The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (54 page)

“I recorded that interview with Dr. Wooten.” Sky fumbled the cell from her clutch and turned it on. “Why don’t I send it to you?” She had two numbers for Manville. She emailed the audio file to both and started backing toward the hallway just as all the lamps in the room came on.

Manville stayed by the fireplace, watching her, twisting a lapis cuff link with thumb and index finger.

“Power returneth!” Forbes bellowed, stepping into the drawing room with Izzy on his arm. He looked from Sky to Manville. “Is everything alright in here? What’s happened?”

Manville stared at the three of them as though from a very great distance. Sky stared back, aware of a sudden drop in the temperature of the room.

“Something’s come up,” Manville said. “I can’t stay. You’ll manage to get home on your own, Forbes?” His delivery carried the hint of a drawl.

“Can’t it wait, old man?” Forbes was clearly disappointed. “The night is young! I was hoping we could discuss my campaign.”

But Manville was already across the room, kissing Izzy’s tiny claw. He pumped Forbes’s hand and turned to Sky with a brooding look. “Interesting move.”

“What’s that?” Forbes said.

“Your cousin beat me at chess. We’re having a rematch. Of sorts.” Manville snaked an arm out and gave Sky’s shoulder blade a quick stroke with his finger, on her fairy tattoo. “Aren’t we, Doctor?”

He was headed down the hallway before Sky had time to respond.

She handed Tiffany to Izzy, slipped out of the spike heels and ran to the vestibule.

But Manville was already out the door.

Sky peered through the window, expecting to see the Lamborghini. But it was a nondescript sedan that pulled out of the driveway and headed west down Beacon Street in the rain.

Sky hurried back to find Forbes. He was in the dining room, seating Izzy at the table in her favorite captain’s chair – an ornate piece decorated along the top with two hand-carved dragons. Tiffany rested in Izzy’s arms, eyeing a basket of butterhorn rolls.

Sky said, “Why isn’t Manville driving the Lamborghini?”

“I asked him that very question when he picked me up earlier.” Forbes snagged a butterhorn and took a place at the table. “I was quite disappointed! Did you know that car can go from zero to sixty in under five seconds?”

“I am aware, yes. So why wasn’t he driving the Lamborghini?”

“Said he’d grown tired of it. Shipped it off to a friend last week. Saudi Arabia, I believe.” Forbes bit into the butterhorn with gusto. “Are you joining us for dinner, cousin?”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Sky begged off dinner with a bogus complaint of nausea and went straight to her bedroom. Her mind was ricocheting between possible explanations for Manville’s possession of the surveillance report.

The log was authentic, there was no question about that. His description of Sky’s first full day on Nantucket was depressingly accurate, right down to the Black Dog sweatshirt.

But where did he get that notebook?

It didn’t make sense. She’d met Manville at Carnivale, barely a week ago. Did this have something to do with the stranger who’d broken into her office? Were the stranger and Manville working together?

Sky changed into jeans and a hoodie. She was pulling on the red cowboy boots when her cell phone rang. It was Candace.

“Hi, honey. Where are you? Why haven’t you returned my calls? I need to talk to you, I’ve got some
very
juicy gossip. Meet me for drinks in the Lake.”

They agreed to Tommy Doyle’s and Sky hung up.

If Axelrod was right about that arrest warrant, going to the Lake was risky. But she needed to find out where Manville got that notebook and she couldn’t do it twiddling her thumbs at Izzy’s.

Sky pulled the black duffel bag from beneath the trundle bed, lifting out the Buffalo Bore cartridges and Monk’s Smith & Wesson.

She opened the snub nose cylinder, swung it out from the side of the gun and slipped the middle two fingers of her left hand through the frame. With the butt anchored against her belly, she dropped each round in place and closed the cylinder.

Sky returned to the kitchen with the loaded gun carefully hidden in the zebra-print backpack.

Raj acknowledged her with a nod. He was busy with dinner, checking the oven and pulling dishes from the cupboard.

Sky sat at the kitchen table, staring at the pitcher of red tulips.

The blooms were past their prime now, petals spread so wide they seemed obscene, like bawdy burlesque whores. Sky’s gaze drifted to Raj. He was filling three of Izzy’s footed Waterford crystal dessert bowls with baked apples.

Raj was a slender man. Narrow through the shoulders, slim at the waist.

