Face of a Killer

29

Sydney made a beeline for Scotty, who was heading out the door and walking toward the elevator. “Scotty!” He stopped, and when she caught up to him, he said, “This is not a good time.”

“Sounds like it’s never going to be a good time.”

Carillo walked up, just as the elevators opened. “You two lovebirds want to step in, or you flying down?”

Scotty shot him a look of disapproval, but said nothing, and the three of them stepped away from the elevator, and the presence of several other agents who walked up, waiting for the next car. When the other agents stepped on and the door closed, she asked Scotty, “Was that one of your men at the hospital that night?”

Carillo’s brows lifted, but he remained silent, as Scotty held her gaze, took a resigned sigh, and said, “Yes.”

“Was he placing a GPS device on Dixon’s car, too?”

“He did. It has since been removed, once he determined just whose car it was.”

“This is rich,” Carillo said, laughing. “Dixon’s car, too?”

Sydney turned to him. “You might want to ask if there’s one on yours.”

“Better not be.”

“There isn’t. But we did consider it.”

“Good thing you re considered.” Carillo glanced at his watch. “Look, we need to get the hell out there, so if I can make a suggestion? Go out, arrest this asshole who made the death threat, and let Fitz and the rest of us get on with our lives?”

“Super plan,” Scotty said. “You know who to arrest? Because frankly, I’d like to find the right guy, in case he’s fucking serious, and decides to take her out when we arrest the wrong goddamned person.” The elevator opened, and Scotty stepped on. “You two want a ride out there?”

Carillo held up the op plan. “Erickson’s giving us a lift. But thanks for the offer,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound grateful. Scotty disappeared into the elevator. After the door closed, Carillo said, “Okay, he’s rattled.”

“I gave him the bank bag.”

“And you think that’s what shook him up?”

“Big time. So, could you decipher what was in it any better?”

“Account numbers, names. I’m guessing in code, at least some of them. Come on back. I’ll show you while we’re waiting for Erickson.”

“I gathered from Robert Orozco that whatever it contained, it would point to all the major players.”

“I’d let Doc Schermer have a peek.”

“I don’t know… They’re shooting people over this stuff.”

“He used to work all that bank fraud. He was even around back when BICTT was making its splash at HQ. Besides, you don’t think Scotty’s gonna clue you in, do you?”

“Good point.”

“I made two copies before I put the original back in the pouch, so you can decide what you want to do with it.” He glanced at his watch as they walked through the hallway back to their office. “We need to be out front in five minutes.”

“Any more thoughts on that suicide note and how it ties in?”

“Nothing to figure out, with the magic acronym, BICTT, mentioned not once, but twice in it. CIA’s been through so 228 Robin Burcell much shit, last thing they want to do is open up an old can of worms. Come to think of it, they were probably scrambling to find out just who all McKnight mentioned. Maybe they’re the ones who followed you down to Baja, deciding if they couldn’t figure out who everyone was, maybe you could?”

“You mean tying them to the bank scandal?”

“Bingo.”

“We know McKnight wrote the note. Orozco was Boston, and he told me that Iggy was short for Ignoble.”

“If that’s Donovan Gnoble’s nickname, I’d have to say these men knew something more about him than he portrays to his constituents.”

“Especially when you consider that according to the note,

Iggy was worried that they could tie everything to BICTT and ruin him.”

“But what’s the significance of this boat, Cisco’s Kid, especially now that it’s being used as a giant planter for flowers?”

Sydney didn’t like to think about that part, that her father was socking away blackmail money, even if it was for something as simple as a fleet of fishing boats. “Since my father ended up dead, I’m guessing the money never made it down there.”

“Hence the boat being used as a planter?” He unlocked his desk drawer, pulled out several sheets of paper containing what appeared to be long strings of numbers and letters. “As you can see, this doesn’t mean a lot. To me, at least.” “Which literally gets us nowhere.”

“I think we need to get that last guy identified.” She looked over at him. “But he is identified. I almost forgot. Orozco mentioned the name of Frank White. Said the guy was half black, half Puerto Rican.”

“The guy from your photo?”

“Maybe. Not like I have a better theory.”

“Let’s run his name.” He shoved the photocopies back into his desk, locked it, then hit a key on his keyboard to wake his sleeping computer. The screen came to life, and he brought up the name search, typed in “Frank White,” put in an approximate age, and hit enter. A few moments later, they stared at the screen. “Well, that was a waste of time,” he said, looking at the notation that came up, stating there were too many entries to search the database without further information. Carillo deleted the information, and they retraced their steps to the elevator, while he called Erickson to say that they were just leaving the building and would meet them out front. Sydney knew it had been too good to be true, that they might be able to plug in the guy’s name, come up with something that would tell them anything at all.

“So what’s your plan?” he asked as they exited the elevator and walked through the lobby.

“Plan?” They heard the other agents calling in their positions. She looked over at Carillo as she pushed open the glass door and exited the building. “I don’t think I’ve sat still long enough to think of one. Every time I get an answer, I have fifteen more questions.” She held the door for him, then let it fall shut. “Something else Orozco told me when I was down in Baja. That if my father hadn’t been killed in that robbery, they would’ve killed him anyway.”

“Telling.”

“Definitely. Between the guy on death row who says he didn’t do it, and an old team member who says my father was marked, I’ve got to think that Johnnie Wheeler might very well be as innocent as he claims.”

“The way I see it, he might be on death row, but he’s a lot safer than you are right now. Even before you came home with a bank pouch full of cryptic numbers, someone was trying to kill you.”

“It’s got to be the photo,” she said, just as Erickson pulled up out front with the car, waiting to drive them to the Mission District. “That’s what started it. Why else would someone try to kill me when it suddenly arrives in my mailbox?” “Okay, let’s say it is? What now?”

“An age progression on the remaining man who needs to be identified. Might be a helluva lot easier trying to figure out who he is by what he might look like today.” “Not a bad idea,” he said, before Erickson rolled down his window, and they had to turn their attention to present matters: serial killers preying on young women.