The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (26 page)

“I don’t understand.”

“In the good old days, scientists toiled behind their ivy covered walls. Well respected, but they didn’t make much money. Tenured and comfortable, yes. But not rich. Not Wall Street rich.” He placed his copper rooks at each end of the board. “Industry scientists were considered sellouts by their university peers, they were disparaged. Looked down on. All that changed with Reagan.” The rooks stood on their castle turrets with warning horns to their mouths.

Manville continued. “Legislation was passed. Schools like Harvard and Boston University were finally allowed to patent their research results. Their
publically funded
research results.” He smiled. “Finally allowed to give exclusive licenses to pharmaceutical companies. Boom! The wall between public and private was gone.” Manville rubbed his hands together, as though drawing warmth from the very thought of it. “Just an aside? Philip Morris underwrites heart disease and cancer research at MIT and Harvard. Ironic, eh?” The deep set eyes glinted with amusement. “The universities get royalties on their drugs, the royalty money gets split between scientist and department, everybody is happy. Long story short, a lot of smart people are suddenly getting very rich. And why shouldn’t they? Should a professional athlete earn more than a brilliant scientist?”

“Greed became good,” Sky suggested. She added a few final touches to the sketch: the groomed hairline, a bit of cross hatching to sharpen the cheekbones.

“Let’s just say greed became respectable,” he countered.

Sky held up the finished sketch. “What do you think?”

“Miss Stone, you’ve captured me.” Manville’s eyes registered sincere surprise. “Surely you’ve trained.”

“Art classes at the Museum of Fine Arts in the summertime.” Sky gave a modest shrug. “Grandmother insisted.”

She rolled the sketch into a thin scroll and set her silver queen on the board. “You took a drug that was already developed and retooled it. Now you’re introducing it as a new product?” She positioned her king. “Forbes is right. You’re very clever.”

“You mentioned you have another tattoo,” Manville said, changing the subject.

“Um hmm.” Sky placed her bishops and knights on their squares. “I got it to celebrate my oral defense.”

“Oral defense?” Manville’s brow gave a slight twitch. “You have a doctorate?” His head drew back, as though this new information necessitated a broader view. “Aren’t you a bit young?”

“No.” She arranged her silver rooks and lined up her pawns.

“Let me see,” Manville repositioned himself in the wrought-iron chair and gave her a studied look. “English literature,” he said at last.

“An excellent guess. I do love Thomas Hardy. Did you know he spent the last thirty years of his life writing poetry?” Sky didn’t wait for a response. “And I absolutely adore Shakespeare.” She pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and began to recite her favorite sonnet:

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame/Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust/Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight …

In a nod of recognition, Manville picked up the piece and continued:

Past reason hunted; and no sooner had Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme …

Sky took the last lines:

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe/Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

She finished the poem and took another sip of champagne. “English literature is a good guess,” she said. “But wrong.”

Manville gave the chess board an unnecessary adjustment. “Give me the title of your dissertation.”

Sky giggled. “Ethanol self-administration in a foraging paradigm: effects of ethanol adulteration, access schedules and concentration.”

Manville blinked at her.

“I know,” Sky shrugged. “Not exactly a New York Times bestseller.”

“Foraging?” He seemed confused. “Foraging is animal research.”

“That’s right. Rats, mice, pigeons. I used rats in those particular experiments. Sprague Dawleys,” she added. “Real teddy bears.”

The pale eyes narrowed. “You’re a rat runner?”

“Guilty as charged.”

Manville sat straighter in the wrought iron chair. “Miss Stone, you are not what you seem.”

“Really, Porter. Who is?” Sky made her first move, pawn to d4.

Manville countered, pawn to d5. “Beauty and brains,” he said. “Irresistible.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Porter. So many men feel threatened by an intelligent woman.” Sky moved her knight to c3 and stroked the sleeping dog. “Do you know Mr. Viper?”

“No.” He made his move, knight to f6, no sign on his face that he recognized the name. “But you’re talking about another man. Should I be jealous?”

“Maybe.” Sky slipped her second knight to f3 and looked around.

