The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series)

THE PROFILER’S DAUGHTER

by P. M. Steffen

Copyright © 2012 All rights reserved.

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission granted from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short exerpts in a review.

For more information on the author, visit
www.pmsteffen.com

eISBN: 9781623098964

For Seth

Prologue

It was dark and the fog made everything look different.

The boy grabbed his sister’s hand and pulled her into the woods, a shortcut home after night fishing at the pond.

He stumbled, eager to get back before his mother woke and found them missing. Since his father left, she seemed so nervous and sad. She drank too much wine and took pills to sleep. Sometimes the boy couldn’t wake his mother in the morning and he had to get his sister dressed and ready for school by himself.

The thought of his father prompted the boy to snort with disgust. After the divorce, his father had remarried so quickly, was already expecting a baby with his new wife. A new family.

The boy hated his father.

He jerked on his sister’s hand to hurry her when his foot struck something hard and soft at the same time. The something lolled slightly beneath his peripheral vision and he looked down.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

Staring up at him were the unseeing eyes of a woman.

A dead woman.

Countless CSI episodes on TV made this matter of death seem almost natural. Still, the boy put his arms out to block his sister from the sight.

“What?” The six-year-old tried to crane her head around her brother’s body but all she could see was a thick red braid.

“Stand up there. Don’t turn around.” The boy pointed to a spot up the embankment and the girl did as she was told.

With his back to his sister, the boy hunkered down and slipped a bare hand beneath the dead woman’s sweatshirt, up and under a running bra. He cupped the still-warm breast, his finger found the pucker of a nipple.

The shock of touch aroused the boy but his sister interrupted with a reedy whine. “I’m cold. I want to go home.”

The boy gave the breast a squeeze.

He was sick of listening to his best friend Jeremy brag about copping a feel off Lisa De Lucca. Now he had something to talk about, too.

He maneuvered his hand to feel the other breast when something scraped his knuckle.

The boy extracted a small rectangle of metal and plastic from the bra. It was some kind of computer gadget, like the one his father used when he worked on his laptop. Which was pretty much all his father did during his monthly visits.

Could be worth something. Maybe he could sell it. Or trade it for an Xbox game. Halo would be awesome.

The boy slipped the device into the kangaroo pocket of his Bruins jacket and pulled a cell phone from his jeans pocket. He considered calling 911 but punched his mother’s number instead. She would know what to do. If she woke up, that is.

A twig snapped.

The boy jerked his head and spotted a shadow darting through the underbrush.

He scrambled up the embankment and threw a protective arm around his sister’s narrow shoulders, drawing her swiftly away from the dead body, steering her through the trees as he waited on the line for the sound of his mother’s voice.

CHAPTER ONE

Newton, Massachusetts, 5:30 a.m., Marathon Monday

Two black and whites floated through the fog-drenched Boston suburb while a battered Jeep Wrangler crawled west down Heartbreak Hill. All three vehicles skirted Bullough’s Pond and broke in unison along the north edge.

The door of the Jeep opened and a pair of red cowboy boots swung out and scraped gravel. A belted trench coat swirled above the boots as the driver reached into the vehicle to catch her ID from the rearview mirror. She looped the lanyard around her neck, tucking the cord deep inside her coat. A scudding April wind whipped hair into her heart-shaped, serious face. With practiced ease, she wrapped the long hair around her hand and stuffed it into the upturned collar of the trench. Then she stood motionless for a moment as officers milled around her.

“Doctor Stone.” A uniformed sentry waved her over from the entrance to a small wood across from the pond.

Sky Stone, psychologist and forensic consultant to homicide, booted the Jeep door shut and joined him.

“It’s been a long time, Doctor. Too long.” Officer Pete Moody was a solid cop with the smile of a friendly Rottweiler. “The techs are taking casts,” he gestured into the grove and across the street, where several figures hunched near the pond’s edge. “The photographer’s here. Videographer, too, somewhere,” he added with a touch of irritation.

“Where’s the primary, Pete?”

The officer hesitated.

“Pete?” Sky prodded.

“Detective Farrell is talking to the coroner.” Pete shook his head. “I’m sorry, Doctor Stone. Sorry about … everything.”

Sky's chest ached at the kindness in the officer’s voice. She touched his shoulder and slipped past him into the woods. The root-mangled path sloped to a dry ravine bed.

In the center of a yellow taped circle lay the body of a woman, face up, arms thrown wide. A bearded photographer in a baggy corduroy jacket was snapping pictures, standing, then crouching. He exhaled audibly after every shot.

Sky quietly stepped inside the circle and took her own inventory. The scene appeared in illuminated segments. Running shoes, Nikes, the left sole showing pronate wear. Pink sweat socks bunched around pale ankles. White sweat pants, legs pushed just above slender shins. A slim torso in a red hooded sweatshirt shoved up under the back. Patches of mud on all articles of clothing. A swollen, mottled face. Dead eyes gaping from that face.

Sky took an involuntary step back and stared down at her boots, struggling to maintain equilibrium. She toed the dirt, remembering that it was always like this with the dead. Her insides always lurched, her stomach always turned wormy. She focused on a CSI deputy kneeling over an inverted shoebox, one of a half dozen dotting the patch of ground around the body. The deputy lifted the box, trickled white liquid into a nearly invisible footprint, checked something on a piece of paper and moved on to the next box.

A sudden flash of movement through the trees caught Sky’s eye, a figure loped toward the yellow circle from the wood’s north edge. Thin as a snake, with a shock of white hair, police videographer Quentin Kincaid’s angular features softened into a crooked smile when he spotted Sky. With a magician’s flair, he produced a small camcorder from his pocket. He exchanged familiar insults with the photographer and proceeded to videotape the crime scene.

