“Fiona?” Sky said. “Fiona hasn’t seen you for two days. Fiona told me to tell you to go fuck yourself. You better forget Fiona.”
Ellery winced. “I told her I was driving to New York Saturday night after the gig. She must have forgotten.”
Sky pictured the beautiful Fiona, standing in the doorway of Ellery’s place in Charlestown, reeking of pot.
“Why did you go to New York?”
“Picked up a new guitar. A Sunburst ’57 Fender Strat. Came with the original, single page mimeographed instruction sheet. Signed by Leo Fender himself.” He raised both hands in a gesture of incredulity. “Mimeographed!”
Ellery stubbed his cigarette out in the empty cocktail glass. “I paid more for that guitar than I paid for my ’57 T-Bird last year. Way too valuable to ship.” He gave Sky a brooding look. “Remember my guitar collection?”
When Sky first met Ellery, before the tours and the recording contracts, he attended Berklee and inhabited a fourth floor efficiency in Kenmore Square. Tuesdays and Thursdays, after she ran roller pigeons on a color discrimination trial at Northeastern, she would walk to the apartment and make love to him on pale green sheets, beneath a triptych of electric guitars that hung on the wall above his double bed. Afterwards, Ellery, naked save for a thick tribal tattoo wrapped around his left bicep, would lift one of the guitars from the wall and lecture a drowsy, sated Sky on the relative merits of that particular instrument.
She remembered his guitar collection.
“Gibson Firebird, three pick-ups, considerable surface area for a solid body,” she recited from memory. In her mind’s eye, Sky saw the guitar’s Picassoesque, trapezoid shape.
“The second guitar: Les Paul Junior, TV model, single pick-up, blonde. A little trebly.”
Sky moved on to guitar number three. “Gibson ES 335, semi-hollow body, warm sound. Shaped like a woman.”
Ellery grinned. “That’s my girl.”
“New York. Is that where you got those hickies?” Sky was looking at two oval-shaped marks, speckled deep russet on Ellery’s neck, just below his jaw.
“Because they look fresh,” she added. “Newly sucked.”
“You got me again, sugar.” Ellery reddened. “Went for steak tartare with the guy who sold me the Strat. We met some girls at Pastis, in Manhattan …”
Sky pulled her journal out and turned to a clean page. “What’s this guitar seller’s name? Address? Do you have a phone number? E-mail? Something we can verify?”
Ellery shook his head. “The dude left for Amsterdam the day I drove back to Boston. I took him to the airport on my way out of town. I’ve got his e-mail address somewhere.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket.
Strains of a bass guitar reverberated from the floor above, in single notes. Someone was tuning up.
“Time to work. I’ll get that address to you later.” Ellery stood. “What’s my next move, sugar?”
“Get a lawyer,” Sky said. She found a pen on the desk and wrote a name on Ellery’s cocktail napkin. “Call her. Tonight.”
Ellery stuffed the napkin in his back pocket. He escorted Sky up some stairs and through the saloon to the entrance, where Kyle waited, frowning like a spurned suitor. Axelrod stood next to Kyle, patting his cowlick and staring at the guitar player.
Sky had one more question for Ellery. “What was that song you played, just before Hey Joe?”
“A new piece,” he said. “Something I wrote. Pretty basic. G triad over an A bass note.”
“It’s beautiful,” Sky said.
“You still love the tension, sugar.” Ellery gave her a heartbreaking smile. “No release until the end of the progression. You haven’t changed a bit.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Just one nightcap, darling, what’s the harm?” Kyle parked the cruiser in front of Kildare’s Pub and stepped hard on the emergency brake. “By the way,” he poked a bony finger at her. “Interviewing that guitar player on your own was a foolish risk.”
“Templeton is attracted to you,” Axelrod said matter-of-factly from the back seat.
“The rookie’s right, for once.” Kyle frowned. “Templeton was eyeing you like you were his next meal. Hand me that gun, Axelrod.” Kyle took the baby Glock from the rookie’s hand and slipped it into the holster under his left arm.
“Ellery Templeton didn’t kill Nicolette,” Sky said, dabbing lip-gloss on her mouth. She was tired. And sober. And her lips were chapped.