They’d been alone, at first. Now, others wandered around the bidding tables, chattering about this item and that. All of them were masked. Sky wondered about the man in the black coat, the one she’d seen ducking into the garage. Was he here, in this room? Was he watching her now?

Manville studied the board briefly and moved a pawn to e6. “Where did you take your doctorate?”

“Northeastern.” Sky slipped her bishop diagonally to f4. “Grandmother was heartbroken when I didn’t go to Harvard.”

“Isabel Winthrop.” Manville poured a second glass of champagne. “You must be very proud. As a member of Boston’s oldest family, I mean.” He moved his bishop to b4.

“I couldn’t be prouder,” Sky enthused.

A small gallery had gravitated to the table. They silently watched the game, three men in tuxedoes and a matron in a purple sheath with a peacock feather poking from her gray head. All wore masks.

Sky prattled on. “I’ve had the best of everything, really. I just hope I can add something to the wonderful list of Winthrop accomplishments. In my tiny way.”

She moved her knight from c3 to d5 and captured Manville’s pawn.

“Are you sure you want to make that move?” Manville tilted his head at Sky and gave her a patronizing smile, but his tone was meant for the watching gallery. He was a bit of a showman.

“Um hmm.” Sky offered him a coy smile and set the captured pawn at the base of her champagne flute.

“You’re absolutely sure? Very well.” Manville moved his bishop from b4 to e1 and took Sky’s queen.

“Oops! I lost her.” Sky put a hand to her cheek in feigned surprise. Then she moved her bishop from f4 to c7 and captured Manville’s pawn. “Check,” she said.

Manville quickly moved his king to d7.

Sky watched his face as he realized, too late, the position of her knights and bishop.

Nowhere to go.

She moved in for the kill, knight f3 to e5. “Checkmate,” she said.

Sky watched for evidence of damage. Because she knew, from experience, how limp a man could go after losing a game of chess to a woman.

She also knew that the distractions – the unusual chess set, the rambling conversation, the strapless Balenciaga gown – all had worked to her advantage. The chess move had been something of a trick, one that Whip had taught her early on. ‘You sacrifice your queen, honey, it distracts your opponent. He takes his eye off the king.’

Manville sat very still, his gaze fixed on Sky. It was a curious look, at once accommodating and alienated. The firm set to his mouth suggested anger, even defiance.

But the pale eyes registered raw desire.

“You got me,” he admitted. The muscles of the chiseled jaw worked. “And now, I’ll have to get you.”

Sky smiled at the aptness of the remark. The double entendre was pitch perfect, and prompted one of the masked tuxedoes in the gallery to chuckle. “I say, old man, if you have to be beaten, best to be beaten by beauty, eh?”

“Porter! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, I have people I want you to meet.” The voice boomed from across the room, a man rushed up to the card table and pulled his green mask down.

It was the mayor of Newton.

“Doctor Stone, this
is
a surprise.” The mayor looked from Manville to Sky. “You and Porter know one another?” His tone turned solemn. “So pleased to see you back, Doctor. Chief Moriarty assures me you’re making progress on the case.”

“What case?” Manville asked.

“The Heartbreak Hill murder. What planet have you been on, Porter?” The matron in the purple shealth gave Manville’s shoulder a familiar pat, but her touch made Manville bristle.

He glared at Sky. “I thought you were a biologist.”

“Psychologist,” she corrected him.

The mayor broke in. “Forensic psychologist, Porter. Doctor Stone is part of our homicide team. We’re lucky to have her.”

Manville gaped at Sky. “You’ve been lying to me.”

“Everything I’ve told you is true,” she said. “I have nothing to hide.” Such a relief, she thought, to be done with all that smiling and giggling.

“The awards ceremony will be starting any minute,” the mayor urged, “in the ballroom.”

Manville waved him away, his eyes locked on Sky. “I’ll catch up with you, John. I’d like a moment alone with Doctor Stone.”

The mayor checked his watch. “Don’t be too long, Porter. They’re about to announce the Humanitarian of the Year Award. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” He waited a few seconds for a reaction from Manville. When none came, he hurried out of the room. The matron waved a reluctant good-bye, the gallery dispersed.

