The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (42 page)

“That is not evidence.” Kyle handed the dog back to her and frowned. “You’re not thinking clearly. The doctor told me to watch for signs of confusion.” He flicked a finger at Sky’s ear. “I think that bump is affecting your judgment, darling.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I feel great.”

“Really? Because you’re flushed as hell.” Kyle reached across the table and put a palm against her cheek. “Jesus, Sky. You’re burning up.”

Sky jerked her head from his touch. “Are you listening to me?”

“Okay, okay.” Kyle raised a conciliatory hand. “I’ll tell Jake about the thong, the ringing phone, the heart trinket. First thing tomorrow morning.” His tone was that of a parent indulging a fussy child. “We’ll give the millionaire award winning humanitarian another look. If it makes you feel better.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Sky’s voice cracked with anger. “It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it? If a man brought you this evidence you’d be all over it.”

“You cut to the quick, darling. You’re my muse, for Christ’s sake.”

“Fuck you.”

It was all Sky could think to say and she instantly regretted her words. Kyle didn’t have a sexist bone in his body, she knew that better than anyone. He was always first to champion Sky’s arguments, he always came to her defense. Until now.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t bring this up,” Kyle said, “because you’re not technically working for homicide at the moment …” He scraped a fingernail against the Harp label and avoided Sky’s eyes.

“What?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“We’ve got Ellery Templeton’s DNA.”

Sky blinked at him. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” he nodded. “Nicolette must have scratched Templeton during the struggle.”

“I don’t remember seeing any blood on the body.”

“There was blood,” Kyle insisted. “A smear on her neck, just below her left earlobe. Another smear on her right wrist. Wasn’t much. But it was enough.”

The bruising on Nicolette’s throat was extensive, Sky did remember that. Easy enough to miss blood with all that discoloration.

But Ellery’s blood? Laid back, that was Ellery Templeton’s style. Had the musician changed that much?

Kyle continued. “After Templeton’s arrest we got a search warrant and collected a buccal swab, inside his cheek. Crime lab worked straight through the night. Complete DNA testing.” Kyle fanned his fingers to emphasize the point. “We’ve linked Templeton directly to the victim’s body.”

“You’re certain it’s Ellery’s?”

“A perfect match.” Kyle gave a suggestive twist to the neck of the Harp bottle with thumb and forefinger. “Ellery Templeton is fucked. Don’t fight it, darling. Case closed.” He offered a toothy grin. “Be happy. Now we can concentrate on finding the asshole that shot at you. I want you to come into the station tomorrow, take another look at those mug shots.”

Sky stared at the heart trinket and tried to reconcile this new information with her gut feeling about Porter Manville. DNA was the gold standard in evidence. Irrefutable.

“So you lost your mojo,” Kyle shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. There’s a first time for everybody, love. Even the profiler’s daughter.”

Sky secured Tiffany under her arm and slid out of the booth, too consumed with confusion to respond to the detective’s gentle tease. She pushed through a raucous trio of college boys and thought about Manville’s bizarre transformation earlier that evening.

The panic attack at the piano, she thought. Maybe it wasn’t Manville who was acting strangely. Maybe the panic attack had distorted Sky’s perceptions. Maybe she was wrong about everything.

“Wait! I have something for you,” Kyle called after her.

Sky pushed out of the pub door as a police car whipped by, siren at full blast. The distressed scream of an ambulance followed. The ambulance careened around the corner at Kildare’s Pub and came to a stop in front of Magni Park. A firetruck blocked traffic in both directions on Watertown Street. Pedestrians ran past Sky toward the park.

“Dead man,” a voice shouted.

Sky ran to the park and slipped in the front gate. Crossing diagonally past park benches and trees, she pushed through a cluster of rubberneckers and saw Teddy Felson’s body on the ground next to a trash barrel. Two uniforms Sky didn’t recognize were in the process of securing the crime scene.

“Can’t see any bullet holes,” one officer observed, waving onlookers back with an arm. “Looks like a broken neck. Where’s the fucking coroner?”

Teddy’s brown eyes were open to the night, his handsome features frozen in an expression of mild surprise, as though someone had just tapped him on the shoulder. Peeking from the pocket of his blue work shirt, Sky saw the folded picture of the Imperia pasta machine.

“Move!” An officer blocked Sky and waved Vanessa Hatcher into the rapidly closing circle.

