Face of a Killer

19

Carillo called Dixon while Sydney found one more piece of taillight stuck in the mud, this one with a bit of marking on it, which meant it was possible to identify the type of vehicle it might have come from. That done, she gave the pieces to Maggie Winters, who bagged and tagged them, then Sydney walked to the restroom to wash her hands in water so cold it felt like pins and needles spouting from the faucet. There were no paper towels, and her fingers were numb by the time she walked back to their car, where Carillo was waiting, holding up a sack from McDonald’s. She looked around, saw several McDonald’s bags in the back of the ERT van. “Don’t even think about claiming this is my free lunch.”

“I can pay Johnson for you, and it could be.”

“No way. I’m going to stick it to you for something better than fast food.”

“You know…” Carillo grabbed several french fries from his bag, pointed them at her. “You should think about taking that photo of yours to your mom’s tonight. See if she recognizes the two guys.” He ate the fries, nodding as though he was supremely pleased he’d come up with that idea himself.

“I told you we have issues. She’s pissed I went to visit Wheeler in prison, and if I drag that thing out there, start asking her about it, Jake’s going to lay on the guilt trip.”

“Jake?”

“My stepfather. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a nice guy, but he’s taken it as his personal quest to shield my mother from the past.”

“You worried about your mother’s feelings, or finding out what the hell is going on?”

“Fine. I’ll bring it.”

“You going to eat your fries?”

She handed over the bag.

By the time they left the park, it was close to five, and she was hoping that Carillo would have changed his mind about coming with her to her mother’s house. He did not, saying he’d pick her up at her place. When Sydney met him out front, a brightly wrapped package in her hand, the photo safely tucked in her purse, she was surprised to see him holding up a child-sized white tee with “San Francisco FBI” emblazoned across the front. “Your sister doesn’t have one of these, does she?”

She had several, but Sydney wasn’t about to mention it. “Trust me, she’ll love it. But you didn’t have to get her anything.”

“She invited me over for birthday cake.”

“Because she’s polite and you hijacked my phone.”

“You asked me to answer it. Her name’s Angela, right?”

“She goes by Angie.” To everyone except her mother.

Carillo scrawled the name across a large manila envelope, slid the T-shirt in, handed it to Sydney, then shifted to drive and took off.

Traffic was still pretty heavy heading out of the city, especially crossing the Golden Gate, and what should have been a twenty-minute drive up to Santa Arleta took an hour.

Her mother lived at the very north end of town, on a hillside accessed by a narrow winding street. Sydney directed Carillo to take the exit just past Santa Arleta-not because it was quicker, but because Sydney tried to avoid the city itself, the neighborhood where she grew up, and the restaurant where her father had died. If Carillo guessed why they took the longer route, he said nothing, and for that she was grateful.

“Nice area,” Carillo said, slowing as he rounded the curve just before her mother’s house. Typical for the locale, the property lines were narrow but long, extending up into the hill, the houses and yards separated by oaks and eucalyptus and ivy vines with twisted, gnarled trunks as thick as a tree’s. An old-growth hedge, as well as the ivy, hid the front of her mother’s house, so that if you were standing in the street, you’d have to know it was there or you’d miss it. The illusion of privacy was one of the things her mother loved about the place, one of the reasons she stayed in Santa Arleta. When they pulled up in the driveway, Angie came running out, throwing her arms around her older sister with her usual exuberance. “Guess what?” she shouted. “I got a puppy! I got a puppy! You’ll never guess what I named it. Sarge! My own police dog!” She stopped long enough to cock her head at Carillo. “Are you Sydney’s new partner?”

“Tony Carillo, at your service. So, where’s this canine-intraining?”

“In the kitchen,” she said, pulling on Sydney’s hand, trying to get her to walk faster.

Angie opened the side door, letting them into the kitchen, then paused and in a quiet voice said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention that I’m going to make Sarge a police dog in front of Daddy.”

“Not a word,” Sydney said, ignoring the amused look in Carillo’s eye, as Angie led them straight to a cardboard box tucked in the corner, waving for them to move quicker. Inside, curled up on a towel was the cutest little… mongrel. Maybe a cross between a beagle and a wire-haired terrier, and judging from the short little legs, a breed as far from a police dog as Jake could get, probably part dachshund. “Isn’t Sarge cute?” she asked.

