Sky was in her senior year at the University of Iowa at the time, a year ahead of schedule, living off-campus in Iowa City. Her apartment was two hours by car from Hilliard's first murder scene. The proximity made Monk nervous.
"Don't go out at night, ever, by yourself. Don't talk to strange men. And stay away from clubs," Monk had said to Sky in his soft voice. "And whatever you do, never jog alone, day or night."
A ridiculous list.
It was around that time that Monk showed Sky shimewaza, the chokehold she would later use on the unfortunate Benny Gentile.
"Maximum safety, minimum risk," Monk had promised her. Monk was a head taller and twice Sky’s weight, but he made her practice the chokehold on him, over and over, until he was convinced she could do it anytime, anywhere, to anyone. Monk taught her how to handle firearms, too.
Poor Monk. Trying to cover all the bases.
Two months later, while Sky accepted her bachelor's diploma in black cap and gown, Monk was facing off with Hilliard outside the ranch where Hilliard was holed up, in a mountain just outside Santa Barbara. Hilliard died and the murders stopped. And Sky's mother left Monk.
"Monk's changed," was all her mother would say.
It was true. The relaxed, smiling man in the honeymoon photograph was a stranger to Sky. After Hilliard’s death, Monk would sit at his desk, obsessed with eight by tens of the dead and mutilated. Long nights and weekends were spent chatting up lifers in places like Joliet, Leavenworth, and Angola. It’s my data, Monk would say.
Vowing to avoid law enforcement altogether, Sky entered a doctoral program in behavioral neuroscience at Northeastern that fall and disappeared into the animal laboratory. Beginning with a series of stimulus control experiments with roller pigeons, she studied resistance to reinforcement, then the peak shift, then on to the effects of cocaine on color discrimination. Next, with giant white Carneaux pigeons, she investigated concurrent schedules with an added clock, then on to contrast and multiple schedules.
Sky was well into her dissertation research by her third year, an animal model of alcoholism. Twenty-one male rats, each rat in his own roomy cage, each cage with a lever. The cages sat, side by side like miniature condos, on three waist-high metal tables, seven cages to a table. Whenever a rat pressed on the lever, a tiny amber light would illuminate the cage. If the rat pressed the lever enough times, he could drink sweetened alcohol from a skinny metal tube, an 8% solution.
Being nocturnal creatures by nature, the rats slept during the day. But Sky would sneak in with a date at night sometimes, around ten-thirty or so, and watch the dark lab come alive. One by one the rats would wake up and start pressing their levers, until all twenty-one rats were awake and pressing away, the tiny amber lights transforming the lab into a small village of eager drunks, hard at work for the next hit.
Pigeons and rats seemed a world away from law enforcement.
Her first mistake, Sky decided, was agreeing, over drinks at the campus pub, to work with Professor Miller. It had happened the night Sky was drinking champagne with her faculty committee, celebrating a successful oral defense of her dissertation. Professor Miller – Maggie – fourth reader on Sky’s committee, was already famous for her work in eyewitness testimony. Maggie was also celebrating a fat federal grant to conduct research into interview techniques. Simply put, Maggie needed a research coordinator and Sky, with her freshly-minted doctorate, needed a job. The collaboration resulted in a flurry of published articles within the year.
Sky blew dust out of each corner of the filigree frame and returned the picture of her parents to its place on the desk.
Her second mistake, she decided, was accepting Magnus Moriarty’s card at her father’s funeral. The Chief had introduced himself to Sky as they stood in front of Monk’s chrysanthemum-draped casket, said he'd heard good things about her BU seminar, said he’d read an article of Sky's on instructional bias in the latest issue of Law and Human Behavior, asked might Sky consider bringing her interview techniques to his squadroom.
When Sky told Chief Moriarty she didn't have any experience in law enforcement, he said "You're Monk Stone’s kid. That's all I need to know," and pressed his card into Sky's hand. In her grief, it had seemed an innocent request.
That was four years ago.
Sky was scrolling through e-mail when her office door flew open.
“Hello, darling.” Kyle entered with Axelrod in tow.
Sky glanced at the rookie and said, “Where's Butera?"
