The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (35 page)

“Teddy Felson is looking for you.” The bouncer slipped the tens in a metal box and scratched a red X on her hand with a fat marker. “Far end of the bar.”

Sky pushed through the swinging doors and melted into the crowd; college students, mostly, drunk on beer and delta blues. Hot bodies exuded the steamy odor of perfumed sweat and Sky had to rebuff two come-ons from horny frat rats as she made her way through the packed house.

The stage was raised several feet above audience level, and Ellery stood front and center, clothed in black leather. He wore a bolero hat and the trapezoid Gibson Firebird slung low over his left hip. As he sang, Ellery coaxed the long neck of the Firebird like a sculptor, squeezing and kneading the frets while the fingertips of his right hand stroked the strings. With eyes shut tight against the audience, he moaned into the microphone.

The crowd was spellbound. They throbbed as a single organism to each stroke of Ellery’s hand, lightning bolts of sound and a voice permeated with sorrow. Sky watched him and was afraid.

Ellery was an artist. No match for the premeditated connivance of homicide. Or the machinations of a mind like Porter Manville’s. Ellery needed protection.

Ellery’s eyes opened and he spotted Sky in the crowd. His mouth worked into a slow grin that said he’d been waiting all night, just for her.

“Hey,
mush.
” Teddy Felson appeared beside Sky, his brown hair looking wild, like he’d given himself a haircut without a mirror. “Let’s talk. Over there.” Teddy gestured toward the back of the saloon and Sky followed his purposeful stride as he forced his way through the crowd.

They entered a small pool room. A lone patron wearing a Boston College jacket leaned over the pool table with a cue stick, setting up his next shot. He gave Sky a leisurely once over before resuming play.

They were further away from the band but Teddy still had to raise his voice to be heard. “The Papa Razzi server working Manville’s table the night of March fifteen was an Emerson College drop-out by the name of Tamara.” He set his draught on an empty table. “Tamara remembers Nicolette. Said she was like a walking L'Oréal commercial, spectacular red hair down to her ass. Claims she saw Manville stroking it that night.”

“Manville was touching her hair?” Sky was skeptical. “In public?”

“Not in public, exactly. Tamara says she saw them standing outside the woman’s restroom. Said they probably thought they were alone because those Papa Razzi bathrooms are away from the main room. Said Nicolette was giggling.” Teddy’s eyes brightened. “Manville handed Nicolette something, Tamara couldn’t tell what it was. Didn’t even remember it until she saw Nicolette’s face on the news Monday.”

“Why didn’t Tamara go to the police?”

“Manville tipped her a hundred on a three hundred tab.” Teddy guzzled the last of the draught and belched. “Said he was a regular. Knows everybody.”

“Good work, detective.”

Teddy gave a modest shrug. “So he felt her up outside a bathroom. Not exactly a smoking gun.”

“They were alone together,” Sky said. “That’s the important thing.”

“Wonder what he handed her.” Teddy scratched his head. “A telephone number? An address, maybe?”

“That Papa Razzi napkin on my bulletin board?” Sky made a mental note to reexamine the napkin when she got back to her office.

The band was working through a lush version of
Little Wing
, an old Hendrix song.

The melancholy hook of Ellery’s voice pulled at Sky until she closed her eyes and surrendered. Amid the peaks and valleys of an incendiary guitar solo, Ellery released an unrelenting floodtide of misery, bending the blues song to a new cry. Sky knew, beyond a doubt, that Ellery was playing to her and no one else. The tension in her body seemed to uncoil with each successive wave of sound until she felt a warm, liquid calm. Gradually, the music wound to its end. The audience roared their approval but the band didn’t start another number.

Break time.

Sky opened her eyes and blinked.

“The man is a wizard on that guitar,” Teddy admitted with a smile.

A few seconds later Ellery appeared in the poolroom with a highball in his hand. He still wore the bolero hat, the kind Clint Eastwood had in
A Fistful of Dollars
. It gave the guitar player a dangerous aspect, like a gunslinger.

“Come with me,” Ellery gestured at Sky.

She found herself following him down a crowded hallway past a trio of college girls in ripped denim miniskirts.

“Ellery! Ellery!” the girls called, laughing and pushing one another.

But the guitar player had something else in mind. He grabbed Sky’s hand to hurry her.