“Adorable,” Sydney said. She set her purse on the floor by the box, then knelt down beside her sister.

Angie reached in, lifted the puppy out. “Did you have a good nap, Sarge?” she asked in a singsong voice.

Carillo eyed the little dog’s belly and kicking feet, then grinned. “You, uh, realize Sarge is a girl?”

“Yeah,” she said, nuzzling her face against the puppy’s. “But girls can be sergeants, and everyone knows you can’t name a police dog some sissy name.”

“I see what you mean,” he said. “Of course, if you’re going to have a proper police dog, you have to train her with sign language.”

“Really? Do you know any?”

“The three most important ones. Stop,” he said, holding his hand palm out, just like a crossing guard. “Down,” he said, lowering his palm so it was parallel to the floor, then making a downward motion. “And sit.” For this he turned his palm so it faced the ceiling, then jerked it upward. “You do this every time you train your puppy, she’ll know what to do even if she can’t hear you.”

“Really?”

“Just like the real police dogs do,” he said, as Jake and her mom walked into the kitchen.

Angie dutifully made the introductions. Jake shook Carillo’s hand. Sydney’s mom smiled at him, but gave Sydney a reserved “Glad you could make it, or will you be getting called out to work before the night’s over?”

Sydney was saved from responding when her sister peered out the kitchen window and shouted, “Aunt Eileen and Uncle Leland are here!” She raced out the door to show off her puppy, and, Sydney, feeling uncomfortable in her mother’s presence, followed Angie out to say hello, and was surprised to see Donovan Gnoble stepping from a black Cadillac parked in the driveway behind her aunt’s car. Angie waited on the sidewalk, holding tight to Sarge as she looked up at Sydney and whispered, “I did not invite him. Mom did.”

“Moms are like that,” Sydney whispered back.

“I’ll bet if my birthday was after the election, he wouldn’t come.”

Sydney laughed, gave her sister a hug, before turning her attention back to her aunt and uncle, who shook hands with the senator, then walked up to the house with him.

Aunt Eileen was Sydney’s father’s sister, Uncle Leland her husband, both of whom made the extra effort to remain closely entwined in their lives after her father’s death. Sydney had spent nearly every summer on their farm, starting at about age five. She’d learned to ride motorcycles around manure piles, and race speedboats in the Delta. Character building, her father had called it. Her mother had agreed, and, apparently, after Angie was born, so had Jake, because Aunt Eileen asked if they’d allow the same with her, and they did so gladly-though Jake put the nix on the motorcycle and speedboat lessons. Not that Angie had any interest in that or the horses or the cows or the chickens, the things that Sydney loved. What captivated Angie’s attention, much to Jake’s chagrin, was that Uncle Leland was a retired cop, and had no shortage of exciting war stories to tell her.

Angie allowed Aunt Eileen and Uncle Leland to hug her, and when Donovan seemed ready to step in for the same, she held out her puppy to him and said, “Isn’t she cute?”

Donovan gave the dog a tentative pat on the head. “Very.”

Sydney stifled a grin, putting her arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Let’s all go inside. It’s chilly out here.”

“Oh, Leland,” her aunt said, stopping them. “Run to the car and get that box of photos for Sydney.”

Her uncle returned to the car, and Aunt Eileen linked her arm through Sydney’s, saying, “I found the most wonderful photos of your father for you. I thought you might like to have them, maybe start a scrapbook.”

“Thank you,” she said, as they walked to the front door.

“I’m sure your mother must have some stored away. You should ask her for them.”

“Ask me for what?” her mother said, kissing Eileen’s cheek as she stepped in.

“Photos of Kevin. I think Sydney should start a scrapbook.”

Her mother smiled that vacant smile of hers. “I’ll put the kettle on for your tea, Eileen.”

Eileen followed her mother into the kitchen, then helped set the table. Uncle Leland and Donovan were discussing the election process, and Jake and Carillo raided the fridge for beer, while Angie attempted to teach her puppy sign language, saying, “Sit,” and pushing Sarge’s little rump down as she made the sign, bringing her palm upward. Eventually she put Sarge in her box, then came out to stand by Sydney in the living room. She looked back at Carillo, who was busy talking about fishing with Jake, and she whispered, “You two guys aren’t going out, are you?”

“No,” Sydney said. “He’s here for the free food.” “That’s good. Because I helped make the cake. It’s sort of lopsided. If you were going out, I’d at least want to give him one from a bakery, or something.”

