Face of a Killer

30

The Mission District had its share of problems, and no wonder. It was a strange and sometimes uneasy mix of culturally diverse businesses and residences, everything from dive bars to coffeehouses, thrift stores to art galleries. Commissioned murals on some walls and annoying graffiti on others coexisted in neighborhoods filled with workingclass families and gentrified newcomers. Chic restaurants were popping up in empty lots, and if the food prices were too high, there were still plenty of mom-and-pop joints to round out the menu for those looking for a place to eat after visiting the avant-garde theaters or upscale nightclubs- assuming one could find parking. That wasn’t their concern. Nor did they delude themselves about where they’d be looking for their witnesses. Their focus would be on the areas that most cops drove through in pairs, because sometimes the gang factions, whether bikers, Hispanics, Asians, or whoever, had issues. They didn’t play well together.

Carillo suggested they hit another area bar first, just to make it look good, so after Erickson and Ren Pham-Peck dropped them off, they walked the half block to the Dusty Rose. Sydney figured no one was making her for an FBI agent, not in her biker gear, and any stares coming their way had more to do with Carillo, whose dark Italian just-got-outof-bed look was only enhanced by the stubble that graced his square jaw.

After several minutes, when it became clear that the sort of clientele that frequented this bar was probably not the sort they were interested in, they left and walked the couple of doors down to the Gold Ox, which definitely fit in with their idea of the sort of bar their UnSub might frequent to pick up a hooker. The place was dark, smoky, its floors sticky with spilled beer, never mind a rougher crowd to match.

Once again, Carillo became the focus of the few women present, as did the men they were with, probably sizing up the competition. To be honest, Sydney thought, there was none, even if all Carillo needed was the tool belt to go with his faded blue jeans, red Pendleton, and white tee. He was the kind of guy who could dress up or down and still look good. And although he was trying to look less like a cop, and more like someone who just wanted to get a drink after a long hard day at work, Sydney felt that several women were tempted to tuck some greenbacks into his waistband. Although Sydney wasn’t one of them, she was supposed to act like she was, and so she kept her hand on his shoulder while he ordered two beers from the bar-Budweiser for their working-class persona. They took the bottles, moving away from the bar to get a better view of the room. Sydney, on the lookout for not only their hooker informant, but anyone else who looked like he could be a danger, sidled up to Carillo as they leaned against the wall, watching a couple of guys play pool.

They weren’t there but a few minutes when a woman dressed in blue jeans and a hot-pink, low-cut, seen-betterdays cashmere sweater walked up and struck a pose, arms crossed, hips cocked. She eyed Carillo as if he were her next meal. “Damn,” she finally said. “They’re making cops betterlooking all the time.” He merely looked at her as she moved even closer, so that her face was mere inches from his, then whispered, “Don’t get me wrong. I like what I see. But next time, do something a little more. Look the part.”

Their gazes held for a couple seconds, and Sydney admitted to being fascinated with the byplay. She’d never seen Carillo in action. Not like this. Apparently she hadn’t seen anything yet, because he caressed the woman’s cheek with the side of his beer bottle and said, “And if you were me, what would you do to… look the part?”

To the observer who wasn’t privy to their conversation, it would seem like a typical seduction. A damned good seduction, Sydney thought, even with her standing next to him. In truth, it even put the woman off balance, because it took her a moment to answer. “You’re both too squeaky clean. Like you were supposed to be dropped off in Union Square, and took a wrong turn.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. Like you want to blend in? Come back with a hooker on your arm, then you’ll look like the kind of guy who dropped off his girlfriend in Union Square and is here for a reason.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Candy.”

“Like cotton candy,” he said, touching her shoulder, the pink sweater, with his Budweiser.

“Yeah.”

“You working for someone?”

“Not a chance. My turn now. A friend said I should come by. Have a chat. Why? ”

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Looking for someone. Heard you could help.”

“Like I told the cops yesterday, if you’re looking for that purse snatcher, I have no idea who he is. Unless the price is right. No doubt he’s the one you’re looking for. Psycho.”

“We’re looking for someone who killed a hooker.”

She smiled, reached up, took his beer bottle from him, then took a long sip, before handing it back. “Tell you what. First bit of advice is on the house.” She cocked her head toward Sydney. “Biker clothes aren’t doing it for her. She needs to be less… virginal.”

He grinned, holding his beer up in a mock toast. “Not sure that’s possible, Miss Candy. But thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And you,” she said, apparently not quite finished doling out her counsel, “look like you’re trying out for the Village People Revival. Even so, I’ll help you. For a hundred bucks.”

Sydney tried to keep a straight face, and really tried not to take advantage of the situation. But before she knew it, she started humming the “Y.M.C.A.” song.

“I think I liked you better when you didn’t have a sense of humor,” he said, giving her a dark look. It turned darker when Sydney started laughing. He handed his bottle to the hooker. “Have a beer, Candy. Me and Pollyanna gotta go take care of some business.”

