The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (39 page)

“I’ll wear jeans tonight, something comfortable.” Sky was thinking out loud. “Why bother to dress? Manville knows who I am. And what I am.”

She put the dog on the floor and sorted through the yellow gym bag until she found her favorite jeans – 7 for All Mankind – and a white Zadig and Voltaire cashmere sweater Izzy had sent her for Christmas, never worn. Sky was looking around for the lavender shampoo and the Turkish towel when Teddy spoke up.

“Jake’s an asshole, a real prick,” the PI said. “So it pains me to admit this. But he’s right.”

“About what?”

“About you, boss. This is dangerous work and I mean no disrespect. But somebody shot at you today.” Teddy gestured toward the bulletin board. “This Manville character creeps me out. Remember what you told us, in that seminar?”

“I say a lot of things in my seminars.” Sky draped the jeans and sweater over her arm and poked around for the blow dryer. It was time she showered, started getting ready for the evening. She gave Teddy only half an ear because she was already developing a schedule for the next day: Eaton Apothecary first thing in the morning, get that prescription for Xanax filled. Then a trip to the veterinarian, have Tiffany checked out. See when those puppies were due. And maybe another trip to the lab at Boston University, find out what had Professor Fisk so nervous.

“Hello? Are you listening?” Teddy stuck his face in Sky’s, his eyebrows knotted with concern. “I’m going to ask you a question. A question you once asked me, a long time ago. In that seminar.”

“I’m listening.”

“What’s the best predictor of future behavior?”

“I forget.” Sky smiled at her little joke. Teddy had just posited the first half of the most basic behavioral tenet. The first thing every student of Skinner learned.

Teddy wasn’t smiling. “Let’s assume, for argument’s sake, that your theory is correct.” He began to pace back and forth. “Let’s assume Porter Manville killed Nicolette Mercer. Maybe because she was pregnant with his kid. Or maybe because she had something on him. Or maybe Nicolette just rubbed him the wrong way.” Teddy stopped pacing and stood directly in front of Sky. “As you are so fond of saying, the important thing is, Manville killed Nicolette.”

“That’s right,” Sky nodded.

“What’s the best predictor of future behavior?” he repeated.

“The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. You worry too much, detective.”

“And you don’t worry enough. Take this.” He pulled a Colt .45 from beneath the blue Columbia parka and tried to give it to Sky, handle first. “Careful, it’s loaded.”

Sky glanced at the black duffel bag in the corner and shook her head.

“No?” Teddy slipped the Colt back in his shoulder holster. “Then I’ll be outside Manville’s house. Waiting in the car.” He snapped the holster safety. “Or maybe I’ll be behind a tree. Things get hinky, call me. I’ll be seconds away.”

“Don’t come tonight, Teddy. It’s too dangerous.” Sky nudged a drowsy Tiffany off the Turkish towel and tossed it over her arm. “I’m taking a shower.”

Teddy collapsed on the sofa looking so aggravated that Sky reached down and brushed a shock of hair from his fleshy, handsome face. “I’m serious, Teddy. Stay away from Manville’s place. I’ll be okay.”

Teddy offered a grim smile.

Plucking the heart locket from the chess board, he dangled it for Sky’s benefit and said, “Nicolette Mercer probably thought the same thing.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“I can’t believe you drive that piece of shit.” Teddy parked next to Sky’s Jeep in the metered lot behind the police station and revved the V-8 engine of his teal green Camaro.

“It’s seen better days,” Sky said, eyeing the bullet hole in the rear of the Jeep’s soft top. “It was my dad’s. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it.”

The few worldly possessions Monk had left behind made Sky feel absurdly protective. The Jeep carried a series of nasty dents above the rear left wheel and the red paint job was pocked with rust.

Silly, she thought. Why couldn’t she let things go?

“My brother has a used car lot in Watertown. Very upscale. Tell him Teddy sent you. He’ll fix you up with something worthy of your station in life.”

“My station in life?” Sky smiled. “Unemployed and homeless? With an abandoned dog?”

“Temporary, boss, temporary. Just wait. Jake will be begging you to come back.”

Sky climbed out of the Camaro with Tiffany. Teddy’s vote of confidence buoyed her more than she was willing to admit.

“You know that secretary in Evidence?” she said. “The one who has a crush on you?”

“Babs?”

“That’s the one. The DA mentioned evidence at the press conference. Maybe you can get some specifics from her.”

