The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (8 page)

A television with a DVD player sat on a low table next to the door. Sky pushed a button and the player ejected the movie Titanic. On top of the TV, a red pillar candle shared space with a curling iron and a ceramic hair straightening wand. Next to the television, a bookcase held shelves of jeans, t-shirts, and sweatshirts, most with Gap or Abercrombie and Fitch labels. The pockets of the jeans yielded some used Kleenex and an empty gum wrapper.

A wicker basket on the lowest shelf overflowed with bras, underwear, and thongs in a rainbow of colors. Sky held up a green satin bustier, the kind of lingerie marketed as bridal wear. It had an hour-glass shape and pink ruffled edges, with a back closure that must have required a second person to lace. Or unlace. It was the sort of thing that usually included a matching thong or panty but Sky couldn’t find either in the basket.

The room had no closet. A few mini-skirts, a pair of dark dress pants, a red Hawaiian-print halter sun dress, and a raincoat hung on a metal clothing rack wedged into the corner next to the bed. Beneath the rack, Sky found a pair of Ralph Lauren leopard flats with slim black ankle straps.

A built-in shelf to the left of the headboard held two absurdly fat biology textbooks, a hardbound Mensa edition of word games and puzzles, a statistics text, a framed snapshot of Nicolette and two other females on a boat, a tattered copy of Salinger’s
Nine Stories
, Stieg Larsson’s
The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo
, an encyclopedia of magic spells, a battered Dido
No Angel
CD and Delirium’s
Karma
CD. Sky pulled out each book, one at a time, and fanned the pages. Nothing. Until she got to the encyclopedia of magic spells, which yielded a paper napkin with the logo of a local restaurant, Papa Razzi, and a scrap of notebook paper with words hand-written in pencil:

A) TELL MR. VIPER NO – ERECTILE NORM ETC

Sky walked to the living room and showed Jenna the note.

“Yeah, that’s Nicolette’s handwriting. She always wrote in caps. She never mentioned a Mr. Viper. That’s a name I would remember.”

Sky slipped the note and the paper napkin in her pocket and returned to the bedroom.

In the book of magic spells, on the same page where the note and napkin had been lodged, someone had circled a set of instructions for an English conjure bag: Sew together two matching red cloth hearts. Stuff with cloves, cinnamon, rose buds, and a pearl dipped in menstrual blood. Embroider with your initials, your loved one’s initials, and the words ‘I love you’. Present as a gift to the one you love.

An English conjure bag? Now, that was exotic.

Then again, they burned witches at the stake a mere thirty miles north of Boston, in Salem. Or maybe they hanged the witches. Sky couldn’t remember.

On the other side of the bed, a nightstand held a boudoir lamp, a gold tube of lipstick in
Sugar Daddy Pink
, an empty Snickers wrapper, a Sony MP3 player with attached ear buds, a pink bottle of Victoria’s Secret hand lotion that smelled of roses, a Dido
Life for Rent
CD, a blue plastic container of birth control pills (unopened), a baggie with two lumps of Godiva dark chocolate, a crumpled
Beowulf
ticket stub, a pot of OPI nail lacquer labeled
An Affair In Red Square
, a tiny stuffed Dalmatian puppy with a leather nose, a half empty bottle of Evian water, and bottle of Chanel
Allure
perfume. Sky sprayed a bit of the perfume into the air: Jasmine, with a touch of vanilla. Feminine.

But where was Nicolette’s purse? And what about her cell phone?

Sky didn’t remember seeing one at the crime scene. Did Nicolette take her cell with her when she ran? Did her killer have it?

Sky picked a pink Jansport backpack from the floor next to the bed and unzipped the largest pocket. It held a sheaf of journal reprints and a black running bra. In the smaller pocket, a pair of sweat socks. The smallest pocket was empty. No cell. No purse.

Stepping over fleece-lined boots and a pair of pink mules, Sky pulled the Dido CD from the headboard and slipped it into the pocket of her trench coat.

She returned to the living room and handed Jenna her card. “You’ll be remembering details when you think about Nicolette, things she did in the last month that were a change from her usual pattern. Call me, night or day, even if they don’t seem important.”

“Sure thing.” Jenna pointed at the TV with her remote and clicked. Before the screen went dark, Sky glimpsed a lone runner sprinting along the base of Heartbreak Hill.