CSI agents descended from all directions, like flies.

Sky spotted Jake’s black Mustang skidding to a stop beneath the lamp on Bridge Street. He climbed out in jeans and the Red Sox jacket.

“It’s Teddy,” Sky said, meeting him at the curb.

“Teddy?” Jake kicked the door of the Mustang shut with a confused expression.

“Teddy Felson.” Sky choked on the name. “I was with him a few hours ago. In the parking lot behind the police station.”

Jake had a strange look on his face. “Teddy was working for you. And now he’s dead?”

It sounded like an accusation and Sky hit back. “You threatened to kill him with your bare hands. At Genuine John’s.”

Jake blinked wordlessly at the absurd statement and Sky turned away because she didn’t want him to see her cry.

The commotion of sirens and emergency vehicles had drawn curious neighbors to the street. Elderly women and Dunkin’ Donuts patrons elbowed past Sky to jockey for position along the park perimeter.

Sky put Tiffany on the ground. She was watching the dog stretch her short legs on the grass strip next to the street when a curious relationship dawned on her. She picked the dog up and walked around the corner to check the logistics from the Watertown side of the park.

Yes, it was unmistakable. Teddy’s body lay in a direct line to her office window.

Teddy must have followed her to Weston, somehow Manville got to him after Sky drove off in the Jeep.

She worked her way back through the crowd, to Jake. “Manville killed Teddy,” she said, “and dumped his body here.”

“What? Are you still stuck on that? What’s the motive? Why would Porter kill Felson?”

“To show me his expertise, his talent, his proficiency, whatever you want to call it.” Sky pointed to her office building. “He’s shoving it in my face, Jake. I can feel Manville’s mind operate.”

“I arrested Templeton. You saw me. Did you bother to watch the press conference?” He leaned down and whispered. "What happened? You were better than most detectives. Now look at you." He eyed the dog with disgust. "You’re a rich brat playing cops and robbers. You should have stayed on Nantucket."

Sky looked toward the park, but Teddy’s body was obscured by a growing crowd of agents and officers. “
God speed,
” she whispered to her friend. With Tiffany in her arms, she maneuvered through a knot of gawkers and slipped around the fire engine to her office building across the street.

Someone called her name and Sky glanced back toward the park to see a leggy figure in a fitted coat reclining against the Mustang. The street lamp illuminated dark hair and crimson lips.

Theresa Piranesi.

She must have been in Jake’s car the whole time, watching Sky and Jake argue on the sidewalk.

Theresa looked in Sky’s direction and grinned as she drew both hands over her belly.

Sky unlocked the door and escaped into the building. She climbed the steps to the second floor and released Tiffany.

The Shih Tzu gave two exploratory sniffs and waddled down the hall to Sky’s office. Waggling the tight knob of her tail, she pushed on the door with a paw and disappeared inside.

Sky froze.

She’d locked that door. She was sure of it.

And she’d taken the only other existing key from Jake’s hand, two nights ago at Kildare’s.

Was it Manville? Sky dismissed the idea at once. Tiffany’s response to Manville was reliably hostile.

The dog’s silence suggested someone familiar because Tiffany barked at all strangers. Whoever it was had access to the outer door. Had to be the landlord, Sky decided. He occasionally showed up after hours for maintenance chores.

She approached with caution and nudged the office door open with a foot.

A man wearing a black reefer stood in the middle of the floor with Tiffany in one arm. Scattered about him, a maelstrom of books, magazines, and clothes – nearly every inch of the Persian carpet was covered.

Behind the man, Sky spotted the contents of her desk drawers spread out along the sofa cushions – letters, school papers, old homicide files, a blue carton of Tampax.

Thoroughly sacked. Like Professor Fisk’s lab.

The man whispered something in Tiffany’s ear and looked up.

“Hello, Doctor Stone. I have been waiting for you. Please, come in.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Sky stood in her office doorway and gaped in recognition.

Standing in the middle of
her
office, holding
her
dog, was the figure she’d seen ducking into the Four Season’s garage the night of Carnivale.

Tiffany’s pink tongue darted at the stranger’s chin and Sky studied his face.

There was an ageless quality about him, he could’ve been anywhere from thirty to sixty, and in every physical respect he was unremarkable. Lank brown hair brushed his shoulders, sharp features with pale lips. His English was nearly perfect, but Sky detected a subtle exaggeration of vowels. Russian, possibly Czech.