Carillo took Sydney’s beer, set it on a ledge, as they started to walk out.

“Okay, fine,” Candy called out, loud enough for several nearby patrons to hear. “Sixty.”

Carillo kept walking.

“Twenty?”

He stopped, turned, eyed her, then, with a shrug, said, “Yeah. Sure.”

Candy didn’t waste any time coming after them, nor did she waste any of the beer in the bottle, taking several long sips on her way out the door. The bottle was nearly empty when she set it down, followed them out.

On the sidewalk out front, Carillo let go of Sydney, turning to face his newfound informant. “You’re going to help for twenty bucks?”

“Easy money,” she said, looking up and down the street, then at him. “Don’t even have to-”

“Why?” he asked, cutting her off before she could detail what it was she didn’t have to do for the money.

“Because it’s not like anyone takes roll call around here to see who shows up to work each night, you know? One of my friends might be missing and no one even knows it.”

“What do you think, Pollyanna? Should we pay her?”

As far as Sydney was concerned, the woman had earned her money by not giving them up. Anyone in there who witnessed that exchange would think that Candy and Carillo had just agreed on a price for her services-whether for him or for Sydney, or the both of them, would probably depend on the imagination of whoever was listening. “Why not?”

“You’re in, Candy.”

The woman held out her hand for payment.

“You haven’t done anything,” Carillo said.

“COD, or no deal.”

“You got any money in that backpack, Pollyanna?”

Sydney dug out a twenty and gave it to him.

He waved it in front of Candy, and she tried to grab it. “Ah-ah. Info first,” he said.

“Fine,” she said. “Follow me.”

Carillo glanced at Sydney and shrugged. So there they were, on a highly detailed FBI op, following a hooker. Not exactly textbook, but then if she’d learned nothing else these past few days, it was that being creative sometimes produced better results. They hadn’t gone more than fifteen feet when a brown, older model Cadillac pulled up to the curb, the driver yelling out, “Hey.”

It was Doc Schermer. The car was borrowed from DEA. A nice touch, since the typical government ride would be noticed from ten blocks away in this part of town, and Drug Enforcement Agency usually had a nice fleet of cars that were better suited.

Sydney walked up to the car door, leaving Carillo and Candy on the sidewalk.

“That a working girl or your contact?” he asked.

“Both.” Sydney told him what happened.

When he finished laughing, he said, “She’s right. You two do look too clean. Give me a few. I’ll run out to the drugstore and pick you up some stuff to get all dolled up. Didn’t you ever play hooker back at your old department?”

“Yeah, except at the time I was supposed to be a hooker. For this operation, I thought I was supposed to be a date.”

“In this part of town, I think they’re one and the same. I’ll go pick up your stuff. Don’t go into any more bars until I get back.”

“What about lover boy?” Sydney asked, nodding to where Carillo and Candy were huddled together in a doorway of a closed shop, looking for all the world as though they were involved in some verbal foreplay, as he stuffed a twenty into her cleavage.

“Poor guy,” Schermer said. “They are never gonna let him live this down.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the notion. Schermer drove off, humming the “Y.M.C.A.” song, and Sydney rejoined Carillo. “You got a moment?”

“Wait right here,” he told Candy, then stepped out of the doorway.

“Don’t you think you’re getting a bit too much into your role?”

“Jealous?

“You can’t imagine. Please tell me you’re getting something for my money.”

“I showed Candy the photo. Didn’t know our Jane Doe’s name, but remembers her, because she was complaining about some guy in a white van driving past, giving her the creeps.”

“White van?”

“Bingo. And Candy knows someone who knows every working girl down here, so we just might get that positive ID on our Jane Doe.”

“And we know our victim was a working girl?”

“Safe bet if she was hanging in the bar we just left. Apparently it’s the new hot spot for the working class to find them.”

“Tell her to go for it.”

“She’s gonna want more money.”

“And what, you forgot your wallet?”

“It’s the beer money. Need to keep that separate from the informant money.”

“Don’t forget where it came from,” Sydney said, digging out another twenty.

About ten minutes later, Schermer was back with the makeup, and Sydney sat in his car, applying black eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and heavy orange-red blush-definitely not her color, and definitely didn’t go with her sunburn. But then, this wasn’t about her.

“Looks good,” Schermer said. “Now run some of this through your hair.” He opened a small jar of styling gel. “It’ll give you that haven’t-washed-your-hair-all-week look that’s so prevalent with hookers.”

“It’s scaring me that you’re so up on this,” Sydney said, putting some gel on her hands, then rubbing them together before running it through her hair.

He didn’t comment, just nodded out the window. “Isn’t that Carillo’s hooker? She’s looking a bit frantic.”

Sydney glanced up to see Candy and another woman on the street corner, yelling and pointing, she thought, at a tall, thin man wearing a gray hood. The man hurried forward, looked back over his shoulder, then took off running, just as Carillo’s voice came on the radio. “That’s him!” he shouted. “The guy who was with our Jane Doe.”