She pulled one and handed it to Madame Tatiana, who handed it to Sky.

“There,” the gypsy pointed to the table.

Sky placed the card face up. It was from an ordinary deck, the queen of clubs.

“Shuffle five times and cut,” Madame Tatiana ordered, handing her the deck. When Sky was finished, the gypsy laid ten more cards down in the pattern of a cross and the crone in the corner began talking in a low grumble.

“
Reine de baton
,” Madame Tatiana translated, pointing to the first card. “This is you. A sojourner. Money has not protected you.” Her hand hovered over the center card. “Someone hurt you. Great pain. A life in suspension. But now you have purpose.” She appeared to argue briefly with the crone before continuing. “Travel quickly, do not tarry. Your enemies have great cunning.”

The old babushka’s voice grew insistent and Madame Tatiana took a sharper tone. “Beware of those around you. Stealth and thievery, something of great value in jeopardy. Lock your doors.” The wary Egyptian eyes looked directly into Sky’s. “Do not venture into another’s territory. The Blood of Christ’s card shows tears.”

A white alter candle sputtered and went out.

The old woman rose from her stool with great effort and motioned to Sky with a cane.

“Stand,” Madame Tatiana commanded.

Sky stood away from the table, holding Tiffany. The caravan was cramped and the crone hobbled a few steps and stood next to Sky, mumbling to herself. She placed a knotted hand gently on the dog and chuckled. “
Gravida
.”

“Pregnant,” Madame Tatiana translated.

Of course, Sky thought. That explained Tiffany’s swollen belly.

The crone bent over and circled Sky, pouring a thin ring of white powder on the floor around Sky’s feet. She stood and crossed herself, flipped open a book of matches, and struck a flame to the powder.

A tiny explosion of light snapped around the Balenciaga pumps, finished almost as soon as it started. The caravan air was heavy with the biting odors of magnesium and sulfur.

The crone crossed herself a second time and held an upraised palm to Sky.

“Payment.” Madame Tatiana’s Egyptian eyes fixed on the windflower evening bag.

Sky pulled a one hundred dollar bill from the purse.

“Vous êtes le plus généreux.
” The old babushka slipped the money in a baggy sweater pocket.

Sky was halfway through the curtained doorway when Madame Tatiana barked, “Stop.”

The old crone shuffled over and slipped something around Sky’s neck. It was an amulet, a silken cord with three white tubes knotted along the front. The small tusks were some sort of shell, delicate and cool to the touch.

“
A proteja,
” the crone whispered in Sky’s ear.

Sky clambered out of the caravan, happy to be away from the sibyls and the smell of sulfur. Madame Tatiana called after her like a dirge. “Protection.”

Kyle was gone.

Sky scanned the queue for the gold
David
mask but the detective had disappeared. She decided to take the dog outside because she remembered what pregnancy was like, especially the later months, the constant pressure on her bladder.

The devil-masked Romanian at the coat check fingered Sky’s ticket stub and begrudgingly handed over the Barguzin.

Sky descended the hotel staircase and clipped across the black marble floor of the lobby with the Shih Tzu nestled contentedly in sable.

Snow whirled about them as Sky carried the dog across Boylston to the Public Garden. Tiffany took little time, squatting immediately in the frozen grass next to a giant oak. The tiny dog appeared eager to return to the shelter of the Four Seasons, and Sky remembered what she’d heard about the Shih Tzu. It was a breed developed over centuries, tended by eunuchs in the palaces of China. Bred to look like a human baby, huge eyes and a flat face. Neotany. Sky suspected that Tiffany might feel at home in the hotel, the Four Seasons was a sort of palace.

She gathered up the dog and exited Boston Garden through the wrought iron fence. She was crossing Boylston when she saw a figure in a black reefer melt into the shadows of the hotel garage.

Something about the figure made Sky hurry into the lobby and up the staircase. She turned to look back every few steps. No one seemed to be following.

That’s what she got for listening to a psychic.

Sky dumped the sable at coat check and returned to the ballroom.

Carnivale was in full swing. She looked for Kyle, she wanted to tell him about the man in the garage, but she saw no gold
David
mask in the swirl of activity. She elbowed her way to the bar and ordered a glass of water and a bowl. The bartender handed her a huge crystal goblet and a white ceramic dish.

Sky carried Tiffany through the crowd to the other side of the ballroom, where the gypsy band was playing. As she wove among the revelers, she scanned each tuxedo for the silver
bauta.

The evening was slipping through her fingers, where was Manville? Such a stupid idea, so much time wasted.

Two Romanian violinists with black hair past their shoulders were battling in a Paganini duet, sawing at their instruments with a fury while other members of the band accompanied with accordion and lute, yodeling in some kind of Eastern European tongue. The pace of the music grew frenetic. Around the bonfire, the masked dancers leapt, swirled, stomped in a line here, a circle there, shouting and shrieking with manic glee.

Sky took a sip of water from the crystal goblet and poured the rest into the bowl. Kneeling down along the ballroom wall, safely clear of the dancers, she set the bowl and Tiffany on the floor. The dog lapped up the water and finished with a tiny snort. Sky scooped her up and accidentally backed into someone. She turned around, intending to apologize.

A tall man wearing a silver
bauta
stood before her in a stance of bald appraisal. His mask, with its bony eye ridges and elongated, pointed chin, was something Vlad the Impaler might have favored. He held out a flute of champagne to Sky, on his index finger the gold signet gleamed.

Sky looked about her, at the wild dancers and the mad violinists, at the juggling Pierrot, at the masked men and their laughing women. The room grew still, the air became thick with vibration. Sky had to catch her breath because her heart stopped beating.

Focus, she told herself. Take a deep breath. Pay attention.

Slowly, the music came back and the air cleared. The furious song came to an abrupt end and the musicians moved at once into a quieter, more measured sarabande.

The man in the silver
bauta
spoke.

“You’re a model, I’d guess. But you’re so small. Funny, I’m not usually attracted to brunettes.” His voice was modulated and deep, with a velvet undercurrent. “Are you an actress? You are certainly stealing the show with that gown. And those jewels. Are you perhaps one of those live mannequins, paid to peddle?” He drew himself up to full height and continued his assessment. “You’re not Boston. More New York, I’d say. Are you with the hotel heiress?” Sky watched the eyes behind the skeletal mask check out the dog in her arm.

“That must be it," he said. "Tell me, are you one of Tuffy’s trophies?”

His delivery was so smooth, the tone itself so charming, one could almost be forgiven for missing the insolence. A man accustomed to power. A man accustomed to power over women.

“Tuffy?” Sky feigned ignorance. She giggled as she took the proffered champagne. “Take off your mask and I might tell you.” She gave him her brightest smile and took a gulp of champagne. A few drops spilled on her breast and she giggled again. “Oops.” She tried to wipe at the champagne but it was difficult with the dog in one hand and a drink in the other.

The CEO slipped the
bauta
from his face, and Sky watched Porter Manville, watching her.

“Allow me.” He pulled a white handkerchief from the front pocket of his impeccable tux jacket and dabbed at Sky’s breast. “We wouldn’t want to stain that beautiful gown, would we?”

Manville’s condescending tone prompted a genuine peal of laughter from Sky. “Oh, no,” she squealed. “My grandmother would be furious if I got anything on this dress!”

“Your grandmother?” Manville continued blotting her breast.

“She’s sending it to some museum in Spain.” Sky thrust her bottom lip out in a pout. “I just wanted to wear it once. What good will it do anybody rotting in some Spanish museum?” She bent her head down and cooed in the dog’s ear.