Sky asked for the dates of Nicolette’s appointments. When had the tattoo artist last seen her?
“Let me check my book.” Pause. “Nicolette Mercer, January third. We have tons of top-notch flash, but she came in with her own drawing, knew exactly what she wanted. I tweaked the sketch a little, not much. Nicolette had a good eye. She was here again on the seventh for three hours.”
It made Sky sad to think of Nicolette, anticipating the tattoo, working on the sketch.
“The tattoo was fairly small,” Raphaella said. “Maybe two by four inches. Lots of fine line detail work. Jewel tones. It turned out real nice. We designed it to just peek up over her low rise jeans. Provocative.”
“Do you have the drawing you used as a template?”
“Sure. And shots of Nicolette’s tattoo. I take pictures of all my work. Give me your e-mail address, I’ll send you everything I’ve got.”
Sky gave Raphaella the information and complimented her on her work. Sky herself had gotten a tribal fairy tattoo on her left shoulder blade to mark her twenty-first birthday. A few years later, a tiny blue crescent moon, just inside her right hip bone. To celebrate her doctorate.
“Come into the studio next time you’re in Harvard Square,” Raphaella said. “I’ll fix you up with something spectacular.”
Sky hung up and typed in the web address listed on Zach’s business card. A banner across the home page read Laboratory of Behavioral Neurobiology in large fonts, framed by a swath of computer circuitry and the school logo. She clicked on the Pictures icon and selected a shot of Professor Fisk at his desk, and another of Nicolette and Zach at the equipment. She found the Genuine John’s website and collected a picture of Ellery with a guitar. A Google search yielded an image of a smiling Porter Manville, one suit among many in a group picture of Wellbiogen officers. Sky copied, resized, and printed the photographs – a separate page for each – and slipped them in the research packet.
She was examining the lab graphs and waiting for Raphaella’s e-mail when Kyle walked into the office with Axelrod.
The rookie balanced a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and his notebook in one hand and a tray of tall coffees in the other. “Hey, Doctor S,” he said, offering Sky a bashful nod.
“The bedroom awaits, darling.” Kyle pried a coffee from the tray and popped the lid. “Jake called an eleven o’clock meeting and we need to hustle if you want another shot at the victim’s boudoir before we hit the station.”
The mention of Jake made Sky fidget in her chair.
“We’ll stop at Wellbiogen first,” Kyle added. “Still haven’t nailed down an interview with Manville. We just came from his place in Weston. No answer at the door. Nice neighborhood.”
Weston was an affluent suburb separated from Newton by Route 128. Every Weston home carried a couple of acres of wooded surround, very money. Sky thought about the engraved invitation on the hostile secretary’s desk. The charity event might offer Sky the quickest access to Porter Manville.
“Kyle, do you own a tux?”
“You insult me.” Kyle adjusted the shoulders of his sport coat. “Of course I own a tux. I happen to have a specially tailored Hugo Boss. Very James Bond.” He turned to the rookie with a sheepish expression. “My wife likes opera openings. We just saw Tosca. You’d like it, Axelrod. In the last scene, Tosca jumps off the castle wall to her death.”
“Just don’t make any plans for tonight.” Sky said. “You’re my date. Four Seasons. Black tie.”
“My pleasure.” Kyle came closer and peered at her. “You’re looking especially lovely this morning. Good night’s sleep?”
Sky shrugged.
“You’re blushing, love. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush before. Quite becoming.”
“I’m hungry.” Sky knew she sounded ridiculous. Her encounter with Jake had been so unexpected. So fevered. She didn’t understand exactly what happened last night and she was in no mood for Kyle’s analysis. She willed herself to stop thinking about Jake’s body. Her focus needed to be on this research data.
“What are those?” Kyle pointed to the graphs.
“Results from the forced swim test,” she said. “Dated by Nicolette for the March fifteenth lab meeting. Which also happens to be the last lab meeting Porter Manville attended. I’m trying to find whatever it is in these graphs that made Nicolette and Zach so unhappy.”
“Behold, Axelrod, this thing of splendor. The doctor toils, that we might understand.” Kyle pulled a chocolate doughnut out of the bag and took a large bite.