“Izzy told me she found you in the Maldives. Working security.”

“Yes. Your grandmother made me an offer I could not refuse.”

“I need a shoulder holster.”

“You are right-handed?” Raj responded without hesitation, as though requests for shoulder holsters were a daily occurrence.

Sky nodded and the butler disappeared down the kitchen stairs, returning with a leather bag.

“May I ask what kind of firearm?”

“A .38 snubnose.” Sky pulled the Smith & Wesson carefully from the backpack and put it on the table with the barrel pointed to the wall. “It’s loaded.”

Raj rummaged inside his bag and pulled out a tangle of straps. “Try this,” he said. “A solo rig.”

Sky stood, holding the brown harness high in both hands. She slipped her arms through the stiff leather straps, the cross at her back. The rig fell into place, circling under each arm, the gun holster nestled along her left ribcage.

“Allow me.” Raj made a few adjustments until the fit was snug. He stepped back. “Good?” he asked.

“Good,” Sky said, rolling her shoulders. “Also …” She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“The guest who just left, Porter Manville? He’s dangerous. Can you keep Izzy away from him?”

Raj nodded. “It is done.”

The insistent clang of a hand bell came from the direction of the dining room. Raj zipped the bag and slid it under the table. “Keep the holster, mademoiselle. My gift.” He set a baked apple and a spoon on the table for Sky and disappeared through the kitchen door with a loaded dessert tray held high.

The apple was fragrant with nutmeg, filled with raisins and walnuts beneath a dollop of freshly whipped cream. The mixture dissolved on Sky’s tongue, leaving behind the faintest note of Calvados.

After savoring the last bite, Sky slid the gun into the holster.

She pulled on her trench coat, slipped out the kitchen door and left Back Bay in the pouring rain to meet Candace.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

“Theresa Piranesi is
not
pregnant.” Candace sat across the table from Sky at Tommy Doyle’s, beneath the giant portrait of James Joyce, looking very pleased with herself. “That’s what my spies tell me.”

“What spies?” Sky glanced around the bar with an uneasy feeling.

“Theresa’s hairdresser goes to the same spinning class as the gal at the front desk of my niece’s tanning spa. My sources are impeccable.” Candace took a celebratory sip of her Cosmopolitan. The drink was the same pale pink as the fuzzy angora sweater she wore. “Isn’t that great, honey?”

Sky gave a noncommittal shrug and twisted the stem of her wine glass.

“That’s not the reaction I was expecting.” Candace’s brown eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Something’s changed. What is it?”

“Jake slept with Theresa. Isn’t that enough?” Sky tried to keep a neutral tone. “And he yanked me off the Mercer case. He called me a rich brat.”

Candace searched Sky’s face. “I know you, honey. There’s more to this. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Denial was pointless. Candace had the instincts of a bloodhound. So Sky reluctantly offered an account of the long weekend in Texas, omitting nearly everything except the date with Butch.

“You were doing research in Texas? What kind of research?” Candace didn’t wait for an answer. “And this cowboy, I can see it in your eyes when you talk about him. Is he the reason you’re acting so strangely?”

Sky examined the James Joyce portrait in a lame attempt to avoid her friend’s penetrating gaze.

“Jake loves you, honey. And you love Jake. You’ve hit a rough patch, that’s all. It’s so
obvious.
You came back to town and Theresa felt threatened. She played the pregnancy card, the oldest trick in the book. And Jake, being a stand-up guy …” Candace grabbed Sky’s hand. “You need to strike while the iron is hot! Theresa may not be pregnant now, but you can bet she’s workin’ it. If you wait another month, it may be too late. Heck, another week! Don’t let her win, honey. Fight for him.”

Candace was right, Sky realized. She did love Jake. She could admit that to herself, now.

And it wasn’t because of anything he did or didn’t do. That wasn’t the way love seemed to work. But what about Butch? Something important had happened between them, Sky couldn’t articulate exactly what it was. Sky couldn’t have any more babies, maybe she was finally coming to terms with that awful, terrible fact. Maybe she was ready to start living again. For the first time since the accident, Butch had made her feel like that was possible.

Did she love the cowboy with the sun in his hand? Sky wasn’t sure. If she didn’t understand her own feelings, how could she explain them to her friend?

“It’s complicated, Candace.”