CHAPTER TEN

Sky scratched some quick notes while Kyle made a U-turn and pointed the Crown Vic east on Commonwealth. He turned right a few blocks past the BU bridge, just past CVS, and drove the length of a narrow street.

The team left the cruiser at the curb and entered a modern brick building with a gilded plaque that read Biological Research. Sky found the room number on the second floor.

“He’s all yours, darling,” Kyle whispered.

Staring at them from behind a wooden desk was a man who appeared to be drowning in documents. Manuscripts, scientific journals, books and newspapers covered nearly every surface of the room.

“Professor Horace Fisk?” Sky flashed identification and introduced the detectives. The professor leaned forward and offered her a limp handshake. A nimbus of fine gray hair floated around his balding cranium, and his sloping shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of a gray herringbone jacket.

“Forensic psychologist?” He peered doubtfully at Sky through black-framed glasses. “I took you for a student.” His enunciation was clipped despite a slight lisp. “How is it that the world gets younger every year?” The professor slumped back in his chair and gave Sky a bewildered look.

She offered an encouraging smile.

“You are here about poor Nicolette, of course. My God, where do I start?” Professor Fisk gave the stack of papers in front of him an ineffectual poke. “At the beginning, I suppose. I met Nicolette Mercer four years ago. It was a poster session at a conference in La Jolla, she simply walked up to me and introduced herself. She was wearing a suit, very professional for a student.” The professor eyed Sky’s jeans. “I remember that the color of her suit just matched her green eyes. Quite striking. And all that red hair tumbling down her back, well …”

He put a finger to a slack jowl. “Nicolette and I shared a glass of merlot that evening at one of those convention parties. She was easily the most attractive female in the room.” Looking past Sky, the professor smiled at Kyle and Axelrod. “I was the envy of my colleagues that evening.”

“Tell me about it,” Sky prodded.

“I hasten to say that Nicolette was not just a pretty face. Her curiosity was intoxicating. So many intelligent questions about my research.” The professor gave a dry laugh. “Intelligent questions! Imagine.” He shook his head. “When she applied to our graduate program later that year, I supported her quite enthusiastically. I really went to bat for her.” He shrugged. “Her application was a bit weak in certain areas, but I saw real potential.”

The professor rummaged underneath a tangle of papers. “Nicolette was so thoughtful. She gave me this on Valentine’s Day.” He held up a white rubber rat as though it were a trophy. Bulging pink eyes and a long, flesh-colored tail gave the rat an authentic quality.

“May I?” Sky reached out and took the rat from the professor’s hands. “What kind of student was Nicolette?” Sky stroked the rat’s nose. Most of the rats she’d worked with looked just like this one.

“She was never late to the lab.” Professor Fisk seemed worried, as though Sky might somehow harm his treasure. “Nicolette preferred to get her lab work done rather early in the day. It made no difference to me, as long as there was consistency. I knew something wasn’t right when I got in this morning and she wasn’t here by seven o’clock. She was always so punctual. And she didn’t answer her phone.”

“What does her phone look like?” Sky ran her finger along the rat’s hunched back.

“Feminine. Very thin. Very pink. The phone had silver charms that dangled, Nicolette often played with them during our meetings.” He sighed wistfully. “She maintained that they had feng shui powers.”

Sky continued to inspect the rat. Amazing what the Chinese did with rubber. The detail was impressive.

The professor leaned across the desk and gave the rat’s tail a tentative tug, but Sky held on.

“We’d like to see the lab where Nicolette worked,” she said.

“Certainly.” Professor Fisk came around the desk and pulled keys from the pocket of his baggy khakis. “Follow me. The lab is just across the street.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Professor Fisk led the team out of his office and down the stairs. A damp wind churned brown leaves and dust into their faces as they made a diagonal cut across Cummington to an older, two-story brick and mortar building.

The professor continued. “I was delighted when Nicolette expressed a desire to work in my lab last year. She confided to me that she’d experienced a falling out with Beatrice Allen.” His voice dropped to a loud whisper. “Department chair and something of a harridan, I’m afraid.” He raised a finger at Sky. “That’s confidential. I don’t need Bea Allen breathing down my neck.”