“Smile, Doc.” Quentin aimed the camera squarely at Sky and snapped the shot.

“Welcome back,” he said, leaning into her. His nose brushed her neck. “Have a cup of coffee with me,” he whispered.

Sky sidestepped the videographer, ignoring him out of long practice. Quentin Kincaid was a harmless flirt.

She moved closer to the victim and concentrated on the palms of the hands and the forearms, she was looking for obvious tell-tale signs of a defense wound when Quentin suddenly yelped, slipped, and nearly stumbled into the dead body. He grabbed Sky, righted himself and rounded on the man who had sent him sprawling. But Quentin’s oaths died in the watery April air.

“Hey, Jake.” Quentin skittered to the other side of the yellow circle and eyed the homicide detective from a safe distance. “Detective Farrell,” he corrected himself.

Jake Farrell’s stare bore straight down into Sky. His hand gripped her arm and Sky’s throat went dry. For the second time that morning her composure deserted her. Take command, she thought. Take stock of the situation. Breathe easy.

Sky squared herself, shook free from Jake’s grip, and stared up into his face. A face she hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

Black hair fell into his bloodshot eyes. He needed a shave, and he smelled of cigars and whiskey. And perfume. Expensive perfume.

Jake towered over her, his broad shoulders filling her field of vision. Sky dropped her gaze to the white silk scarf that hung carelessly over his open tux jacket. A bright smear of lipstick slashed the pleated front of his white dress shirt. Sky stared at the crimson stain.

“What are you doing here?” Jake’s eyes were narrow slits.

Sky concentrated on her breathing. This was it. The moment she had so carefully avoided for the last year. Her heart belted into her chest and the queasiness got worse.

“Magnus called.” Sky invoked the name of Police Chief Magnus Moriarity. Jake knew Magnus, Sky didn’t have to spell it out.

“How many times have I called?” Jake’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A hundred?”

“We settled this in the hospital, Jake.”

“We settled nothing.” He grabbed her shoulder. “You can’t dismiss me, Sky. I’m not one of your students.”

Sky tried to jerk her shoulder from Jake’s grasp. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Quentin and the photographer exchanging looks.

Another wave of nausea hit, this time uncontrollable. Sky lurched forward and vomited down the front of Jake’s shirt.

Jake pulled his scarf from his neck, balled it up and curled her hand around it. “Keep it,” he said, frowning at the mess on his shirt. “I wish you could look at a dead body without puking. Just once.”

Sky offered a limp shrug. She felt a small prick of satisfaction to see that the smear of lipstick was no longer visible.

Jake exhaled hard, turned on his heel and started up the path. Sky watched him disappear into the street, swearing under his breath.

Quentin and the photographer exchanged high-fives.

Sky had to admit, she felt a little better. She dabbed at her mouth with the scarf. Well, at least she had a clear view of the crime scene.

Jake was always taking up too much space.

“Sure you won’t have breakfast with me, Doc?”

Sky waved Quentin off. He and the photographer faded up the path, talking too loudly.

Jake’s balled up scarf was still in her hand. Sky passed the silky fabric between her fingers, stuffed it in the pocket of her trench coat, and turned back to the body.

An ID agent from the CSI team was kneeling on the ground, rummaging through his kit box. He nodded at Sky, breathed a nearly inaudible greeting to her, then went to work.

Moving methodically over the body with an array of tweezers, he collected hairs, loose threads, lint, fingernail scrapings – anything that could be used to tie killer to corpse. Each bit of evidence was dropped into a labeled bag, the bag sealed and placed into a homicide file folder.

Sky watched him work while her thoughts tumbled over and around Jake. Don’t go there, she silently rapped the order out. What had she been thinking, agreeing to help Magnus? She owed Magnus, it was true. She’d always come when Magnus called. But this case?

Sky watched the agent inspect the wrists and hands.

“Is there a wedding ring?” she asked. A wedding ring meant a husband, always the prime suspect. Case solved, then back to Nantucket. Safely away from her old life, safely away from Jake. Sky reflected on her own bizarre behavior. She knew Jake might be working this case. Was she losing it?

“Negative on a wedding ring,” the agent said, bagging and taping the hand. “But she’s got a gold ring on every finger of her right hand. Seven gold studs in her ear. This lady liked her gold.” He pried dried mud from the victim’s right shoe tread with a dental pick before bagging and taping the feet. “Cold and rainy,” he mused. “A lousy day for the marathon.” He peeled off his purple nitrile gloves with a snap and tossed them into a large metal toolbox.

Sky silently disagreed. Runners rejoiced over weather like this. It was warm weather that runners most feared. A balmy, sun-drenched day could mean cramps, exhaustion, heat stroke.

No, she decided. It was a perfect day for the marathon, but a lousy day for murder. Spectators would be ten deep along Commonwealth Avenue in a few hours. Television cameras, reporters, and an unholy host of civilians trying to stick their noses into the crime scene.

A short shriek split the quiet and Sky looked up to see an enormous crow adjusting impatient wings on a bare branch directly above the dead body.

“She’s all yours, Doc.” The agent grabbed his toolbox and headed up the hill.

Sky stepped over the yellow tape and crouched down by the woman’s head. Pulling her keys from her pocket, Sky flipped on the tiny Mag keylight and played the narrow beam over the corpse.

The face was frozen in a death grimace of strangulation. Pinpoint specks dotted swollen cheeks and forehead. Bloody blotches stained the whites of her green eyes. The mottled neck carried circular bruises along a slender throat. The hair was pulled tight into a band high on the back of her head and braided into a single thick cable. It must reach to her waist, Sky thought. But it was the color of the hair that was remarkable. Even in this weak light, it gleamed the fiery orange red of a fox.