She offered the detectives an abbreviated history of her relationship with the musician. “Ellery’s reaction when I told him about the murder, that can’t be faked.”
“Darling, ordinarily I would trust your instincts. But you’re too close to this guy. Until Templeton gives us an alibi, he’s prime suspect.”
Sky snapped the lip gloss lid shut. “Kyle, someone is tailing us.”
“No way.” Kyle laughed and pushed the car door open. “Who tails a cop?”
Sky didn’t argue the point. It wasn’t that she’d seen anything suspicious, as much as felt it. She looked around as she climbed out of the Crown Vic. Dunkin’ Donuts and the bank across the street were dark, no traffic at the intersection. Nothing happening on Adams or Watertown, as far as the eye could see.
“Forget about it, darling.” Kyle held the pub door open. “Let me buy you a glass of wine.”
Kyle was right. Who would tail a cop?
Sky glanced at the statues embedded on either side of the pub entrance, two identical stone carvings of bare-breasted women, arms resting above their heads in a ‘come hither’ gesture of temptation.
“A glass of wine sounds perfect,” Sky said.
“To the Lake!” Kyle clinked his stein against Axelrod’s. “May she prosper and flourish.”
Sky sat across from the detectives in the back booth of Kildare’s with a glass of the house burgundy, wondering about Nicolette Mercer’s bedroom. Where was her cell phone? Had Sky missed something? The papers in Nicolette’s backpack, she should have taken a better look at those. And what about the patch of skin ripped from her back? Sky had forgotten to ask Ellery about a possible tattoo.
“I don’t remember seeing a lake,” Axelrod said. “If we’re in the Lake, where is the lake?”
Sky pointed to the pub window. “Silver Lake used to be across the street, behind the bank. The lake covered almost ten acres. I wish I could have seen it. The old ones remember skating on the lake in the winter, swimming in the summer.”
“Assholes filled her up with construction rubble when they dug Storrow Drive in the 30’s. Or so the story goes.” Kyle’s voice carried a tinge of regret. “Then they built over her.” He laid a hand on his chest, just over his heart. “Silver Lake is only with us in spirit now.”
“Mush, who’s the chabby?” A rumpled man in a plaid flannel shirt leaned over the booth and addressed Kyle in a boozy voice. “Guister jival,” he said, giving Sky a spastic wink.
“Cuya moi,” Kyle said, waving the drunk away.
“Oh, mush has a cormunga in his cover,” the drunk said with mock fear. “Inga,” he muttered as he stumbled away.
“Divia,” Kyle called after the man. He drained his beer and got up from the booth. “Round two commences,” he said, heading for the bar.
Axelrod turned to Sky. “What language was that?”
“Lake Talk,” Sky said. “An Italian and Romany dialect with some street slang from the Depression thrown in. I think there’s some carnival lingo, too. Don’t worry, Axelrod. The only place you’ll ever hear that language is here. In the Lake.”
“What was that drunk saying to Detective O’Toole?”
“He was asking Kyle who you are,” Sky gave a rough translation. “Then they swore at each other.”
“The guy said something to you,” Axelrod pressed. “What was it?”
“He called me a pretty girl.”
Axelrod appeared to process this information as he surveyed the pub.
Kildare’s was a Lake haunt freque
nted mostly by locals – city workers, construction hands, cops. It had a long bar, a few tables, four booths, and an ancient Seeburg jukebox that carried tunes from the 60’s and 70’s. Kyle was a sucker for the Beach Boys and Motown. Jake favored the Stones. The pub carried Sam Adams and the detectives were particular about their brew. They could sit with their backs against the pub’s back wall and monitor all comings and goings, inside the pub and out, on duty or off duty.
Sky knew this was a cop thing, this nearly pathological awareness of surroundings. Like their need for so much personal space. Or the tendency to keep their weapon hand available. Even touchy-feely Kyle sometimes smoked with his left hand so he could keep his gun hand free.
“Axelrod, that sportcoat looks like shit.” Kyle sat down with a fresh draught and pulled a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. “Your gun bulges like a tumor.” Kyle unwound the red band of cellophane from the cigarettes. “I’ll take you to my tailor, a lovely man by the name of Nicky the Lip. Stays open after hours. We’ll hook you up with some decent threads. Suit, tie, wingtips, the works.” He eyed Axelrod’s cowlick. “A nice power color, maybe black.”
