The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (52 page)

Harlan flailed an arm and his eyes rolled up as he sank to his knees in slow motion. He dropped face forward to the ground and the Stetson flipped off, revealing a cranium as pale and hairless as a mushroom.

Fumbling the rifle into a proper grip, Sky backed up to where Butch lay.

Blood saturated the white oxford shirt. She could see his chest rise and fall in a measured rhythm.
He was alive.

Sky dropped to her knees and plucked at the bloody mess with a trembling hand, searching for an entrance wound.

A blast exploded and Sky jerked her head up.

“Drop your weapon and step away, you Yankee bitch.” A young woman with razor-wire eyes was bearing down on the scene. The skirt of her black and white sundress belled out and she was aiming her rifle directly at Sky.

Sky laid the Remington on the ground and pointed at Harlan. “He shot Butch.”

“I saw what happened,” the woman snapped. “I knew Harlan was dumb. Just didn’t think he was dumb enough to shoot his own brother. Else I would’ve intervened earlier.” She reached Butch’s body and paused briefly, seeming to take Sky’s measure.

A look passed between the women, some kind of inchoate understanding.

“You took Harlan out,” the woman nodded a grudging respect. “I’ll give you that much.” She glanced at Sky’s jaw. “That’ll need stitches. You gonna pass out on me?”

“I’m fine,” Sky lied.

“Good. Take this. I don’t trust that piece of shit Remington.” The woman handed Sky her rifle. “Cover Harlan. Pull the trigger if he moves.” The woman started unbuttoning Butch’s shirt.

Sky hefted the rifle. It was lighter than the Remington, easier to handle. With Harlan in her sights, she pulled her cell from the back pocket of her cut-offs and dialed 911. She managed a disjointed account of the accident, overiding the dispatcher’s disembodied voice with a demand for an ambulance and the sheriff.

Sky disconnected and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

“Here it is. Right shoulder. Probably worse than it looks.” The woman bit at the hem of her sundress and ripped it to the waist, sawing furiously at the threads with a shard of rock until she had hacked free a panel of fabric. She folded the material twice and placed the makeshift bandage on the bloody shoulder.

Butch groaned at the contact and shifted his body and Sky felt sick with relief. Her legs started shaking and she had to sit. “You knew Butch was here,” she said to the woman. “How?”

“Three so-called friends called to tell me he was havin’ dinner last night with some bitch in black at the Deadwood.” The woman gave Sky a sharp look. “I drove to town this morning, didn’t see Butch’s Ram in the Deadwood parking lot. Went to the Triple Y, he wasn’t there either. Figured he might be here.” Her eyes darted to the horse blanket and back to Sky. “FYI, you’re not the first chick he ever brought to Hollow Pond. When I got to the turnoff I saw Harlan’s truck, thought somethin’ might be up – there’s bad blood between ‘em. Sure didn’t expect this shitfest.”

Impressions swirled through Sky’s mind. Silly impressions that she was having trouble sorting out. She cut her gaze from the unmoving Harlan to study the woman.

The clerk at the liquor store was right. Nadine was pretty. More than pretty. Green eyes, hair the color of dark mahogany and dimples made to break hearts.

Butch opened his eyes. “Nadine?” He blinked with confusion and rolled himself awkwardly to a seated position. “Sky?”

“Lay down,” Nadine ordered. “You’re losin’ too much blood.”

Butch did as he was told.

“Keep up the pressure.” Nadine pulled Sky’s right hand from the rifle grip and placed it over the bloody square of fabric on Butch’s shoulder. “I think I have an ice pack in the cooler. I need to stop this bleeding.” She jutted her chin at Sky and whispered, “This ain’t over between us. And be warned, I play dirty.” She headed for the trees.

“Ready to tell me what’s goin’ on, sweet thing?” Butch winced. “Your appointment with destiny?”

“I’m sorry,” Sky whispered. She increased the pressure on Butch’s shoulder but the bandage was already spongy with his blood. “This is my fault and I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sorry. Means you owe me.” Butch grinned and closed his eyes. “You owe me big time. And I intend to collect.”

Butch said something else but his words were drowned out by the rotating blades of the sheriff’s helicopter descending from the western sky.