“Slight change of plans, love." Kyle slumped on the sofa, fished a crumpled pack of Marlboro's from his gray wool jacket, and pulled out a cigarette. "Axelrod rides with us."
Sky straightened up at this news.
"Detective Butera is off this case," Axelrod offered, smoothing his cowlick. "Something about needing him in Burglary for the next ten days.”
"You're golden, darling." Kyle lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Magnus wants you on this case and he's afraid Butera will bad-vibe you back to Nantucket.” He blew three fat smoke rings into the air. “I assured the Chief that you would never think of deserting us in our hour of need."
Sky had to smile. Butera’s reassignment was classic Magnus. He would do whatever it took to keep her in town, smooth out any bumps in the road. She risked losing credibility with the police department if she ran back to Nantucket now. Magnus was forcing her to stay in Newton. Forcing her to stay on the case.
Sky jumped up and grabbed Kyle’s cigarette from his bony fingers. She meant to toss it, but now she was feeling a strong urge to take a hit. A lungful of smoke might improve things. She’d given up cigarettes and alcohol, happily, when she’d discovered she was pregnant. This might be the perfect time to resume both habits.
Sky considered her options while the cigarette burned.
"Doctor Stone, could you possibly fill me in on the Wigglesworth case?" Axelrod waved a wisp of smoke from his face.
"No." Sky stubbed the cigarette out against a crystal bud vase and tossed the butt. Tomorrow, that’s when she would start smoking.
"Doctor Stone is far too humble to talk about her triumphs, Axelrod. But I’m happy to fill you in.” Kyle pulled out a second cigarette and rolled it between his fingers. "Not much to it, really. Butera was the primary, the victim was Basil Wigglesworth, co-owner of Basil's, that four-star restaurant in Chestnut Hill. Wigglesworth was very hot property at the time, he'd just opened another restaurant in Manhattan, one in L.A., there was even talk of his own cooking show. The next Julia Child, the Globe called him. Poor guy, poisoned with strychnine in his own joint." Kyle smelled the unlit cigarette. "Wigglesworth dropped dead, face down into a plate of tiramisu, as I recall."
This embellishment made Sky cringe. "The body was in full rigor mortis by the time we got there," she said, taking the unlit cigarette from Kyle's hand. "Wigglesworth died in a convulsed position on the floor. Bulging eyes, face contorted." She winced at the memory. Strychnine was a bad way to go.
"See that?" Kyle jabbed a thumb toward Sky. "The doctor keeps us on the straight and narrow. Just the facts, ma'am." He stuck a toothpick through the gap between his front teeth. "She gave us a profile of Wigglesworth's killer early on in the investigation. Butera ignored the profile because he was convinced it was Wigglesworth’s business partner."
Axelrod looked at Sky with owl eyes. "Do you mind if I ask what that profile contained?"
“Poisoning is nonconfrontational,” said Sky, pulling socks and a pair of Doc Martens from a yellow gym bag that hung from the door. “It's a popular choice for women. Very high on the list.”
She sat next to Kyle on the sofa and tugged the socks on over her cold feet. “Men do poison, of course, and the majority of poisoners are male. But poisoners tend to be meek, submissive men. Uncomfortable with confrontation."
"Pussies," Kyle added.
“Yes,” Sky agreed, slipping on the heavy shoes. “Wigglesworth's business partner was Jimmy Zott. Played two seasons with the Bruins in the la
te nineties."
Axelrod nodded thoughtfully. "And hockey players don't poison."
"Exactly." Sky was scanning the high bookshelves for her hypnosis texts. Where had she put those?
"There was apparently some animosity between Wigglesworth and Zott, so it was not an entirely foolish guess on Butera's part," Kyle conceded. "But Mrs. Wigglesworth – Lydia – had visited a number of internet sites dealing with strychnine. Doctor Stone confronted her with the list of web addresses and she confessed on the spot, told us exactly how she did it. Down to the last detail.” The toothpick between Kyle’s teeth moved up and down as he spoke. “Turns out, Wigglesworth was sleeping with a couple of his waitresses. Lydia disapproved."