They were alone again.

“Homicide,” Manville said. “Fascinating.”

“It’s a job.” Sky pulled the bidding sheet from beneath the chess board and picked up the cloisonné pen.

“Must be frustrating when you don’t catch your killer.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve solved all my cases.” Sky studied the gold signet on Manville’s finger. The ring was heavy, deeply engraved, a male lion on hind legs, claws unsheathed in an attitude of attack.

Why always a male lion, Sky wondered, when it was the female that hunted?

She clicked the pen and scribbled a bid on the sheet.

Manville’s pale eyes registered the absurd amount. “You must want this chess set very badly.”

“I saw you earlier today.” Sky set the pen down. “This morning, actually.”

“I don’t recall seeing you. I would certainly remember that.”

“It was in Professor Fisk’s lab.” Sky saw Kyle walk through the door. He was heading straight for their table.

Manville’s face was expressionless.

“You were looking for something in the computer room,” Sky said. “You came into the wet lab with a hunting knife.”

“I was hoping to catch Fisk’s research fellow. We were talking hunting a few weeks ago. I wanted to show him my bowie knife.”

“Really? I thought you might be looking for these.” Sky pulled the data sheets from her evening bag and flashed them at Manville. She didn’t know if there was a connection, but why not give it a shot?

Manville’s eyes darted to the copied figures but he said nothing.

“When did you last see Nicolette Mercer?” Sky said.

“Is this an interrogation?”

Sky stuffed the data back into her purse and stood up just as Kyle reached the table.

“Detective O’Toole,” Sky said. “Meet Porter Manville.”

Kyle ignored Manville’s outstretched hand.

Sky slipped the pink windflower evening bag on her arm and held Tiffany close. “Take me home,” she said to the detective. “I’m sick of this place.”

Kyle didn’t ask any questions, just put a hand on her shoulder. “Sure thing, darling.”

They were walking out of the Winthrop Room when Sky remembered the drawing. “Wait.” She ran back to the card table.

Manville sat in the wrought iron chair watching her, his lips twisted in a grim smile.

The sketch rested on the chess board, among the copper pawns.

Sky reached for the scroll when Manville’s arm shot out. He grabbed her hand and squeezed, his voice a rasping whisper. “I’m already dreaming about your tattoo.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Porter Manville strangled Nicolette Mercer at Bullough’s Pond. Then he sliced off her caiman tattoo with his bowie knife.” Sky sat in the back booth of Kildare’s Pub talking to Tiffany while Kyle got nightcaps at the bar. The Shih Tzu was nestled deep in the Barguzin next to Sky, snoring loudly.

Three locals, construction workers, sat on bar stools arguing baseball with the bartender and stealing furtive glances toward the booth. Otherwise, Kildare’s was empty. Wednesday was a work night, in the Lake.

Sky looked through the pub window to the deserted intersection. Snowing, and it wasn’t letting up. “But why did he kill her?” She pulled the lab pages from the windflower purse. “This data means something to Manville, I saw it in his eyes.”

“Darling, I see you chatting up that beast but you haven’t said a word to me since we left the Four Seasons.” Kyle slid into the booth with a bottle of Sam Adams and a glass of the house burgundy. His mood was jovial, he was a bit drunk. “You spent half the night with that asshole but I didn’t get one goddamn dance.” He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his tux pocket. “So share, already.”

“He killed Nicolette.”

“Fabulous.” Kyle extracted a cigarette, rolling it gently between thumb and fingers as though it were a fine cigar. “Anything we can take to a grand jury?”

“Not yet.” Sky fished her cell phone from the evening bag and scrolled through her contact list for Teddy Felson’s number. Teddy was a private investigator – an ex-cop – she sometimes hired him for delicate tasks, tasks she preferred to keep hidden from the homicide team. Teddy was a Lake native, but last Sky heard, he was living in Boston, near Mt. Vernon Square. She typed a message:
meet me - my office in 1 hr?