“It’s not complicated, honey. It’s simple. What happened in Texas stays in Texas.”

“What happened in Texas?” Jake appeared at their table, seemingly out of nowhere. He wore jeans and the worn leather Red Sox jacket.

Sky could smell whiskey on his breath. His face was lined with exhaustion and he needed a shave. Still, he managed to look good. It was irritating. She glanced at the glass of whiskey in his hand. “When did you start drinking so much?”

“What happened in Texas?” Jake repeated.

Sky blinked up at him. “Are you here to arrest me?”

“That complaint was Porter’s way of forcing you into therapy, that’s all. You need help, Sky. Why can’t you just admit it?”

“Go away.” Sky felt her cheeks growing hot under Jake’s gaze. “No one invited you.”

“Uh, I need another drink.” Candace jumped up, looking guilty. She shot Sky an expression that said ‘don’t blow this’ and made a bee-line for the bar before Sky could protest.

“Texas,” Jake said, sitting in Candace’s chair. “Is that where Butch Yost lives?”

From across the room, someone yelled out Jake’s old jersey number from his football days at Boston College. “I hate this place,” he said, raising an arm in a half-hearted acknowledgement to his fan. “Let’s go to Kildare’s.”

Sky ignored the suggestion. Something hovered on the edge of her consciousness but she couldn’t seem to summon it.

“Have you found Teddy’s Camaro yet?” she asked. “Or are you too busy getting drunk?”

Jake threw back the remaining whiskey in a single gulp. “If I have to, I’ll run a trace on those flowers.” The alcohol gave his voice a rough edge. “Why don’t you just tell me who this guy is and save us both some trouble.”

The something Sky was trying to remember suddenly popped into her head. “You gave Manville that surveillance report, didn’t you?”

“What surveillance report?”

“You hired someone to watch me on Nantucket. Candace told me, don’t bother denying it. Did you give that surveillance report to Porter Manville? Was that part of the complaint deal that went to the DA?”

Jake set the empty whiskey glass on the table with a confused look. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I saw Manville an hour ago at my grandmother’s place in Back Bay. He read that report to me. Out loud, verbatim. From a spiral notebook.”

“Say that again.”

“Manville read to me from a surveillance report, all about my second day on Nantucket.” Sky spoke with deliberate slowness because Jake seemed to be having difficulty processing the information. “He knew what kind of truck I drove, what I was wearing, what kind of wine I was –”

“Where’s Candace?” Jake jerked to his feet and made his way to the bar. Sky saw him say something to Candace and leave Tommy Doyle’s; he disappeared into the street without saying goodbye.

Candace returned to the table with a fresh Cosmopolitan and a satisfied grin. “Jake gave me strict instructions to stay with you, honey. I’m not to let you out of my sight.” She took a generous sip of her drink and said, “See? That man is still crazy about you.”

“Why did he leave?” Sky was confused. “Where did he go?”

“Who knows? He’s a detective, honey. I’m just happy you two are talking again.” Candace patted Sky’s hand. “Why aren’t you drinking your wine?”

“I’m going to my office.” Sky stood up. “You’re welcome to join me. But I’m warning you, it’s a mess.”

“I’m easy.” Candace chugged the Cosmo and grabbed her coat. “Can I get on your computer? I need to check my
Match.com
account.”

They left Tommy Doyles and bolted across the street in the pouring rain beneath Candace’s giant red umbrella.

Sky unlocked the outer door and they tromped up the stairs. The second floor hallway was empty, the businesses were closed for the day. Sky turned the lock and pushed her office door open, flipping on the overhead.

“My God!” Candace took in the jumble of textbooks, professional journals, clothes, letters, school papers, and old homicide files that littered the floor and sofa. “What happened here?”

“I caught a guy going through my stuff a few days ago,” Sky admitted, wading through the mess.

“And you just left it like this?” Her friend glanced around the office with distaste. Candace liked things neat and tidy. “I’ll help you clean,” she said, stepping gingerly into the room. “Just tell me where to start.” She shut the door behind her, causing the Balenciaga to sway gently from its satin hanger. “Yummy,” Candace said, admiring the gown. “This is the one you wore to the Diamond Ball, isn’t it? I saw your picture in the Globe.”

Sky nodded, slipping out of her trench coat. She pointed her friend to the desk. “Sit and relax. Check your
Match.com
account. It won’t take me long.”