Axelrod pressed on. "I don't understand. If you provided Detective Butera with the correct profile –”
Kyle finished Axelrod’s sentence for him. "Why is Butera so hostile toward Doctor Stone? Why such animosity?" Kyle brushed an invisible hair from his sleeve. "Because Angel Butera is a dinosaur. A relic from an earlier age. Doesn't like outsiders interfering with his case." Kyle gave Sky an oblique look. "Especially when that outsider is a woman."
Territory and sex, Sky reflected. The male psyche in a nutshell.
She spotted the hypnosis book on a high shelf and grabbed a gray library stool to retrieve it.
"Let me get that for you." Axelrod leapt over and took the stool from Sky.
"The thin book, between Behavior of Organisms and Cocaine Papers," Sky pointed to the general location.
Axelrod reached up without the aid of the stool and drew out a small gray paperback. He began to read the title aloud.
"Thanks." Sky grabbed the book out of his hand before Axelrod could finish.
"I hope you're not doing what I think you’re doing," said Kyle.
Sky slipped the hypnosis book in her back pocket without a word.
"By the way,” Kyle chewed vigorously on the toothpick. “We’ve got an ID on our body. Some professor phoned Boston PD when the girl was a no-show at his lab this morning.
His description included green eyes and long red hair. The roommate identified the body at the morgue about an hour ago. Dental charts should be here some time today.” He gave Sky a hopeful look. “Boston University, sweetheart. Your territory.”
Sky pulled on her coat in silence.
The gears of her mind were adjusting, shifting, moving into place. It happened at the start of every murder investigation and she was surprised at how comfortingly familiar it felt; almost as good as the first drag on a cigarette.
Sky was out the door and down the steps before she realized that she wasn’t returning to Nantucket.
Not yet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"You drive,” Sky called over her shoulder to Kyle. She ran down the steps two at a time to the street.
The mist had given way to gray clouds, low and threatening. But the damp air was warm on Sky’s face and she realized that she felt a small sense of purpose.
The blue Crown Vic was illegally parked in the bus zone across from Dunkin’ Donuts. Axelrod’s blonde cowlick bobbled in the wind as he held the door open for Sky. She slipped into the passenger seat and Kyle turned the ignition key. The engine coughed twice and started. Brown tweed upholstery gave off a musty odor and the police radio crackled with dispatcher directives. Axelrod climbed into the back and cleared his throat.
“Young Axelrod was playing Twenty Questions with me on the way over, wants to know all about you and your famous father.” Kyle lit a Marlboro and smirked at Sky. “Seems our rookie is a real FBI groupie, knows all the names.” His tone was derisive.
Sky said, “The bureau has good people.”
Kyle exhaled a stream of thick smoke at the windshield and shifted the car into drive. “You’ve been holed up in your Nantucket hideaway too long, darling.” He pulled into traffic and headed east, toward Boston. “Seems you haven’t heard the latest. Turns out your daddy’s precious FBI recruited members of the Irish mob as informants.”
Sky offered an indifferent shrug. Kyle’s low opinion of the FBI was common among cops and she was in no mood to mount a rigorous defense.
“Yes, retired FBI special agent Shamus Rourke,” Kyle continued. “Twenty-two years with the Boston bureau, convicted on racketeering and obstruction of justice charges last Thursday.” He issued a satisfied grunt.
Sky gave him a blank look. Why should she care about some rogue agent?
Kyle steered the cruiser past the Harvard practice field on Soldier’s Field Road. “Turns out the reason special agent Rourke went to the joint, he was guilty of tipping off Fat Fitzpatrick to an impending racketeering indictment.” Kyle moved into the fast lane and glanced at Sky. “I see I’ve finally got your attention.”
Sky was stunned.
Fat Fitzpatrick was the head of Boston’s Irish mob. Murdered two dozen men and women during his reign of terror in the ‘80s and ‘90s – a conservative estimate, some said. Fat skipped town on the eve of his indictment and remained a fugitive on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list, up there with the likes of Osama Bin Laden. But Fat was free and probably living large thanks to a dirty FBI agent. Was the Boston bureau really that corrupt?
“I suppose Rourke is taking the fall for everyone involved,” Sky said, thinking out loud.
“Yeah, there was some talk at Rourke's trial that other agents – and some cops – accepted payoffs from Fat’s gang.” Kyle guided the cruiser under the Anderson Memorial Bridge and onto Storrow. “Too late to prosecute anybody else. Statute of limitations and all that.”
