The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (12 page)

Kyle lit a cigarette in cupped hands. “It’s dinnertime, darling. Let’s grab a burger at Warren Tavern. It’s not far from here.”

Warren Tavern was the self-described oldest watering hole in America, built in 1780, frequented by the likes of George Washington and Paul Revere. And Sky Stone, sometimes.

“What about drive-through?” Axelrod said. “Isn’t there a MacDonald’s around here?” He kept glancing back at Ellery’s front window, probably hoping for another look at the English woman. She was that beautiful.

Sky said, “Nobody eats until I talk to Porter Manville.”

They got back on the Pike and took the first Newton exit to Watertown Square, then west on Main to Moody Street in Waltham.

It was still rush hour, still raining.

The pharmaceutical company was easy to spot, a behemoth of blue on the west bank of the Charles River. Kyle parked the cruiser in the center of the deserted lot.

Sky got out of the car. “I’ll go in first, warm him up.”

“Wonderful. There’s nothing I hate more than a cold CEO.” Kyle lit another cigarette and began checking his text messages. Axelrod did the same.

The reception area was all glass and mahogany. Sky approached a woman sitting at the front desk and presented identification. “I’d like to speak with Porter Manville.”

The woman blinked at Sky’s police ID through rimless glasses. “Wait here.” She excused herself and disappeared through a door.

Scanning the desk, Sky noted a computer, a portrait photo of two calico cats, an African violet with ruffled leaves, a letter opener laid across a pile of mail on a silver tray, and a date book. That was it. No photos of hubby or the kids. Probably one of those secretaries who lived for the job. The kind who covered the boss’s ass at all costs.

Sky picked up the top envelope from the pile of mail and pulled out an engraved invitation, deeply embossed on heavy card stock, in gold: Diamond Charity Ball, April twenty-first, Four Seasons Hotel, Black tie.

She moved around the desk and checked the date book.
Four Seasons
was scrawled in red ink with an exclamation point. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. Sky replaced the invitation just as the receptionist was returning through the door.

“Mr. Manville is gone for the day. Come back tomorrow.” The look on the woman’s face made it clear that she hoped Sky never came back. Ever.

Back at the parking lot, Axelrod sat in the back seat of the cruiser listing the hazards of second-hand smoke for Kyle.

“We all have to die of something, Axelrod.” Kyle blew smoke toward the rookie and looked at Sky. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Manville is playing hard-to-get.” Sky jotted the charity ball information in her journal. “Has his secretary running interference.”

“Fabulous.” Kyle tossed his butt out the window. “Now what?”

“I’m famished, that’s what.” Sky couldn’t remember the last time she was this hungry. “I need food. Real food.” She pulled out her cell and called Candace. “Are you home?” she asked her friend.

“Sorry, honey. I’m on the Pike. Have to be in Revere in twenty minutes. Book club. We’re reading
Eat Pray Love
. Why?”

“Can I use your kitchen for a couple of hours? I’d like to make dinner for the team.”

“Absolutely. You know where the good skillet is, right? I keep it in the long cupboard. Honey, I am so glad you’re eating. Gotta pay the toll. Love you.” Candace hung up.

“Drive to Russo’s,” Sky said. “It’s close. We need to shop for dinner.”

A red Lamborghini snaked out from a garage underneath the Wellbiogen building and picked up speed through the parking lot.

“That’s Manville,” Sky pointed. “Follow him.”

“Shit.” Kyle turned the ignition, gunned the engine and peeled out of the lot onto Moody Street.

But the Lamborghini was gone. Out of sight.

“Like I said, darling.” Kyle shrugged. “Zero to sixty in under five seconds.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“This looks more like breakfast than dinner.” Axelrod stood in the produce section of Russo’s Market and frowned at the contents of his shopping cart. “Why don’t we just do drive-through?” He gave his cowlick a pat.

“Quit displaying your ignorance and bag up some of that baby spinach. And be quick about it, we’re on the clock.” Kyle lobbed a tub of feta into the cart. “You’re a newbie, Axelrod, so I’ll cut you a break and tell you how it works. Sometimes, murder fills the doctor with nervous energy.” Kyle winked at Sky over his wire rims. “Cooking calms her down.”

Kyle was right about one thing: Sky was feeling restless.

Manville’s escape was working her like a hypo of adrenalin. She grabbed the cart from Axelrod and steered through the maze of fruits and vegetables, tossing in a bulb of elephant garlic, some grape tomatoes, a few dried cranberries, a packet of sugared pecans, and a baguette still hot from the oven. On the way to check-out she plucked a stem of blue delphinium from a bucket of freshly cut blooms.