They entered the building and Professor Fisk paused in the stairwell and pointed to a framed listing of faculty. “Carl Sagan’s first wife was in our department for twenty-two years. Cell biologist, a real spitfire. Defected to UMass in 1988. Lives in Amherst, now.” He chuckled softly. “Next door to Emily Dickinson.” He pulled a package of Hall’s cherry cough drops from a pocket and slipped one in his mouth as he climbed the stairs.

“Nicolette helped set up this lab, she and Zach Rozario,” he slurped the lozenge. “I got a nice fat grant, plenty of money for equipment, plenty of money for research fellows to run said equipment.” He selected a key as they reached the second floor.

Their footsteps echoed through the corridor as they walked through the deserted building. Axelrod pointed to a steel shower head projecting directly into the hallway.

“Emergency shower,” the professor explained. “Regulations require it. In case you come into contact with toxic materials.”

Axelrod patted his cowlick and moved closer to the group.

They reached the east end of the hall. A plaque to the right of the door read Horace Fisk, Behavioral Neurobiology.

The professor paused at the door, his voice barely audible. “Difficult to imagine this lab without Nicolette, somehow. Poor girl. Just finished writing up her dissertation proposal. So close to finishing.” His pear-shaped body seemed to deflate as he unlocked the blue lab door.

They entered a small antechamber banked by a chest of metal drawers and a tall gray cabinet. A workbench just inside the door was littered with equipment components: needle nosed pliers, screwdrivers, assorted wires in shades of red, yellow, and black. One inner doorway led to a larger room with a massive window facing east. A second door opened onto a wet lab; beakers of various shapes and sizes were scattered along the counter next to a deep sink. Beyond the sink, Sky saw two additional rooms shrouded in darkness.

“This way,” Professor Fisk led them into the east room.

Sky held back, her eye caught by a shiny Polaroid pinned to the bulletin board. In the snapshot, a sober Nicolette stood with exaggerated stiffness, a rat in either hand. Her hair, vivid against the white of a lab coat, fell in red waves to her waist.

Sky slipped the snapshot into her pocket and caught up with the men.

“We enter all of our experimental data over there.” Professor Fisk gestured towards a computer resting along an inside wall.

“Storage cabinets, a refrigerator for blood assays,” he pointed to each in turn.

“Hey!” Axelrod was peering out the east window with a child’s excitement. “Isn’t that Fenway Park?”

“Indeed. You can spot just a bit of the ballpark over there.” The professor pointed toward a set of klieg lights in the distance.

“Ortiz is looking good this year,” Kyle murmured.

He referred to designated hitter David Ortiz. Kyle and Jake were rabid Red Sox fans. Before her accident, before the isolation of Nantucket, the three of them – Sky, Jake, and Kyle – had taken such pleasure in the games. Day games, night games, double headers. Together they’d witnessed the curse of the Bambino, broken.

Thinking of Jake, memories of sitting in the bleachers in the sun, cold beer and kisses under hot skies, made her suddenly feel very blue.

Sky tried to shake off the mood. “Professor, when did you last see Nicolette?”

“Late Friday afternoon.” The professor walked to a round table in the center of the room. “She presented the latest graphs at our weekly lab meeting. Four o’clock, every Friday.” He scooped up a thick black book from the table and gave it an affectionate pat. “Lab log,” he said in a low voice. “Raw data. Sacred.”

“Who attended last Friday’s lab meeting?” Sky asked.

“Myself, Nicolette, Zach.”

“Why four chairs?”

“On occasion, the gentleman who funds our current research sits in. Porter Manville, CEO of Wellbiogen, a pharmaceutical company in Waltham.”

“He’s a biologist?” Sky set the rubber rat on the table.

“Porter has a background in chemistry.” Professor Fisk grabbed the rat and stuffed it into his pocket. “But he is so much more than a chemist.” The professor stood a bit taller, as though energized by the mere mention of his benefactor. “Porter Manville is that rare blend of entrepreneur and scientist. A true visionary.” The professor’s eyes had the gleam of the disciple. From his jacket pocket, the rat tail stuck straight up, like an exclamation point.

“What sort of research?” Sky asked.

“Are you familiar with the drug floetazine?”

It had been a while since her last psychopharmacology course, still Sky managed to pull something from memory. “Serotonin reuptake inhibitor?”

“Correct,” Professor Fisk gave a nod. “Trade name is Primil.”

Axelrod piped up. “Wasn’t that Memphis minister taking Primil when he murdered his family?”