Sky glanced back and saw Teddy wading through the crowd behind them with a determined look on his face.

Ellery pulled Sky down the stairs. He led her into the basement office, slammed the door shut and turned the lock.

He set the highball on the office desk and stood close, so close that Sky could smell the leather of his black shirt. With heavily ringed hands, he untied the belt and undid the buttons of Sky’s London Fog.

“Still wearing red cowboy boots,” he smiled.

“Always.”

Ellery slipped the trench coat from her shoulders and tossed it on a low sofa. “Reminds me of home,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around Sky. He lifted her off the floor in a full embrace.

Let the moment happen, she told herself. Forget Jake.

Ellery’s arms were hard and strong, the warm leather felt like bare skin. Sky relaxed into his kiss, softened, felt herself open. His lips were probing, hopeful, an unspoken question.

A fleeting sense of relief shot through Sky and she decided to meet his kiss, and more. She yielded.

But Ellery pulled his head back and looked at her with sad eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re still in love with the detective.”

“No,” she insisted. “It’s over. Jake is out of my life.”

Ellery released her and slugged down the cocktail.

“It’s all good, sugar.” He slumped into the office chair. “We don’t choose love. Love chooses us.”

Sky felt like a fool.

Why was she standing here arguing about Jake? How did she get so distracted? It was Ellery’s voice, she decided. Ellery’s guitar. The music made her forget her life for a few moments. But the moment had passed.

“You lied to me,” she said. “You were in town the night of Nicolette’s murder.”

Ellery was silent but Sky could see his face flush beneath the brim of the hat.

“You were sleeping with the drummer’s wife,” she prodded. “Why did you tell me you went to New York?”

“Seeing you after so many years?” Ellery stared into the empty cocktail glass. “Standing there, fresh and bright as a summer morning.” He set the empty glass on the desk and pulled a pack of Camels from the pocket of the black leather shirt.

“I like myself when I’m with you, Sky. Why is that?” Ellery drew a cigarette from the pack. “I lied to you, it’s true. I didn’t want you to think I was a player.”

Jake was right.

Sky was stupid to interview Ellery alone. He’d lied to her about his whereabouts and she’d repeated that lie to the homicide team. And now Ellery was prime suspect. Juries were not kind to suspects who lied.

Someone knocked and Sky remembered Teddy. She unlocked the door and the PI walked two steps into the room.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Who are you?” Ellery said. “Her date?”

“No, I’m not her date, asshole.” Teddy’s shoulders twitched like a boxer and Sky interjected.

“He’s a private investigator,” she explained. “I hired him.”

“But you work for homicide. I don’t get it.”

“Long story,” she said. “Jake – Detective Farrell,” she corrected herself. “He sort of fired me.”

Ellery lit the Camel with shaking hands.

Sky said, “You didn’t kill Nicolette, I know that.”

“They found her cell phone at my place. I don’t know how it got there, the thing never left her hand.” Ellery held the cigarette like a joint and took a hit. “They searched my T-Bird, too.” Smoke streamed from the side of his mouth. “Why would anyone kill someone so beautiful?” His voice cracked with sincerity.

“That’s exactly what I intend to find out.” Sky watched the musician’s face crumple beneath the bolero’s brim and wondered what Porter Manville was doing at that exact moment.

Enjoying Crème Brulee at Troquet? Closing a business deal over caviar and truffles at L’Espalier? Maybe Manville was sharing a cozy nightcap with dear friends at the Harvard Club while Ellery sat here twisting in the wind.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Heavy-soled shoes, the sharp beat of men on duty.

Everyone’s head swung toward the door.

A skinny, middle-aged guy with black spiky hair stepped into the room, it was the club owner. Sky recognized his face from two photographs that hung on the wall behind Ellery’s head. In one picture, the smiling owner had an arm around Ellery, in the other shot he stood next to an even skinnier, heavily tattooed Johnny Winter.

“Sorry, dude,” the breathless owner gasped at Ellery, “but they’ve got the papers.”

Teddy was gazing past the owner’s spiky head into the dark hallway. And the look on his face told Sky the news was bad.

A second later, Jake walked in like he ruled the world.

He stood ramrod straight, head high, with a wide stance. His black suit was side-vented and expensive – Calvin Klein, probably – so Sky knew he wasn’t expecting much trouble. Still, the open jacket exposed the baby Glock, holstered along his ribcage.