Sky felt a small sorrow for Monk. Such flagrant corruption in the bureau would have wounded her father.
“Hey, darling,” Kyle’s tone softened. “Everybody knows your old man had a spotless reputation. I’m just giving you a hard time. Habit, I guess. To tell you the truth, we’re all a little jealous of the late, great Monk Stone.” He pressed on the gas pedal and the cruiser picked up speed. “The Chief thinks Monk walked on water. Doesn’t help things. With Jake, I mean.”
Or with me, Sky thought. But she accepted Kyle’s apology for the gift it was and changed the subject. “What’s the victim’s name?”
CHAPTER NINE
“The murdered woman’s name is Nicolette Mercer.” Kyle steered the cruiser along the south bank of the Charles. “Lived here.” He flipped open a folder and showed Sky the Commonwealth Avenue address.
The victim’s name had a melodic quality, like a small song. Nicolette Mercer. Repeating it silently as she looked out over the Charles, Sky found herself heartened by the sight of the river. It felt like an old friend, welcoming her home.
Did Nicolette Mercer take runs along the Charles during breaks from the lab? Sky wondered. She directed Kyle to the Kenmore Square exit, a sharp right and a left on Sherborn. Another right brought the cruiser into heavy traffic.
Boston University straddled Commonwealth Avenue from the Citgo sign to the gargantuan delta-shaped Ellis the Rim Man billboard near the Allston student ghetto. Thirty thousand students wedged into a raucous, mile-long stretch of academic buildings, brownstones, and dorms. Pocketed with cheap eateries, funky retail stores, and nightclubs, the BU campus presented an urban universe in perpetual motion.
Kyle guided the cruiser west on Commonwealth, weaving around knots of students and double-parked cars. Scarlet banners heralded the university’s presence from Kenmore to the BU bridge and beyond.
“Nicolette’s roommate is Jenna Weems, she identified the body.” Kyle parked along a stretch of brownstones. He jumped out of the cruiser and pulled a print kit from the trunk.
Sky and the detectives entered the Queen Anne-style apartment house beneath a green awning and climbed a flight of worn marble steps to the second floor. Sky rang the buzzer and a tallish young woman answered.
“Jenna Weems?” Sky showed her ID and made introductions.
Jenna led the team into the living room, where a television was broadcasting live coverage of the marathon. The
drab, mismatched furniture and stained carpeting were standard student rental.
Jenna, in contrast, presented a vivid array of color. A purple tee with black skulls stretched tight over her canary yellow thermal undershirt, and a pink taffeta skirt floated around her knees above black and white stripped leggings. Purple plaid ballet flats underscored the improbable ensemble with touches of black patent leather at the toe.
Something about Jenna’s large, pale eyes and thin blonde hair made Sky think of a newly hatched chick, still wet from the egg. Jenna was twenty-four, according to Kyle’s folder, but her flat chest and long-limbed body still carried the awkwardness of adolescence.
Jenna muted the TV and clutched the remote like a security blanket. She pointed Nicolette’s bedroom out to Kyle and Axelrod, who began the process of gathering latent prints.
A passing train shook the building with a noisy clatter.
“How often do you hear that?” Sky said.
“Hear what?”
“The train.”
“Every ten minutes.” Jenna’s voice had a nasal quality, as though she were fighting a cold. “That’s the Green Line, Kenmore Square to Boston College. And back again.” Jenna gave a small laugh. “Drove me nuts when I first moved in. Now I don’t even hear it.”
Sky pulled her notebook out and Jenna joined her on the sofa; the taffeta skirt made soft crunching noises.
“The last time I saw Nicolette? Saturday. She came home around five o’clock. I was just bringing in my laundry, watching the end of High Fidelity on HBO.” Jenna sniffed. “She came in all crazy, racing around. Said she was breaking up with her boyfriend. She showered, got dressed, left the apartment around nine.”
“Did she seem depressed? Anxious?”
“No. She was in a good mood. Cheerful, even. Who’s cheerful when they’re breaking up with someone? I wanted the story, but she blew me off. Like she always does.” Jenna corrected herself. “Like she always did.”
“Who was Nicolette’s boyfriend?”
The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) Page 5