“Four minutes and thirty-three seconds,” Kyle said, looking at his watch. “You beat your own record, darling.”

Axelrod and Sky carried groceries to the cruiser under a sleeting sky while Kyle took a call on his cell.

“Jake is meeting us at Candace’s in an hour.” Kyle offered Sky a gapped-toothed grin. “My God, this feels like old times.” He looked at the rookie in the rear view mirror. “Do not doubt our methods, Axelrod. Watch and learn.”

A stop at Marty’s Liquors on Washington Street yielded a magnum of Blackbird merlot, a six-pack of Dogfish Head beer, and some Italian espresso. The oily aroma of freshly ground coffee made Sky’s stomach growl.

Five minutes later, they were at Sky’s old place. Kyle parked the cruiser in front of the gingerbread two-family and Sky unlocked Candace’s front door, leaving it open for Jake. Axelrod lugged groceries to the kitchen while Sky rummaged through the drawers for a corkscrew.

“We’re on salad detail, Axelrod.” Kyle took a swig of beer and handed the rookie a paring knife. “And one more thing. Do not talk to the doctor while she’s cooking. I speak from experience.”

Sky poured herself some wine and lined up the ingredients for carbonara along the counter: a package of vermicelli, six eggs, a half pound of bacon, a wedge of aged parmesan, and a bunch of flat-leaf Italian parsley. She sipped from the goblet of merlot as she worked her way through the recipe. Timing counted, with carbonara.

The bacon she chopped into matchsticks and fried in a hot skillet. The eggs were cracked raw into a small mixing bowl, whipped to a lemon yellow, and topped with freshly ground black pepper. She grated the wedge of parmesan into a white mound and added a short cup of chopped parsley.

When the bacon was nearly done, Sky cooked and drained the vermicelli and poured it into a glass bowl. She added the bacon, eggs, grated cheese, and parsley to the steaming pasta, letting the heat from the vermicelli cook the eggs and cheese to the consistency of cream. A final grind of black pepper over the carbonara, and she invited the men to sit.

“Axelrod, you lucky bastard, you should count your blessings.” Kyle put a bowl of glistening greens on the table and pulled a chair out for Sky. “I didn’t get to taste the doctor’s cooking until well into our fifth investigation.”

Everyone piled their plates high. The detectives switched from beer to wine, and they all took turns ripping off chunks of the baguette, dredging the bread through a mixture of olive oil and grated garlic.

“Darling,” Kyle speared a cranberry on his fork. “Please marry me and save me from my ball-busting wife. Just look at us, interviewing suspects, chasing Lamborghinis, having a lovely meal.” He pulled a box of Crackerjacks from the pocket of his sport coat and tossed it on the table. “We could adopt Axelrod, be a happy little family.”

Sky giggled. Kyle proposed to her at least twice during every murder investigation, but adopting the rookie, that was a delectable embellishment. And didn’t Axelrod resemble the sailor boy on the Crackerjack box, just a little?

Sky was still laughing when Jake walked into the kitchen looking like he’d just put down his favorite horse. He studied the table for a few moments, taking in the remnants of pasta, the half-filled wine glasses, the beer bottles and bread crumbs. The blue delphinium quivered in its yellow vase.

“My grandmother’s carbonara.” It was an accusation. Jake seemed confused, as though he were witnessing an act beyond understanding.

Sky tried to dismiss the ripple of guilt she was feeling. Jake’s reaction might be understandable if he’d caught her in bed with a man. But a recipe, for God’s sake? She thought about the strange combination of loathing and attraction Zach Rosario harbored for Nicolette. Sky expected that kind of irrational mindset from a murder suspect. But here stood Detective Farrell, conflating food with love.

She tried to see things from Jake’s viewpoint: Axelrod munching Crackerjacks, Kyle eating pecans out of the salad bowl with his fingers. Kyle’s little joke about the happy family didn’t seem so funny now. And it was a Farrell family recipe. ‘Real carbonara,’ Jake’s grandmother had insisted, ‘like we ate in Tuscany when I was a girl. Not the phony stuff you get in restaurants.’

“Help yourself,” Sky shrugged.

Jake sat. “The dental records were a match. Victim’s mother and sister are flying into Boston tonight. From L.A..” Jake scraped a few bits of bacon from the bottom of the pasta bowl with the heel of the baguette and popped the bread in his mouth. “Thanks for the crumbs,” he said, fixing Sky with a stare.