“He won’t mind,” Sydney said, as the doorbell rang. Jake walked over, opened the front door. “Hey, Scotty.

Didn’t expect-”

“-me to miss Angie’s birthday. I know. Just had to drop by, since I was in town.”

Sydney glanced over at Carillo, who gave her a didn’tknow-he-was-coming shrug. Or something close to that, she supposed.

Scotty walked over to where she and Angie stood. “Happy birthday, squirt,” he said, handing her a business envelope, preprinted from the FBI.

“An official ID card?” she asked.

“Last I checked, your dad wanted you to be a ballerina.” “A doctor,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I want to be in the

FBI. Now if this were an application…?”

He laughed. “Sorry. Just a little money to buy that new pup of yours a real dog bed.”

“Thank you! How’d you know I have a new dog?” “Your mom told me.”

She smiled, reached up, gave him a hug. “I didn’t even know you were here. I thought-”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did!” She ran off to show her mom what Scotty had given her, and then Carillo got into the act, saying he, too, had a gift.

The moment she was out of earshot, Sydney asked Scotty,

“What are you really doing here?”

“Can’t I come by to give Angie a gift?”

Someone had let Sarge out of her box, because the puppy came scurrying out of the kitchen, sliding on the hardwood floor. Scotty glanced past her when Donovan Gnoble, her aunt, and her mother laughed at the puppy’s antics, and it hit her why he’d suddenly shown up. Scotty, Mr. Fast Track to the Top, had always been inordinately fascinated by her family’s connection to the senator. He’d just never been able to arrange a meeting until now, apparently. And sure enough, he made a beeline to her mother, who introduced him.

If anyone could make something out of that connection, Scotty could, she thought, then chanced to glance over at Sarge, who looked ready to squat on the floor. “No!”

Sydney scooped her up, rushed her into the kitchen and out the side door. She lowered the puppy to the ground, then stood there, while Sarge waddled about, sniffing at the grass, and then the pansies.

A moment later, her mother walked out, gave an exaggerated sigh. “I think she’s too young to take care of a dog.”

“She’ll be fine, Mom.”

“But apparently you won’t? Why else would you need to run off to some prison?”

It seemed her mother was not going to let them get past this issue. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you I was going to the prison. I didn’t realize it would hurt you this much.”

“Hurt me?” Her mother crossed her arms, looked away. “My God, Sydney, I can’t even understand what possessed you to do such a thing.”

Part of her wanted to shout out that her mother had another husband, a new family, but her father would be lost to her forever. She bit her tongue. Her mother had married Jake, and he’d always been there for her. For both of them. And there was Angie, full of life and love, the sister Sydney couldn’t imagine living without… “I can’t explain it, Mom. And I don’t expect you to understand it. Going to San Quentin was just something I felt I had to do.”

Angie bounced out the door, wearing her new FBI tee. “Where’s San Quentin? What did you have to do?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” her mother said, then threw a look at Sydney that seemed to shout: See the problems you’re causing?

Angie narrowed her gaze, but before she could ask any further questions, Carillo called out from the dining room, “Hey, Angie. Come show me that shirt,” and off she went.

“Mom, please… I said I was sorry. But he was my father. His history is mine. I know absolutely nothing about what he did before he opened that pizza parlor.”

Her mother looked away, and in a strained whisper said, “Some things are best left buried.”

Sydney bent down, picked up Sarge to bring her back inside. But then her mother offered a wan smile and, surprising her, gave her a hug, then took Sarge from her arms as they walked inside. “I know I’m being silly, just wanting to protect you from bad memories,” she said, setting Sarge inside her box. “Of course you want to know about your father. And I’m sure all this talk about photos and your aunt’s scrapbooking makes you want to do something yourself.”

“Well, yes,” Sydney said, grabbing on to that idea for all it was worth. “I even have an old photo I was hoping you could look at, see who was in it. For the scrapbook.”

When her mother didn’t balk outright, Sydney walked over to her purse, still on the floor next to Sarge’s box. She glanced into the dining room, watched as Angie pirouetted about in her new shirt, while the men talked about the old Chris-Craft boat Jake was refurbishing in the garage. Figuring they’d be occupied for a few minutes on that topic alone, she slid the photo from the envelope. “I don’t suppose you know anyone from this, do you?”