“No problem. Be happy to talk to Babs. You dropped this.” Teddy was studying the envelope Candace had given Sky earlier that day. “Who the hell do you know in Cedar Junction?”

“Nobody.”

Sky had forgotten about the letter.

But she did know something about Cedar Junction. It was a maximum security prison twenty miles south of Boston, in Walpole. Nine observation towers overlooking a twenty-foot electrified barricade. Cedar Junction was infamous for its ‘prison within a prison’ unit. Violent men in permanent lockdown.

Teddy killed the engine and climbed out of the Camaro.

“Country’s oldest prison,” he said, ambling over to Sky. “Home sweet home to the Boston Strangler. ‘Til somebody iced him.” Teddy handed her the letter. “Also home to that phony socialite who kidnapped his daughter, currently a person of interest in two California murders. And that British prick. You remember, the asshole who murdered his wife and baby? Some brutal motherfuckers in Cedar Junction.” Teddy stood with an expectant look on his face. “Well? Aren’t you gonna open it? See who it’s from?”

Sky studied the address. The script was a handwriting analyst’s dream, a tortured mix of deformed loops and random angles. She ripped the envelope open and pulled out a single lined page.

Dear Dr. Stone

I knew your daddy real well. Although he was responsible for my incarceration, I always felt that Monk and I shared a special bond. I have information that should be of great interest to you. My lawyer will be in contact.

Sincerely, J. Cleveland

“J. Cleveland?” Sky handed Teddy the letter. “The name isn’t familiar.”

“That would be one Jasper Cleveland. Good ‘ole boy from Maine. He and his twin brother Silas murdered eight women. Teenagers, mostly. Tortured and killed ‘em in a shed, buried ‘em in the south forty. The ones they didn’t eat. Your dad made his move, Silas put up a fight. Got killed. Jasper got life. Maybe ten years ago.” Teddy’s face grew grim. “Jesus, boss. Why is Jasper Cleveland writing to you?”

“I don’t know.” Sky put Tiffany in the front seat of the Jeep and threw the back pack in the rear. “We’ll have to wait until his lawyer calls.” She climbed in the Jeep and started the engine.

Teddy knocked on the window until Sky rolled it down.

“The guy is doing, like, four hundred years. What kind of information could he possibly have for you?” Teddy offered an earnest frown. “Maybe we should buzz down there. See what he’s peddling.”

“You talk to Babs.” Sky took the letter from his hand. “I’ll poke around Manville’s place, see what I can dig up. Jasper Cleveland can wait a few more hours.”

“Boss, there’s something I need to tell you.” Teddy tried to talk but Sky interrupted him.

“Later, detective,” she said, ignoring his scowl. “Don’t want to be late for my date.”

Sky pulled out of the lot and took a right on Washington, gunning the Jeep through a murky twilight mist.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Weston was Old Money, incorporated in 1713. Immense Georgians with tennis courts and swimming pools, Federalist manors with duck ponds and formal gardens, rolling English-style country estates with stone walls and stables.

Sky turned onto Hunt Club Road and was surprised to find herself in familiar surroundings.

Years ago, she’d attended numerous Friends of The Ballet meetings with her grandmother. The hostess lived in a yellow Colonial less than a mile down the road. The gatherings had been brutal for a young teen, humorless dowagers in white gloves sipping Earl Grey in high-backed chairs. As often as possible, Sky had excused herself and taken Arbella, Izzy’s King Charles spaniel, for bathroom breaks around the estate. She’d spent hours walking the dog on this very road.

She reached Manville’s address and decided that Teddy was right. Although it sat on quite a bit of land, the house itself seemed modest by Weston standards. Crouching fifty yards from the road, the split-level was barely visible through a grove of peeling birches. It ran low to the ground with a wide flat roof.

Sky followed the U-shaped drive and parked in front of the entrance. She gathered Tiffany and was reaching past the oil portrait for the zebra-print backpack when she heard Manville’s voice.

“You’re prompt, Doctor.”

He stood on the front flagstone in khakis and a navy blazer. “Promptness is a trait I admire. Especially rare in a woman.”

Sky ignored the insult to her gender and stepped past him into a small foyer. A lamp table sat between two open doorways leading in opposite directions. The soft drone of a baroque quartet floated from a distant room.

“Red cowboy boots with a trench coat.” Manville gave an appreciative nod. “A bit unconventional. But you make it work.”

“Are you alone?” she asked.