Sky didn’t know if the beta blockers were still working, or maybe it was the wine, but she felt calm. In control. Not the panic she’d felt at the crime scene.

Calm was good.

She returned Jake’s stare and watched the pupils of his eyes grow large.

Axelrod stacked the dirty dishes in the sink and set three mugs of coffee on the table while Sky argued the strategic benefits of interviewing Ellery Templeton at Genuine John’s.

“I want to see him at work,” she insisted.

At play was more like it. Guitarists were such prima donnas. The old Dire Straits song ran through her head,
Money For Nothing
. Not much of an exaggeration, really. But Sky was fond of Ellery. She wondered if he still wore his hair long, pulled back in a pony tail. After she broke it off she quit going to see him perform, but he was a gifted guitar player. Was it his fault if everybody loved a musician?

“Take O’Toole and Axelrod with you,” Jake ordered. “I’m due at the morgue.”

“Give Vanessa my best.” Sky couldn’t help herself, the coroner grated on her nerves. She considered mentioning that Ellery was an old boyfriend, but immediately discarded the idea. No sense waving that red flag in front of Jake. Look how the man reacted to an innocent dinner.

“I’ll just go powder my nose.” Sky excused herself and headed for the bathroom. She loved that line, she’d copped it from an old movie, The Thin Man. Myrna Loy and William Powell played Nick and Nora Charles, a retired private eye and his wealthy socialite wife. During Sky’s engagement to Jake, he’d joked that they’d be the Lake’s Nick and Nora.

Jake loved old films. Such a charming eccentricity in someone so macho.

But that was a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

Sky frowned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and splashed cold water on her face.

“No more wine,” she instructed herself out loud.

Sky sipped her coffee at the kitchen table and watched Axelrod dry the last of the dinner dishes while Jake paced back and forth, looking irritated. The rookie tossed the sodden tea towel on the counter and joined Sky and Kyle at the table.

“About time.” Jake sat down and turned to Sky. “So who was our victim? Give me Nicolette Mercer in ten words or less.”

“Bright. Ambitious," she said. "Beautiful. Manipulative.” Sky thought about the interviews with Jenna and Professor Fisk. “Teacher’s pet. Money problems. Girly-girl.” And a stuffed Dalmatian with a leather nose, she thought. How did you describe that?

“Wow.” Axelrod was counting on his fingers. “You actually did that in ten words.” He squinted at her. “What does ‘girly-girl’ mean?”

Sky rattled off a quick list of items from the victim’s bedroom. “Fingernail polish, lipstick, perfume, pink panties.”

Jake gave her an odd look.

“What?” Sky said.

“Lipstick. Perfume. Pink panties,” Jake’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Reminds me of you, that’s all.”

“Sexy,” Kyle said. “Nicolette was sexy. Don’t forget that.”

“It wasn’t just about sex,” Sky insisted. “Nicolette was a romantic.”

She wondered how many times Nicolette had played that Titanic movie. About two hundred, by the looks of the battered DVD. Sky could even imagine Nicolette watching the movie by candlelight. Crying, at the end. Maybe crying all the way through.

“And there’s this.” Sky took the scrap of paper pulled from Nicolette’s book of magic spells and spread it out on the middle of the kitchen table.

A) TELL MR. VIPER NO – ERECTILE NORM ETC

“Who’s Mr. Viper?” Jake said.

“I don’t know.”

“Erectile – what’s that? Viagra? Is that what she was working on in that lab?”

Sky shook her head. “Nicolette was working with floetazine.”

“A drug for treating depression,” Kyle said. “Trade name is Primil.”

“Here’s some background from Professor Fisk,” Sky said, tossing Jake the packet of reprints.

He slid an article out of the envelope and read the title. “
Antidepressant activity of floetazine in the rat forced swim test
.”

The detectives exchanged bemused looks.

“Forced swim test?” Jake turned to Sky. “Translate, please.”

“Put a rat in a tub of water. He’ll swim hard for ten minutes before he gives up and floats,” Sky said. “You take him out of the tub. The next day, you put him back in the water, he swims hard, only this time he gives up fast, after about two minutes.”

“That,” she said, stressing the point, “is the critical question in all of these studies – the amount of time our rat spends immobile on day two.” Sky slipped a hand into her pocket and felt the baby sweater between her fingers. “It’s called behavioral despair. To be technical, it’s an animal model of depression.”