Axelrod read from his notes. “Lab meeting, ides of March, experiment not giving expected results. Wellbiogen CEO took lab members to dinner at Papa Razzi. To cheer up troops. Unquote.” Axelrod closed the notebook and blinked at Sky with owl eyes.
“We know that Wellbiogen is the pharmaceutical company that funds the professor’s research,” Kyle said. “So what?”
“Are you kidding?” Sky was incredulous. “In all my years of study, I never had a CEO attend a lab meeting.” She looked inside the Dunkin’ Donuts bag. Two egg croissants and three chocolate doughnuts with sprinkles. She wasn’t much of a morning eater but she needed something in her stomach.
“Detectives,” she said, biting into a croissant, “are you familiar with the first maxim of research?”
“No,” the men said in unison.
Sky recited the rule. “The experimenter must have no vested interest in the outcome of the experiment.”
“What’s your point?” Kyle said.
“This whole lab set-up feels weird. It’s a serious conflict of interest between Manville and the lab workers.” Sky looked from Kyle to Axelrod. “Manville shouldn’t have any contact with the experimenters at all, considering he stands to profit from marketing this drug. And he’s attending lab meetings?”
Sky sipped her coffee and thought about Professor Fisk’s description of Porter Manville. A blend of entrepreneur and scientist, he’d said. Something in the professor’s glowing narrative made Sky wary, as though she’d heard a wolf’s snarl concealed among the bleating of lambs.
Kyle picked up one of the graphs and turned it this way and that, like he was trying to find the right angle of understanding. “I give up. What does this tell us?”
Sky pointed to the numbers running along the vertical axis of each chart. “The whole test takes around three minutes per animal, start to finish. Nicolette and Zach were running two types of white rat. One is a Wistar strain, inbred to be highly anxious.”
Sky moved to the window and scanned Watertown traffic for any sign of Jake’s black Mustang. The image of Theresa Piranesi flickered through her mind and she recalled the conversation outside Kildare’s. Theresa Piranesi was obsessed with Jake, that much was obvious.
Strange, how quickly life could change. How quickly she could change. Was there an explanation? Her panic attack at the crime scene, her refusal to even talk to Jake about anything but the case. And then last night, in the dark, without recrimination or argument, in a rush of body hunger, they fed on each other for hours.
Not exactly the behavior of a stable woman, she decided.
“The second group is called Sprague Dawley,” she continued. “Real teddy bears. I’ve worked with dozens of them, they’re sweet rats. Popular in undergraduate labs because they’re so easy to handle.” She sat down at the desk and took a gulp of coffee. “I think those were Sprague Dawleys on Zach’s cart yesterday. They had really long tails, longer than their bodies, actually. And bullet-shaped heads.”
“Great. We have us some real nervous rats and some calm, teddy bear rats with bullet heads.” Kyle took another bite of doughnut. “Science is fun. What else?”
Sky pointed to the white bars on each graph. “These are the control groups for each strain, tested without the drug. The ‘before’ groups.”
Kyle pointed to the adjoining black bars. “And these?”
“The ‘after’ groups. These guys drank floetazine in their drinking water every day for
twenty-four days prior to testing. In other words, they drank the drug for nearly a month before they got thrown in the bucket of water.”
“Well? What’s the verdict?” Kyle was growing restless. Sky knew he didn’t like to sit too long in any one place without a cigarette or a beer in his hand. Preferably both.
“Give me a minute. I need to figure this out.” Sky estimated the values for each group from the ordinates and scratched a few calculations on the desk blotter.
“The highly anxious rats look good.” She pointed to the first graph. “Control average for swim time is 50 seconds, which doubles to 100 seconds after a month of floetazine.” She pointed to the second graph. “Their mobility measure is a 135 second control value against a mean of 90 seconds following chronic intake of the drug.”
“And why are you frowning?” Kyle said.
“Because Nicolette and Zach would have loved these results.” Sky turned her attention to the Sprague Dawley swim test and saw at once what made the research fellows so unhappy.
