Face of a Killer

32

Richard Blackwell shoved his hands into his coat pockets, tucked his head down low, and walked toward the corner, trying not to be seen by the multitude of people gravitating through the area after the fiasco on the corner. He wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed, but either that idiot Prescott had jumped the gun-again-or the serial killer he’d promised to set up as the patsy had unwittingly slammed right into Sydney Fitzpatrick.

And wouldn’t that just be rich.

Jobs like this weren’t supposed to be rocket science. They were supposed to be neat. Clean. He’d set the whole damned thing up so it couldn’t fail, and yet every time he turned around, something was going wrong.

Maybe what he needed to do was put a bullet through Prescott’s head. Make all their lives easier.

That happy vision faded at the sight of the charcoal-gray Crown Victoria that pulled up on the street corner, then sped off in the direction the attacker fled. A moment later, some transvestite was helping Sydney Fitzpatrick up from the ground. Before he had a chance to clear the area, it was flooded with cops and agents, and he stepped into the doorway of a restaurant, pretended to read the menu posted in the window as he pulled out his cell phone and hit send. “We have a problem,” he said when the call was answered. “It might be bigger than we think.”

When Sydney was able to focus, she became aware that there were at least a dozen sets of eyes looking at her, mostly men, and the absurd thought that, clearly, the majority seemed more skilled at applying makeup than she had ever been, swept its way into her consciousness. And she was conscious. A good thing. She could now breathe. Also a good thing. Apparently the car whose hood she had landed on had thankfully been slowing to turn the corner. Sydney tried to stand, felt her knees give way, and was grateful when someone grabbed her and helped her back to the sidewalk.

The driver got out, frantic. “What happened? Why’d you jump in front of my car?”

Jump? Hardly, she thought as Carillo came running up.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Sydney said. “Lost my radio.”

Carillo took over for the well-manicured transvestite who had been assisting, putting his arm around her until she was certain she could stand. “You need an ambulance?”

Sydney took stock of her body parts, figured the weakness in her knees was more from the rush of adrenaline than from any injuries. There was a slight lump on her temple, but other than that, she felt okay. “No.”

“What happened?”

“Someone pushed me.”

“Sweatshirt guy?”

“If I had to guess. You said you saw him here?”

“Pretty sure that’s who I was chasing. I was halfway up the block

…” Carillo assisted her to the curb, eyeing the crowd who’d gathered. “Anyone see what happened?”

There was a lot of looking around, shoulder shrugging, comments that ranged from “She jumped out” to “She tripped and fell.”

“I didn’t trip, I didn’t jump,” Sydney said, between gritted teeth.

Carillo drew her away from the others. “Just checking. Don’t get so testy.”

Like he wouldn’t be if someone had pushed him into the street. But Sydney didn’t respond, because the burly-armed bouncer from the Purple Moon walked up. “You still looking for that guy? Gray hood?”

“Yeah,” Sydney said.

“He ran that way,” he said, pointing in the direction they’d come from originally. “Least I think it was him. Saw him take off from about here right after I heard the screech of brakes.”

“You’re sure it was the guy in the gray sweatshirt?”

“Pretty sure. Ripped his sweatshirt off as he ran. Tucked it under one arm, which is what makes me think it was the same guy. Then again, it ain’t like gray sweatshirts are all that unusual.”

Unfortunately he was right. Sydney counted three in their general area, though their physical description was off from the first person they saw-a man whose face they didn’t see clearly enough to ID.

Across the street a man stood staring, and when she looked at him, he turned, strode off in the opposite direction.

Recognition hit her. “He’s the guy from the elevator. The… guy.”

“What guy?” Carillo asked, looking where she was pointing.

Too late, he was gone. Lost in the crowd, and her head throbbed as she tried to remember, tried to determine what was so odd about his presence. “He was watching me in court during my robbery case, and followed me up to the cafe.”

“In the federal building?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. Cute Guy from the elevator.”

“I don’t care if he’s Ugly Guy from the basement. What’s he doing here, watching you, then? Because the way I see it, if he was a cop, he’d be hauling his ass this way, find out what’s up, not hightailing it the opposite way. You see him around again, you call for help.”

She reached up, touched the tender spot on her temple, trying to ignore the increasing headache. If a guy like that wasn’t a cop, and he had access to the federal building… She didn’t even want to think about it. “I need to find my radio.”

“Wait here with the bouncer,” Carillo said. “I’ll find it.”

Carillo left her beneath the awning at the Purple Moon’s entrance, then walked to the street corner. A black-and-white had pulled up and was taking the driver’s information, but then the officer rushed to his vehicle, saying something to Carillo just before he got in and raced off. Suddenly they were there by themselves, as though SFPD had abandoned them.