“Ellery Templeton,” Jake’s eyes darted briefly to the sofa, where Sky’s trench coat spread suggestively across the cushions. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Nicolette Mercer.”

Ellery jerked to his feet, knocking the cocktail glass over.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Jake spoke over the sound of shattering glass, “anything you say or do, can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney.”

The color drained from Ellery’s face.

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”

Sky watched Jake, shocked to see the insinuation of a smile on his lips. Yes, the detective was enjoying himself.

“Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

“I understand.” Ellery shot Sky a helpless look that said he didn’t understand anything.

“Empty your pockets.”

Ellery tossed a creased leather billfold, a silver Zippo cigarette lighter, and three tortoiseshell Fender guitar picks on the desk. Jake gestured with a hand and two uniforms walked in.

Boston PD. Jake was extending a professional courtesy.

Jake patted the musician down and the Boston cops secured his hands behind his back.

Seeing Ellery manacled like an animal was too much for Sky and she made a move toward the guitar player.

“No.” Jake blocked her with his body.

“Sugar, I’m counting on you,” Ellery called to her over his shoulder as the cops marched him away.

Sky looked into Jake’s face. “I hate you.”

But Jake was looking past her, at Teddy. “What are you doing here, prick?”

“Get fucked, Farrell. You don’t own this murder.” Teddy moved a millimeter toward Jake, just enough to show interest. “Guess it’s up to me and Sky to do your job for you.”

“Give me a reason.” Jake’s jaw dropped. “Go ahead,” he said, taking a step toward Teddy. “Interfere with this investigation. It’s an actionable offense. God, I’d love to put you behind bars.” Jake shifted in the suit jacket. “Or maybe I’ll just beat the shit out of you right here.” He edged Sky away and moved toward Teddy.

Teddy’s hands shot up at neck level and he angled his body as Jake pulled a fist.

This prompted the scrawny bar owner to step heroically between the two much larger men. “Whoa, guys! Don’t make me call the police.” He erupted in the nervous laughter of a coke freak and put a hand on each man’s chest. “Seriously, gentlemen. Let me get you a drink. On the house. The good stuff.” The bar owner sniffed earnestly. “I’ve got a bottle of Wild Turkey that’ll make you beg for rehab.”

Jake appeared to shift gears. He pulled his arm back and adjusted the gun holster before jabbing an index finger in Teddy’s face. “Anything happens to Sky, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Then Jake turned and walked out, his hard-soled shoes crunching across the broken shards of Ellery’s cocktail glass.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Sky woke from a dreamless sleep to Kyle’s cell ringtone, a shrieking electronic police siren.

“What’s up?” she croaked.

“Sky? You sound funny.”

“I must have fallen asleep on the floor.”

“Didn’t want you to hear it from a stranger, darling. Your old boyfriend is being arraigned this morning.”

“Where?”

“Cambridge Superior. Jake’s holding a press conference. Nine o’clock sharp. Axelrod and I are on Memorial Drive as I speak. Traffic sucks.”

“He’s got the wrong man, Kyle.”

“Bring me evidence, love. Anything. You know what they say.”

“What do they say?”

“Talk is cheap. That’s what they say.” Pause. “Jake tells me you’re working with Teddy Felson.”

Sky stroked Tiffany’s generous belly and waited for the insults to commence.

“Teddy’s a good man,” Kyle said, to Sky’s surprise. “He was a good cop, for that matter. A little exuberant, maybe. Just between you and me? I’m glad he’s hanging around. Axelrod and I interviewed every goddamn house between Commonwealth and Cabot and got nothing on those gunshots at Bullough’s. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. Makes me nervous as hell to think that guy’s still out there.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a man,” Sky offered. “Maybe Theresa Piranesi shot at me.”

“Bad joke, darling.”

“I wasn’t joking.” Sky held the phone awkwardly between shoulder and ear and pulled on the red cowboy boots. She’d slept in her clothes but there was no time to shower and change, it was nearly nine.

“By the way,” Kyle said. “Why, exactly, are you sleeping on the floor?”

“No reason.”

“Yeah, right.” Kyle issued the sharp suck of a cigarette drag. “I hope you’re taking it easy. Getting plenty of rest.”