The rookie took on a pensive air as he listened to Kyle’s proposition.
“Let me ask you a question, Axelrod. If you didn’t know I was a detective, what would you say I looked like, in this suit?”
“A banker, I guess.”
“Thank you Joseph Abboud.” Kyle intoned the designer’s name and opened the left lapel of his gray wool jacket. “Extra material around the waist, that’s the secret. Room for pistol, handcuffs, radio. Accoutrement of the modern Samurai.”
Sky smiled. Kyle’s language got decorative when he drank. She excused herself and went to the ladies room. She came out and nearly crashed into Angel Butera.
“Doctor Stone.” Butera’s lips pulled back in a grim smile. “I got hung out to dry this morning. Ten days on Burglary. You come back, I get the shaft. Funny, how that works.” His smile faded. “You think you’re everyone’s golden girl?”
“No.”
“You don’t belong here.” His eyes grew small. “You better watch your back.”
Sky pushed past Butera and ordered another glass of wine at the bar. She waited for her drink, watching Butera swagger through the room and out the door.
Unnerved by the detective’s rant, she rejoined Kyle and the rookie in the back booth and gulped the burgundy.
“Lesson number three, Axelrod,” Kyle said. “Keep that badge in your back pocket unless you’re at a crime scene. If you have to pull out your shield to show who you are, you’re not doing your job.” Kyle held up his stein of Sam Adams. “By the way, are you aware that Thomas Jefferson also brewed beer?” He took another swig and belched emphatically. “A nation founded on beer is a robust republic indeed.”
“Go home to your wife, Kyle.” Sky rose from the booth. She was tired, ready for bed.
“I’d like to shoot the person who first thought of banning indoor smoking,” Kyle said to no one in particular. He sniffed an unlit Marlboro and stuck it behind his ear. “By the way, darling. Forgot to mention, I got a lead.” He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket. “Our girl’s alleged tattoo? While you were with Templeton, I interviewed a couple of the barmaids. One claimed she and Nicolette shared the same tattoo artist.” Kyle handed Sky an elaborately inked business card.
It was a Cambridge address, on JFK. “Raphaella Da Vinci, Artistic Tattoos,” Sky read. “Very amusing.”
“God, I’m glad you’re back,” Kyle said.
The intensity in his voice took Sky by surprise. She realized that it felt nice to be appreciated again. It felt good to be part of the team. Part of something bigger than herself. She agreed to a ten o’clock meet-up with the detectives for the next morning and left the pub.
As she walked, Sky studied the business card. The front showed a tattoo version of Mona Lisa with her trademark smile of mystery. Sky wondered what kind of design a woman like Nicolette might choose. Botticelli’s Venus? Maybe a Van Gogh sunflower? She was digging the keys out of her coat pocket when a voice spoke.
“Bitch.”
Sky spun around, saw the outline of someone standing behind a metallic Mercedes. A street lamp illuminated the figure from behind, making it impossible for Sky to get a clear look at the face.
Stepping around the car, the figure moved forward with the stilted gait of someone in heels. Skintight jeans and a fitted leather jacket the color of oxblood. A fur collar. Sky recognized the hard shine of mink. Straight dark hair framed a mask of rimmed eyes above a crimson mouth.
The woman appeared to be taking Sky’s measure as well.
“You’re small.” The voice carried a Lake accent. “I pictured you taller. More glamorous.”
Sky realized that the woman wasn’t waiting for a response. She was carrying on a conversation with herself, a monologue, as though Sky were simply an object of analysis.
Sky said, “I don’t know you,” and took a few quick steps toward the woman. The move had the desired effect and the stranger backed away, stumbling on her heels.
Closer now, Sky saw carefully plucked brows, sharp cheekbones, lips outlined to appear fuller. The face might have been beautiful, but the eyes carried a toxic intensity.
“My name is Theresa Piranesi.” The woman pronounced the name with an Italian flair, she seemed to be waiting for some sign of recognition in Sky.
Theresa Piranesi? Sky had taught so many classes, was this an unhappy student? The name wasn’t familiar. Neither was the face.