“The teddy bears swam an average of 145 seconds without the drug. After chronic floetazine intake, these guys actually decreased their swim time by 20 seconds.” Sky studied the mobility graph. “This shows the same effect. Baseline immobility sat at 45 seconds and treatment garnered an increase to 65 seconds.”
“In English,” Kyle said.
Sky smiled. “Floetazine made the Sprague Dawley group more depressed.”
Good, she thought. That’s something.
“Kyle, we can save time if you go to Wellbiogen without me.” Sky accessed her e-mail account and found Raphaella’s message, along with three attachments. She clicked on the jpeg files and printed out double copies.
“Nicolette’s tattoo,” she said, lifting the image off the printer “This was the missing patch of skin the killer cut off her back.”
Kyle studied the photograph. “Looks Japanese.”
Axelrod seemed puzzled. “Is that an alligator?”
“It’s a dwarf caiman.” Sky told the detectives about the LALQ and the tub of tiny crocodiles. “Nicolette drew the design herself. One of a kind.”
Sky put copies of the tattoo into the research packet along with the lab graphs. “I need to check something at Professor Fisk’s lab. And I want to go to Nicolette’s apartment, look around for her cell phone. I’ll catch up with you guys at the station.”
She left through the Watertown Street exit and went to the back lot where the Jeep was parked. Pulling the CDs she’d taken from Nicolette’s bedroom from her trench coat pocket, Sky turned the ignition and slipped in Dido’s No Angel.
Surrounded by the lush chords of Here With Me, Sky pulled out of the alley and took a left at Adams. She hadn’t been completely honest with the detectives.
Yes, she intended to go to Professor Fisk’s lab. And to Nicolette’s apartment.
But she had questions about Jake, and she knew who might have answers.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Who is Theresa Piranesi?” An expression of contempt appeared on Candace’s face. “She’s a Sicilian whore, a puttana.”
“Does Jake love her?”
“Drink your tea. Eat something. You’re so thin, honey.” Candace set a steaming mug and a plate of buttered toast on the kitchen table and gave Sky’s cheek a maternal pat. “So, you and Jake, you’re talking? That’s good.”
“We haven’t done much talking.” Sky could feel her cheeks grow hot. “Does he love her?”
“Oh, please. She’s been after Jake for years.” Candace sat down and selected a wedge of toast. “Theresa is one of Rocco Piranesi’s brats. That weasel must have ten kids crawling the Lake. I know for a fact he has a whole other family stashed in Revere.” Candace’s lips formed a disapproving frown as she chewed.
Rocco Piranesi was a local wiseguy who ran numbers from his corner seat in Mama Lacona’s Pizza on Watertown, three blocks from Sky’s office. The restaurant was little more than a counter with a big oven and two cheap booths, but it was open eighteen hours a day. The faded green, white, and red sign in the front window read BUY 4 PIZZAS GET 1 FREE. Not enough basil in the sauce for Sky’s taste.
“She drives a Mercedes, Candace. Late model. Not exactly your typical Lake wheels.”
“Theresa was married for a while.” Candace shrugged. “Some thug from New York. Lots of money in the divorce settlement, no kids. Loves to flash the cash. She’s a wicked label whore. I swear, that woman would wear a garbage bag if it said Prada across the front.”
Sky was impressed. Candace was an Italian girl from Revere but her knowledge of the Lake seemed nearly encyclopedic.
“Maybe you can tell me why Theresa Piranesi’s lipstick was smeared all over Jake’s shirt yesterday. Why did he reek of her perfume? Why is she stalking me?”
“Jake is a man, honey. Lipstick smears?” Candace waved a dismissive hand. “That business has nothing to do with love. Only …” she paused, fixing her deep brown eyes on Sky. “Just be careful around that bitch, okay?”
“Why?”
“Theresa cut a girl in high school, left an ugly scar on the kid’s neck. The parents hushed it up, the school didn’t want bad press. Theresa is Angel Butera’s niece, so there’s the cop connection.”
Sky decided that this was not an encouraging development.