“Shots fired,” Carillo called out to her, pulling a three-byfive card from his back pocket to start copying witnesses’ names. “Takes precedence over lowly agents being pushed into traffic.”

The bouncer shook his head. “I gotta get a new job. Shooting here last night, too. Some woman shot her boyfriend.”

Carillo went back to interviewing the witnesses, and Sydney asked the bouncer, “Did you see the guy walk out of here?”

“Guy with the sweatshirt?” He crossed his massive arms. “Sorry. He coulda come in here, left with the crowd, but I was busy making sure they weren’t walking out with drinks. Didn’t notice him until I heard the car skid, and then the cop car sped after him.”

“Black-and-white?” Sydney asked, wondering if SFPD had a patrol in the area by that time.

“Nah. One of those undercover rigs. Dark Crown Victoria.”

“Could you ID him?”

“The cop?”

“The guy in the gray sweatshirt.”

“Didn’t get that close a look. Only noticed the sweatshirt, ’cause you asked about it. Figured he probably took it off, you know, to disguise himself or something.”

Carillo returned a few minutes later. “Got everyone’s name who’s willing to give one.” He handed Sydney her radio, the hard plastic casing dented and scratched at the bottom from being dropped in the gutter.

She keyed it, heard the feedback on Carillo’s radio, and figured it was none the worse for wear. “Great,” she said, thinking that the entire operation was ruined for the night. “Now what?”

“Now you go home and we keep looking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have a lump on your head, never mind that Elevator Guy is wandering around down here. Either that or you were hit harder than you think. You’re going home.”

A man pulled up in a dark gray Crown Victoria about two minutes later, and the bouncer said, “That’s the cop that took off after the guy.”

Sydney looked over to see who it was. She didn’t recognize him, figured he was an undercover SFPD. “And you are…?”

“Jared Dunning. One of your shadows.” He nodded to the man in the passenger seat. “Mel. One of your other shadows. We’re, uh, working with Scotty, and are under orders not to lose you this time.”

“You find our UnSub?” she asked. He seemed surprised by her query, and she said, “The bouncer said you took off after the guy.”

“So it was the same guy. I was looking for you, but saw him running. Thought he matched the description. Unfortunately I lost him a couple blocks from here. Medium height, carrying a gray sweatshirt. At least I think it was the guy. He didn’t stop to identify himself.”

“Go figure. Apparently in his haste to flee, he pushed me into traffic.” Sydney lifted her hair on her left temple and showed him the lump.

“Ouch. You okay?”

“Just a bump.” She looked down the street, then said, “There’s some other guy I saw here. I also saw him in the federal building.” She gave them the man’s description. “Any chance you saw him out and about while you’ve been following me?”

He narrowed his gaze at her head, as though he, too, thought she’d been bumped too hard. “No, but we’ll keep an eye out. Maybe you should have that looked at. We could give you a ride.”

Sydney glanced back at Carillo, who walked up to the car to see who she was talking to. “My babysitters,” she explained.

And then Carillo nodded to something in the back of Dunning’s vehicle. “Tell me you weren’t wearing that gray sweatshirt and racing around the Mission District trying to drag hookers from their hidey-holes?”

Dunning looked in the back, then laughed. “Uh, no. Getting too old and fat to go chasing after hookers,” he said, though Sydney didn’t see an ounce of spare flesh on the guy. “I was wearing it out on the range this afternoon.” He reached back and lifted it, pulled a couple of brass casings from it, then tossed it back. “You want,” Dunning said to Sydney, “I could drop you off wherever it is you need to go. Doctor? Home? At least if you’re in my car, I know where you are.”

Before Sydney could answer, Carillo gave the car door a slap. “Thanks, but we’ve got a ton of paperwork to fill out from the car accident.” An SFPD radio car pulled up, the officer who’d raced off at the shots-fired call. Carillo called out to him. “Didn’t find your guy?”

“No. Maybe it was just someone popping off a couple shots. Who knows.”

“Big city,” Dunning said, putting the car into gear.

Carillo pushed away from the door, put his arm around Sydney’s shoulder. “See you guys. Don’t work too hard.”

“How hard can you work, parked in one place? We’ll be in that little alley about a half block up. We’re monitoring your radio, so call if you need us.” They drove off, and Carillo punched in a number on his cell phone. “Dixon?” she heard him saying, and knew without a doubt that her night of working was at an end. “Yeah, it’s Carillo. Fitz was in an accident… No, the shots-fired call wasn’t ours. Not involved…” A moment later, Carillo was handing her his phone. “Dixon wants to talk to you.”