“No. Of course you don’t know me. Why should you? You’re not from the Lake. You’re an outsider.” The crimson mouth twisted. “Good riddance.” Theresa Piranesi gave an ugly laugh. “That’s what I said when you left town.”
A trace of spice floated through the damp air and Sky recognized the scent of expensive perfume. It was the scent that had clung to Jake’s jacket at the crime scene that morning. Sky understood, now. This woman put the lipstick stain on Jake’s tux.
“You’re a friend of Jake’s,” Sky said.
It was Sky’s turn to scrutinize, to imagine what Jake and this Theresa Piranesi were to each other. She looked with fresh eyes, trying to picture Jake, wrapped around this woman, kissing this crimson mouth.
“A friend?” The voice was derisive. “Jake and I were confirmed together, graduated Trinity together.” Red fingernails raked the mink. “We were almost engaged. Then you turned up.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “You’re like a drug to him. Can’t you leave him alone?”
This naked display of love stopped Sky cold. The woman’s pain was so raw that Sky experienced a glimmer of sympathy. “We’re not together,” she explained. “I’m working a case. We have a professional relationship, nothing more.”
“I spent a year getting Jake back on his feet.” Theresa Piranesi’s voice carried a tone of contempt, a tone that suggested Sky was being impossibly ignorant. “And now you’re back. Did it ever occur to you that Jake might want something you can’t give him? Like a child? You really are a bitch, aren’t you?”
Sky suddenly felt deflated and drained.
The keys weighed heavy in her hand and she had the sinking suspicion that sleep would be a long time coming. She reached the door of her office building and shoved the key in the lock.
“You want Jake?” Sky said over her shoulder. “Take him. He’s yours. I give him to you.”
Theresa Piranesi made an obscene gesture and slid into the Mercedes. The engine started and the sedan pulled away from the curb, fishtailed through the intersection, and disappeared behind the bank.
Sky took stairs to the second floor and unlocked her office door. Not bothering to turn on the lamp, she dropped her purse on the desk, stripped off her clothes in the dark, and wrapped the trench coat around her naked body like a blanket.
She collapsed on the sofa and sank directly into dream, the figure of a man emerging from deep, silent forest, coming toward her, his face painted half in
black, half in white, kissing her mouth, tasting of blood and a pulsing heart. Sky came awake just as her office door was opening, the dark figure came toward her, was on top of her. She wrapped her bare legs around him. “You love me, too,” Jake whispered, entering her, surrounding her, drowning her with his odor of oranges and tobacco.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sky came awake to the morning sun. It sluiced through the Venetian blinds and created a dazzling silhouette of stripes across the Persian carpet. She stretched like a cat and pulled the trench coat around her in sleepy contentment. Floating, dreamlike, she gave herself over to body memory and let the imprint of Jake burn deeper. How could she have stayed away so long? She drowsed to the hum of the computer, the tick of the clock, the drone of morning street traffic.
A few minutes later something occurred to her. She sat up and looked around.
Where was Jake?
Sky got up and walked to the desk, looking for a note. The door was shut. No missed calls, no text messages on her cell phone.
She poured water into a small coffee maker and added a few scoops of stale French roast to the basket. While the coffee brewed she took a quick shower in the pink tiled ladies bathroom down the hall and slipped into a pair of jeans and a navy sweater taken from the yellow gym bag. Then she poured a mug of coffee and sat at the desk.
Laid out in front of her were the business cards from Raphaella Da Vinci’s tattoo parlor and the lab at BU, and the graphs she’d pulled from Professor Fisk’s lab wall.
First she called Wellbiogen. The secretary’s voice turned hostile at Sky’s request for an appointment with Porter Manville. The CEO was unavailable until Friday of next week. No, the secretary did not have a home phone number.
Sky hung up and typed the web address for Artistic Tattoos on the computer. The home page featured an intricately inked goldfish on a man’s arm, looped around a sea of turquoise waves. Sky called the telephone number. Raphaella answered on the second ring.
“Yeah, Nicolette was a client. Came in for a tattoo, lower back. I freaked when I heard about her murder. That’s some scary shit, right?” Raphaella’s voice carried an air of gruff self-confidence. “She was great advertising for my business. I got quite a few new customers from that particular tattoo.”
The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) Page 11