“Who are you?”

“That is not important. I mean you no harm. Come in,” he repeated. “It is in your best interests to do as I ask.”

The stranger was at once reassuring and threatening. Something in his manner told Sky it was useless to run.

Besides, he had Tiffany.

Sky stepped into the office and the stranger leaned past her and pushed the door shut.

“Skylar Stone,” he said with a flat delivery, “heiress to the Winthrop fortune. Raised variously in Iowa, South Dakota, Boston. Home schooled by anthropologist mother, secondary education punctuated by brief but unsuccessful term in Gstaad boarding school. Does not play well with others.” He scratched the abbreviated bridge of Tiffany’s nose with an index finger. “Doctorate by age twenty-four. First author on a dozen published articles. Adjunct professor, Boston University. Forensic consultant to local homicide.” He paused. “Abducted at two years of age for three million dollar ransom. Recovered unharmed, perpetrators disappeared.” This last remark was accompanied by a skeptic’s shrug. “Talented equestrian –”

“Abducted?” Sky broke in. “Where did you get that information? I was never abducted.”

“You didn’t know?” His eyes rounded in surprise. “Well, so young – and your family managed to keep it out of the newspapers.” He offered a benign smile. “Every family has its secrets. But you are here, safe and sound. Let me see, where was I? Ah, yes. Accomplished equestrian, dressage saddle preferred but comfortable bareback. One hundred pounds, barefoot. Literary taste runs to Murdock and Durrell. Has weakness for the song
Perfidia
– the Alberto Dominguez version, naturally. Signature scent,
Fracas
. Sustained late-term miscarriage, the result of a car accident. Most recent address, Brant Point, Nantucket Island. Until four days ago –”

“I get it,” Sky interrupted. “You know who I am. So what?”

“You broke into a laboratory at Boston University on Tuesday. You also visited Nicolette Mercer’s apartment. I believe you may have taken something that belongs to me.” His tone turned crisp. “I want it back.”

“If it’s the lab data, you’re too late. Professor Fisk has a copy. It’s no secret.”

The stranger’s eyes lingered on Sky’s face for some seconds. “The item in question looks like this.” He slipped a hand inside the breast pocket of the reefer and pulled out a small black object an inch wide and two inches long.

“A thumb drive,” Sky said. “Big deal. I have three myself.”

“To be precise, a Sony one gigabyte USB thumb drive. I was scheduled to retrieve my property on Monday afternoon. Miss Mercer missed the drop.”

Sky glanced around the office a second time and sensed a curious order in the mess: clothes in a wide pile, jean and jacket pockets turned inside out; books and magazines stacked in front of their respective shelves, she even spotted the tip of Aunt Olivia’s letter jutting out next to the intact Wanli-period pot. Whip’s chess board sat untouched in the corner.

“So what are you?” Sky said. “Interpol? Ex-KGB? Don’t bother denying it. Although I have to give you credit, I only spotted you once. At the Four Seasons.”

The thumb drive slipped from the stranger’s hand and he stooped to pick it up. He didn’t speak, but a peculiar look flashed across his eyes.

“What?” she demanded.

“You looked so much like Monk, just now.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “To be frank, it was a bit unsettling.”

“You knew my father?”

“In another life. You spotted me, it’s true. In my own defense? You presented a rare vision, Doctor. White gown, black fur, floating through a sea of snow?” He shrugged. “Exceptional beauty carries its own power. I am not immune. But I digress. Where is my thumb drive?”

“Probably in Evidence. The detectives went through Nicolette’s room before I did.”

“The thumb drive is not in Evidence. And you, Doctor? Well, I’ve been watching you. You tend to collect things.” He gestured to the bulletin board. “You have a good eye. Investigators often miss books. Women love to hide things in books, I wonder why.” He jabbed backwards with a thumb. “I found the lab pages. And the rubber rat. The Smith & Wesson was something of a surprise, as you do not care for firearms. I did not find my thumb drive. Not in Professor Fisk’s laboratory, or Miss Mercer’s apartment, or Zach Rosario’s hell hole. It was not in Templeton’s townhouse and it is not in your Jeep.” He deposited Tiffany on the pile of clothes. “I am afraid I must search you.”