“Not anymore.” Manville offered a brilliant smile. He had perfect teeth. “I’ve been in meetings all day. Just got here a few minutes ago myself. Look what my office manager handed me.” He held up the Boston Globe society page, the photograph snapped at the Four Seasons. “We make a nice couple, don’t you think?”

“No.” Sky glanced from the photograph to the gold signet on Manville’s ring finger. “You’re not my type, Porter.”

“Touché,” he said with a soft chuckle. “I apologize for any rudeness I might have shown at Carnivale –”

“Before you discovered I was a Winthrop?” she interrupted. “Are you a gold digger, Mr. Manville?”

“I beg your pardon?” He blinked at her as though she’d spoken a foreign tongue.

“I’d love a drink,” she said. “Got champagne?”

“Certainly I’ve got champagne.” The suggestion of a southern drawl crept into his voice.

His Texas roots show when he’s disturbed, she noted.

“Doctor Stone, surely you don’t think I’m interested in your … your …” he paused, appearing to search for the right word.

“My money? I can’t lie to you, Porter. You wouldn’t be the first man. The stories I could tell. Stalking and whatnot.”

Sky pulled out her cell and pretended to check her messages. The stalking reference appeared lost on Manville. He’d followed her to Bullough’s Pond in the middle of the night but his satisfied look indicated a certain lack of self-awareness.

“How’s the arm?” she said.

“The bullet grazed me. A little blood,” Manville shrugged. “The ER nurse made a big deal out of it.” His hand went to the right side of his face. “Those brass knuckles did more damage. My jaw still aches. Wouldn’t have expected it.” Manville’s eyes moved over Sky’s body with a connoisseurs’ intensity. “You’re such a tiny thing.”

“The brass knuckles?” Sky had forgotten all about them. “Did you steal them?” she asked.

“I did.” Manville reached into the pocket of the impeccable navy blazer and extracted the purloined paper weight. “I had every intention of returning them. Just didn’t want to get you in trouble. Did you know brass knuckles are illegal in this state?”

“Massachusetts isn’t a state.” Sky snatched the brass knuckles and slipped them over the fingers of her right hand. “It’s a Commonwealth. Where’s that champagne?”

“Of course. I – just a moment.” Manville seemed to be having difficulty with the conversational flow. “You’ll excuse me. It’s in the kitchen. On ice.” He exited through the far doorway and left her standing in the foyer.

Sky punched the speed-dial number she’d taken off the Papa Razzi napkin and went in the opposite direction.

She listened for a ringing phone as she moved though a living room lit by flames from a stone fireplace. Above the mantel, an oil painting: two lifeless hares draped over a hunter’s bag.

An adjoining room held angular sofas beneath a horizontal band of windows. No ringing phone. Glass panes offered a gloomy dusk, the vague suggestion of treetops outlined against a darkening sky.

She flipped on a light switch. Books on ornithology and bee keeping rested on the shelf beneath an antique map of the Old World. The place was decorated in late Country Gentleman but Sky couldn’t get a sense of Manville. A sterile, untouched aspect permeated the air.

“You’ve found the sun porch.” Manville appeared with drinks and a revived enthusiasm. “This house was a steal. In dire need of extensive foundation work when the owner died. The family dumped the estate, cheap. I heard about it through friends.” He offered Sky a champagne flute alive with golden bubbles.

Sky reached for the drink and Manville twisted his hand, forcing her to touch his fingers during the exchange. The move was remarkably sexual.

“I bought the whole place,” he continued. “Furniture, rugs, art – as is. I installed a security system – state of the art – but that’s about it.”

These weren’t his things, she thought. No wonder she couldn’t feel his presence in the house.

“Would you like the grand tour?” Manville grinned at Sky with the singular expression of a man at the top of his game. “I’d like to talk to you about a job sometime. Not tonight, of course. But I’ve been looking at your ethanol research. Impressive. Real potential there for human application. Alcohol craving is very hot right now.” With the map of the Old World at his back, Manville radiated the exhilaration of an explorer anticipating undiscovered territory. “I could use a go-to person with your skill set. Rats, pigeons, people.”

He exuded an animal heat as he spoke, and Sky paid more attention to tone than substance. Porter Manville had the kind of voice you run across once in a great while. In stage actors, mostly. Or great trial lawyers. Politicians, if they were lucky. Deep, resonant, expressive. Rich in overtones. A voice that lulled and cajoled. And Sky, once again, found herself the undeniable focus of his charms.