The storm broke late Sunday afternoon, spawning tornadoes from Waco to Lampasas and complicating crime scene analysis at Hollow Pond. Police interviews consumed Sunday and most of Monday. As far as the county sheriff’s office was concerned, they were dealing with a case of trespassing gone terribly wrong. Butch delivered his version of events from a bed at Raleigh Porter Medical Center. The gash beneath Sky’s jaw required a round of antibiotics and an ugly row of stitches in the ER. Harlan faced possible charges of involuntary manslaughter in the death of his brother, attempted murder and aggravated assault, the DA hadn’t yet decided. No trespassing charges were filed against Sky or Butch, something about insufficient posting on the property. Sky checked out of the Deadwood, shipped the new clothes to her grandmother’s place in Back Bay, and returned to Raleigh Porter. She and Nadine sat vigil in the hospital lounge with Butch’s mother, an imposing woman who had little time for either of them. Early Wednesday morning, Butch’s surgeon appeared, informing them that although Butch still faced reconstructive surgery and months of physical therapy, he was out of danger. Sky went to his room to say goodbye.

“Look out for me, sweet thing,” Butch cautioned from his hospital bed. “I’ll be comin’ to collect what’s mine.”

BOSTON

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“Give me your money. All of it.” The man loomed over the flimsy restaurant table with an intimidating leer. “I know you both speak English. Probably the only ones in here that do. Hand it over.”

Sky and Axelrod had just taken a seat in McDonald’s, the one at the corner of Kneeland and Washington, in Chinatown.

“Sure thing, buddy.” Axelrod blinked up at the intruder with a Boy Scout expression. “I have some cash in my pocket. It’s all yours.” The rookie detective flipped open the left lapel of his navy peacoat to reveal a holstered baby Glock. “Go ahead,” he said. “Make my day.”

At the sight of the firearm, the thug jerked back and beat a comic exit into the wet street.

“I’ve always wanted to say that.” Axelrod unwrapped a Big Mac and eyed Sky. “What happened to your face?”

“Rough weekend.”

The stitches ran beneath her left jaw and snaked up her chin like a tiny black hook. The swelling was down but Sky knew she looked ragged. After saying goodbye to Butch at seven that morning, she’d made the three hour drive to Dallas through brutal heat, then another five hours on the plane to Boston. The first thing she did when she landed was call Axelrod from Logan Airport, told him to meet her in Chinatown. “I’ll buy you dinner,” she’d offered, hoping to lure the rookie with a free meal. It worked.

So here they sat. It was nearly six o’clock and the eatery was packed with the dinner crowd. Smelled like Chinese take-out but it looked like your standard red and yellow McDonald’s. And the thug was right, Sky and Axelrod appeared to be the only customers speaking English.

“You have a sense of humor, Axelrod. I didn’t know that.” Sky realized she didn’t know much about the rookie at all. He was always so quiet around her. She studied his tray: two Big Macs, a tub of chicken McNuggets, supersized fries, chocolate chip cookies in a sleeve, and a bucket of Coke. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sarah.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s an office manager in the financial district.”

“Do you live together?”

“That’s a big step, Doctor S.” Axelrod finished off the burger in two bites. “I live with my mother in Arlington. My father died before I was born. It’s always been just me and my mom.” He unwrapped the second Big Mac. “I probably shouldn’t be here. But I’m on my own time,” he shrugged. “I thought maybe I could ask you a few questions about your dad. If you don’t mind, that is.” He bit into the second burger with a hopeful look.

Sky found the newbie’s innocence refreshing.

Jake and Kyle were hardened detectives, cynical and pessimistic. They baited and taunted Axelrod at every turn. Part of the male hazing process, she got that. But Axelrod always bounced back, eager as a pup. Sky felt an unexpected rush of protectiveness toward the rookie.

“What do you want to know about Monk?” she offered.

“Why did he go into law enforcement?”

“I don’t know. A girl disappeared when he was a kid, she lived next door. I think her name was Faith. They never found her. That bothered him a lot. Monk tried to reopen the investigation, I don’t know what came of it.”

Axelrod nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve read quite a bit of his work. The stuff on covert alteration of the environment? You know, to see how a suspect responds? Brilliant, really. But I …” he hesitated.

“What? Go ahead, ask me.”

“What was he like? As a dad, I mean.”

“Well,” Sky said, surprised at the wistfulness in Axelrod’s voice. “He was incredibly patient. Overprotective to a fault. He drove me crazy when I was a teenager. I think he ran a background check on every guy I ever went out with.” Sky studied the boyish face. “He was quiet. Attentive. You’ll probably be a lot like him when you’re a father, Axelrod.”