Her mother had just opened up the dishwasher to put away the clean dishes, then looked over. “Of all the pictures for your album, do you really want that one?”

“Why? What is it?”

“With the exception of your father and Uncle Don, a bunch of jerks, from what I remember. They thought they were God’s gift to the military. What did they call themselves…” She slid a glass into the cupboard, but her gaze was fixed out the window, then, with a sound of disgust, said, “The Posse. That was it. You want my advice,” she said, reaching into the dishwasher for another glass, “leave that photo out.”

“But who are they?”

“They worked with your father taking photos for those recruiting posters. He loved that job… They were always flying off to some exciting locale to get the best shot of someone jumping out of a helicopter, or blowing up something to make it look real. That’s how your father lost his fingers, you know. Those idiots he worked with set real charges instead of the fake ones for the photo. Thank God he was smart enough to get out and start his own business. As for their names, I have no idea.”

“Did anyone ever mention that Dad was in Delta Force?”

Her mother stilled. “What on earth are you talking about? He took photographs.” With a glance toward the dining room, she resumed putting glasses away.

“Was Dad doing some special ops thing for the army?”

“Special photographs, maybe. Why are you asking this? Where did you get that photo?”

Sydney would have preferred a direct answer, not a stalling technique. Then again, her mother was always trying to prolong a simple conversation into a bonding talk, and perhaps it was nothing more than that. “Just trying to put names to faces,” she said as the men walked in, apparently on their way to the garage to look at the boat.

Sydney’s mother seemed to pale, and it occurred to Sydney that she’d known all along about the special ops thing. “That’s why you said he wasn’t a saint?”

But before her mother could answer, Angie skipped over to take the dog from her box, then looked at the photo. “Wow! Army guys! Dad! It’s like when you were in the army.”

Jake looked over, saw the photo, his gaze narrowing. Before he said a word, Donovan Gnoble walked up, saw it. “Where’d you get that old thing?” he asked, taking it from Sydney.

Carillo gave a subtle nod toward Scotty. She looked, saw him standing there, leaning against the doorway as though nothing were amiss-if one didn’t know him. His gaze held hers, his blue eyes cold, hard. He wasn’t here for the lofty climb up the ladder after all, she realized, and she looked away, smiled at the senator. “You know, it’s the funniest thing. I just found it in some old album I had bouncing around my closet. I probably dumped it in there years ago, forgot all about it.” The room grew silent, the undercurrents palpable. “So… that was back when my dad used to take photos for those posters?”

“That’s what he did.” Donovan Gnoble stared at the picture. “Talk about your blast from the past. This thing’s so old, I barely recognize myself, especially without my goatee.”

She was in it this far, so she said, “Someone told me these guys look like they’re in Delta Force.”

He shook his head, laughed. “I think I’d know if that was the case.”

“Then who are those guys?”

“Other than your father… oh, and William, of course,” he said, pointing to McKnight. “Who knows about the other two… But if you’d like, I can take it, ask around next time I meet up with some of the guys at the VA.”

“That’s okay,” Sydney said, holding out her hand for the photo.

Donovan handed it over, almost reluctantly she thought, and then he smiled, looked at his watch. “I’ve really got to get going. I have a cocktail party back in the city I promised I’d attend.”

Sydney’s mother said, “It was so nice of you to stop by, Donovan.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He looked around for Angela, but she’d disappeared into the den to give Sarge another lesson on sign language, and so he shook hands with Carillo, and then Scotty. “Nice to meet both of you. If you ever need anything, just give me a call.”

And Scotty smiled broadly. “It was a real pleasure. Thanks.”

“Angie, honey,” Jake said. “Come say good-bye to Uncle Don.”

“Good-bye, Uncle Don!” she called out, not bothering to emerge for his departure. “Sit. Sarge! No!”

Donovan didn’t wait around to learn what dire emergency Sarge had created, but whatever it was, Angie resolved it by the time the cake was served. And yet no one but Angie seemed to be talking, as though the photo was some dreaded talisman that everyone knew existed, and no one could speak of. Sydney wanted to ask what the hell was up with it, but Scotty’s look quelled her to silence, and for once, she decided it might be best to follow his lead. A little after nine, Jake glanced up at the clock. “Time for bed, Angie.”

“But I need to finish training Sarge.”

“Sarge needs her rest,” he said, despite that Sarge was busy trying to get out of her box, and whining pitifully. “Say good night to our guests.”