“The only reason I know about the cutting incident is because the priest at Our Lady’s was a golfing buddy of my dad’s.” Candace plumped her shoulder-length shag with her fingers. Candace believed in big hair. “My point being, Theresa Piranesi is a piranha with nothing better to do than shop, get her nails done, and chase Jake around in that ridiculous Mercedes.”
Sky considered the constellation of Lake families connected by bonds of marriage and a shared Italian heritage. Theresa probably didn’t have to work too hard to put herself in Jake’s path. And who could Sky blame, really?
“Jake has been waiting a long time for you to come home, honey. He doesn’t know how to handle someone like you, that’s all. Give him another chance. He can learn.”
Sky blew a toast crumb off the table. “How do you know so much about everybody, Candace?”
“I keep my eyes and ears open. You, on the other hand, lack a healthy interest in gossip.” Candace shrugged. “Which I find slightly odd, to tell you the truth. But you’re sweet.” She took Sky’s cup to the sink. “Too sweet. You worry me.”
Candace rinsed the cup and changed the subject. “Given any thought to seeing a therapist?”
“I talked to a Harvard psychiatrist yesterday, as a matter of fact. Doctor Alexei Gudzenko.”
Candace brightened. “What did he say?”
“He wants to hypnotize me. Says maybe I’ll remember the accident.”
“I think that’s a marvelous idea.” Candace gave Sky an approving nod. “Things are coming along nicely. You’re talking to Jake again, and with some help you’ll be able to accept your baby’s death. Move on.”
Sky looked out the kitchen window just as the sun dipped under a purple cloud. It would probably rain again today. Silently, she counted off her immediate concerns: Review the lab log, comb through Nicolette’s bedroom for her cell phone, make the eleven o’clock meeting at the station, prep for the charity event.
“Candace, can I move back in, upstairs?”
“Sorry, honey. Bad timing. I just rented the place to a Boston College law student. She’s moving in tomorrow.” Candace plumped her hair again. “I need the cash for a singles cruise to the Bahamas in November.”
“What about the efficiency?”
“Not possible. Some asshole from the city told me the efficiency was illegal. Said the unit had to have two exits. So I had my handyman cut a second door in that third-floor walk-in closet, all the tenant has to do is go through the walk-in and down the second floor unit stairs. Voila, two means of egress.” She pursed her lips. “When the city asshole came back to inspect, he tells me the efficiency is still illegal, even with that extra door. Long story
short, I can’t rent the efficiency and I’m out eight hundred a month in rent.” Candace read Sky’s disappointment. “I do have a very legal guest bedroom. You know you’re always welcome.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Come on, honey.” Candace patted Sky’s arm. “Let’s get your painting before you leave.”
Sky followed her friend up the back stairs to her old apartment, weighing her options. Candace’s offer was generous but not really feasible, not during an investigation. Sky needed to concentrate, no distractions. Her office would have to suffice until she found a new place to live.
The women reached the empty second floor living room and scrutinized the painting above the fireplace.
Sky remembered the tedium of sitting for the portrait, she was eight years old that summer. Her grandmother had commissioned a famous L.A. artist, a Bolivian man with gentle eyes. He’d kept a plate of tiny lemon-flavored cakes next to his easel that he doled out every so often to keep Sky still. The task of posing had been bearable because Sky had held her grandmother’s elderly King Charles spaniel on her lap. The dog died shortly after the painting was finished and Sky’s grandmother, who’d found it too painful to look at her beloved pet, took the picture off her wall. Sky found the portrait one rainy summer day, many years later, while rummaging in a bedroom closet for an umbrella. She wrapped the painting in a beach towel and stole it from her grandmother’s house.
During the year on Nantucket, Sky had taught herself to paint. She’d made modest progress, mostly flowers and a few seascapes. Now she stood before the portrait as a fledgling artist and marveled at the Bolivian’s talent: a blend of Gauguin’s honeyed flesh tones and a Matisse-like flair for pattern, restrained by the formal sensibility of van Dyck. An extraordinary technique.
Candace frowned at the picture. “Why doesn’t Jake like it? You were a perfectly gorgeous child. It really does capture you.” Candace looked from the painting to Sky’s face. “In fact, you look exactly the same. Uncanny, really.”
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