The rookie blushed and it squeezed Sky’s heart to see the pleasure he took in her words. A kid who grew up without a father could still have heroes. Monk was Axelrod’s hero, it was practically the first thing the rookie had said to Sky when they’d met at the station. She felt an inexplicable bond of kinship, like Axelrod was her kid brother or something. She resisted a strong urge to reach out and tousle his blonde hair.

“So why did you call, Doctor S?” Axelrod popped the last bit of burger in his mouth and chewed expectantly.

“I want to show you something.” Sky opened her backpack and stared at the white mailing envelope inside. It was addressed to the Newton Police Department, care of Chief Magnus Moriarty. The envelope held all the evidence she’d gathered in Texas. But she hadn’t sealed it. Not yet.

Sky shoved the McDonald’s tray out of the way and slapped the sheaf of evidence on the table in front of Axelrod.

The portrait shot of Porter Manville, Tempest High Valedictorian, rested on top of the pile. Axelrod did a double-take at the picture and shifted uneasily in his chair. “Shouldn’t you give this to Detective Farrell?”

“I
am
giving it to Detective Farrell. You’re my Trojan horse, Axelrod.” Sky held his gaze, silently willing the rookie to forget the politics, forget the chain of command, forget the fucking hierarchy. “What do you think Monk did when somebody came to him with evidence?” she goaded gently. “Think he brushed it off on someone else?”

Axelrod sighed with resignation and studied the picture of Manville.

Sky watched him work methodically through the stack; the Homecoming shot of Porter Manville staring into the camera and Savannah Lane, impossibly beautiful, smiling over at him; the article about the discovery of Savannah’s dead body at Hollow Pond; Savannah’s obituary; the print-out of county property records for the land tract that included Hollow Pond.

“Who’s Olivia Porter?” Axelrod said, shoving a fistful of fries in his mouth.

“Manville’s aunt.” Sky handed him a pair of ear buds and connected the wire to her cell phone. “Check this out.” She clicked on the nursing home interview with R.C. Wooten.

The boyish features turned grim.

“Maybe Manville killed this girl. It was thirty years ago, I don’t know …” Axelrod yanked the ear buds out and rifled through the evidence again. “Both women killed in or near bodies of water, both strangled, both pregnant.” He looked up at Sky and shrugged. “Okay. Just for argument’s sake, let’s say Manville killed Nicolette Mercer. How do you explain the fact that Templeton’s blood was on her body?”

Sky pulled the genetics article from her backpack and slapped it wordlessly on the table.

Axelrod frowned his way through the abstract, lingering on the passage Sky had circled in red ink. “Holy crap,” he said. “You think Manville fabricated phony blood and planted it at the crime scene? You’re saying our whole investigation is bullshit?”

“I’m saying we should take another look. Those scientists have a test, something to do with methylation analysis, I don’t understand the process. But it can determine whether the blood is natural or artificial.” Sky tapped the genetics article with her index finger. “Someone needs to run that test on Templeton’s blood. Someone with access to the evidence.”

“I don’t know, Doctor S.” Axelrod rubbed a temple like his brain was on overload. “It all seems so … so …”

“Unbelievable,” Sky finished his sentence for him. “I understand. But I went to Manville’s house in Weston. I saw a piece of Nicolette’s lingerie in a rolltop desk. I think he keeps his trophies there. The caiman tattoo he sliced off Nicolette’s body might be in that desk. Maybe even the piece of scalp from Savannah Lane. Manville killed Teddy, I’m sure of it.”

“Teddy Felson?” Axelrod gave her a quizzical look.

“I warned Teddy not to come, but he must have followed me to Manville’s place. Somehow, after I left, Manville ran him down, killed him. Dumped his body in Magni Park, right in front of my office. Have you found Teddy’s Camaro yet?”

“No.”

“Any leads?”

“No.”

“There’s more to this,” Sky said. Something was niggling at her, something about the stranger who’d broken into her office. “I’m just not sure what.” She ran a finger along her tender jaw.

“You’re having some kind of breakdown, that’s what the Chief says.” Axelrod peered at Sky with concern. “How did you get those stitches?”

“Long story.” Sky stood up and scooped the evidence into the mailing envelope. It had been worth a shot. She couldn’t fault Axelrod for his dubious attitude. It was Manville who’d destroyed her credibility. Clever man.