“Dad…”

And Sydney, realizing she had a plane to catch in a couple of hours, said, “We have to get going anyway.”

“That’s right,” Carillo said, standing. “Big day tomorrow. Gotta go out and catch bad guys.”

Angie’s eyes lit up. “I am so gonna be one of you guys when I grow up.”

“You are so not,” Jake said. “Now kiss your sister and get in the bath.” Sarge gave a little yelp, and when Angie hesitated, her father crossed his arms. “Bath. I’ll get the dog.”

Angie gave Sydney a hug and a kiss. She moved to Scotty next, held out her hand and said, “Thank you for the money. I hope you can come over again.”

Scotty shook her hand. “I hope so, too. It’s always great to see you.”

And then, as she let go, she beamed a smile at Carillo. “I love my FBI shirt. I hope you can come over again, too.”

Carillo smiled back, ruffled her hair, and said, “Me too. Good night, Angie.”

Sydney gave her mother and Jake a hug, then followed the others out.

Scotty stopped at the curb, patting his pocket. “Left my keys inside. I’ll be right back.”

When he started toward the house, she grabbed his arm. “I hope you plan on explaining what you’re doing here.”

“Actually, that’s why I came over tonight. I just didn’t realize you, uh, weren’t going to be alone.” He glanced at Carillo.

“It was an unexpected invitation,” Carillo said. “From her sister.”

“Get to the point, Scotty.”

“Maybe I can give you a ride home? Tell you on the way?”

“Sure. Go get your keys.” Scotty returned to the house, and she faced Carillo. “I’m assuming you can find your way home from here?”

“Somehow I’ll manage.” Carillo opened up his car and took out something from the center console, a white envelope, which he handed to her. “In case I don’t see you again tonight. This is the contact information for a friend of mine who works in the Houston field office, Dr. Vincent Pettigrew.”

Sydney took the envelope, eyed it as though she had serious doubts. “I’d rather keep the number of people who know about this to a minimum.”

“This way you don’t have to rent a car. Less of a paper trail, and he’s just what you want. Like me, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about being promoted. More importantly, unlike me, Vince is getting ready to retire any day. I told him to expect your call as soon as you touch down in Houston.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“The basics. Enough to know why you’re making the quick stop to the little town of Webster. You can trust him.”

“Okay.”

“Do me a favor, though? Make it look good in Webster, because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s sitting in front of someone from OPR, trying to explain things that, in their eyes, don’t have shit to do with what we’re supposed to be doing.”

The agents who worked OPR, Office of Professional Responsibility, were the internal affairs watchdogs of the Bureau, doing their best to make sure no one stepped out of line, and ready to quash them if they did. “I’ll make it look good. Promise. And thanks. I owe you.”

“No mush. I should’ve stated that up front.” He stood there, looked at her over the top of his car. “And don’t worry. Soon as I get home, I’m cracking open your father’s case. If you want to talk later

…”

She gave a sigh, looked back at the house, saw Scotty speaking to Jake inside. “I’ll try to call you. Let you know what’s going on.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, then got into the car, starting it up.

She shoved the envelope into her purse. A moment later, Scotty walked out, tossing his keys in his hand. He waved as Carillo drove off.

“So what’d you want to tell me?” she asked.

“How about we talk when we get to your place?”

“How about we talk now.”

“Syd, you have to trust me on this.”

Right. She got in his car. When they were well away from her mother’s house, she said, “You’re working a case on Senator Gnoble, aren’t you?”

“I really think we should talk about it when we get to your place.”

“You showed up to my little sister’s birthday working a case? My God, Scotty. How low can you sink?”

“A lot lower than that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I made a bad decision.” He glanced into his rearview mirror, then looked over at her. “I thought it was the right thing to do at the time, but-”

“But what?”

“… I was wrong.”

If Scotty was anything, he was meticulous. He planned out every move. Not only did he not like to make a mistake, he hated to admit it. And that had her worried. “About what?”

He said nothing, just kept eyeing the rear and side view mirrors.

“Just tell me, for God’s sake. Before I get out and walk home.” An empty threat, since they were now hurtling down the freeway.

He took a breath, both hands gripping the steering wheel. And then, in a voice so quiet she had to lean toward him to hear, he said, “We have reason to believe someone is trying to place a hit on you.”