She took the phone, held it to her ear. “Hey.”

“You’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m fine. I don’t think-”

“Call me when you’re there. Don’t even think about coming back to work before you get a release for duty.”

She handed the phone to Carillo just as Scotty drove up, and she wondered if her evening could get any worse.

Apparently it could, since he insisted on transporting Sydney to the hospital, because Schermer and the others were going to stay on, help SFPD and their other agents see if they couldn’t locate Sweatshirt Guy. She still needed to give a full statement to SFPD, but by the time the officer got to her, started writing it down, SFPD’s dispatch reported finding a body slumped in an alley about two blocks away, and the officer taking their report was off again.

Just as well. The lump on her head was no longer numb, but now pulsing with a knifelike pain, enough to where she didn’t care who took her to the hospital, and Scotty ushered her into the front seat of his car. He looked over at Carillo, said, “Sorry about the backseat. Office on wheels, you know.”

Sydney glanced back, saw a file box, maybe a week’s worth of newspapers, and several empty bags of fast food, as though he’d spent the last several days working out of his car-probably parked just up the street from her house, come to think of it. The thought irked her, but not enough to overlook the significance of those files. Scotty was in California to work one case, and she had a strong suspicion some of it was sitting in that file box. Unfortunately, any chances of her getting into it without being seen were slim to none. She thought about texting a message to Carillo, telling him instead of using the damned box for an armrest, he should be looking inside of it. She decided by the time she figured out how to text a damned message, they’d be at the hospital. Had Angie been here, she’d have it entered in and sent before Sydney even brought up the proper screen. Not that it mattered. A few minutes later, they were pulling up in front of the ER. Scotty wanted to swing by the ambulance entrance, drop her off, but she insisted on parking and walking. “I’m not an invalid, I have a goddamned bump on my head,” she said, and that settled it.

He parked, the three of them got out, walked into the emergency room, and she had to admit that the nice thing about hospitals was that unless there were some major emergencies going on, the ER staff usually ushered the law enforcement types in pretty quickly. Unfortunately, Scotty hovered over her so closely that she didn’t have a moment to get Carillo alone, tell him what she saw. She was poked and prodded, had her eyes checked, and told they’d need to do a CAT scan before they even thought about releasing her. The nurse said it might be a few minutes, and Sydney decided it was now or never. She looked right at Scotty. “Is my phone in my jacket pocket? I should call my mom. Let her know what happened.”

Scotty reached into his pocket and handed her his phone. Figured.

“If I call her on that at this hour, she’ll freak when she sees the number come up on caller ID. Tony,” she said to Carillo. “Check my pocket, see if my phone is there.”

Carillo walked over to where her clothes were hanging from a hook on the wall, patted the pockets. “Not here.”

“I hope I left it in the car, and didn’t lose it out on the street. All my numbers are filed in there. I need that phone.”

Carillo said, “You want me to check in the car, see if it’s there?”

“If it’s not, you’ll need to call Schermer, have him check out on that street corner. Oh God, Scotty, my head hurts.”

And sure enough, Scotty was at her bedside, taking her hand in his. “You want me to call the nurse, get something for the pain?”

“You know what I’d really like, Scotty? A Coke. You wouldn’t mind getting me one, would you?”

“Sure.”

“Actually,” Carillo said. “I’ll do it, soon as I check the car for your phone. I need to make a call anyway. Check in with Dixon. Besides, you send this guy out there,” he said, nodding at Scotty, “he’s likely to break his neck in a hurry to get back to you.” He started out the door, then stopped, patting at his pockets. “Funny thing is, I didn’t drive. Keys?”

Scotty reached into his pocket, dug out his keys, and tossed them to Carillo, his attention fixed on Sydney. There was going to be hell to pay after this, trying to ignore the look in Scotty’s eyes, his hope that there might be something left between them after all. “You haven’t seen some guy following me, have you?” she asked Scotty after Carillo left.

“What guy?”

She gave him the description, even as a stab of guilt hit her, because she did care about Scotty, and didn’t like that she was keeping him occupied while Carillo searched his car. She must have winced at the thought, because Scotty asked, “Maybe I should call that nurse.”

“No, I’m fine.” As fine as one could be in this situation, and, as Scotty stroked her hand, she sent up a fervent wish that Carillo had no trouble determining that she left her phone behind just so he could look at those files, because she didn’t want to think she was messing with Scotty’s head for nothing. She sighed, closed her eyes, figuring it was going to be a long, long night.