The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) by P.M. Steffen Page B
Authors: P.M. Steffen
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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
“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
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