Face of a Killer

34

Prescott loved the campaign offices at this hour, be- fore the sun rose. Quiet. No keyboards clacking, no copy machines humming, no poll takers citing their litany. And best of all, no phones ringing. The very sound startled him lately. His nerves were frayed over this entire affair. Perhaps he should have ended it, but the very thought left him cold. He knew things. Knew things about Donovan Gnoble that no one else knew. Mr. Clean wasn’t near as squeaky as everyone believed, and it was his, Prescott’s, job to make sure Gnoble’s reputation wasn’t tarnished-if for no other reason than to ensure that Prescott’s future was secured.

Don’t kill the Golden Goose.

Don’t get killed trying to protect it, either.

Sort of the golden rule in this business, and why he came armed to this meeting. Richard Blackwell was becoming a liability, a loose cannon. Blackwell wanted things done his way, or no way, even if opportunity reared its head. In hindsight, Prescott never should’ve hired him, but he came highly recommended. Though, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t as if he could go around and check the guy’s references with the others who’d used him: I hear you used Blackwell to assassinate the political thorn in your side. Any issues?

He heard the office door open, a cold draft sweeping into the room as Blackwell let himself in from the street. Prescott glanced up, saw it was 6:10, twenty minutes before Blackwell had said he’d be there.

Half the time Prescott never even knew he was around. He just appeared.

But he knew this time, because Prescott had made sure he was here early.

No surprises, no getting caught as he walked the empty streets, leaving him vulnerable, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket, making sure the small-caliber semiauto was there. Just in case.

Blackwell strode into the room, his gaze dark, empty, the gaze of a killer. He looked around, took in the deserted offices, always searching. The man trusted no one. Not even Prescott, who deposited the money into his account. Blackwell’s services did not come cheap. And that didn’t even count what he’d be paid after the hit. The perfect crime was not quick. Apparently it was costly. Costly, but necessary.

“What happened?” Prescott asked. “I thought this was all going down last night.”

“I take it you didn’t hear?”

Prescott paused. Seemed lately like something always came up. He was beginning to wonder if the man wasn’t stringing him along on purpose, just to raise his fees. “Hear what?”

“Someone pushed her in the street, and she was hit by a car.”

“You?”

“No, you idiot. Not me.” He slapped a newspaper on the desk, and Prescott read a short and noninformative article that an off-duty FBI agent was struck by a car, injured, treated, and released. The matter was still under investigation, and no further details were known. “Tell me it wasn’t you, Prescott.”

“No.” Prescott stared at the article, thinking of the possibilities. If only… “Too bad you weren’t closer.”

“A reprieve for your sorry ass. Can you imagine the investigation if she had been killed? Trust me. The lousy attempt you made would’ve been the first thing they looked at. They might even be looking that direction now, unless they connect it to something else.”

“It was dark,” Prescott said, annoyed that his hands started sweating. Blackwell was right of course. If she mentioned it to one person, what kind of car it was, they’d be checking out every lead. “She couldn’t have seen anything that night.”

“You hope.”

“Which doesn’t explain why you haven’t done what I’ve paid you to do.”

“I’m doing exactly what you’re paying me for. I watch, I wait. When the time is right, I do it.”

“I want it done now. We have a timeline.”

“And I’m well within it.”

“I’m not so sure that’s wise, waiting. Things could come out between now and then.”

“ In two days? What sort of things?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. But if you do it sooner, I’ll-I’ll triple your salary.”

Blackwell’s eyes narrowed as a small smile played across his mouth. “As much as I like the money, and I’m not saying I will turn it down, you need to understand something. No matter how I kill her, there’ll be an investigation. If it’s done right, that investigation is minimal, and they close the books without looking too deep.”

“And you’re telling me this, because…?”

“History is filled with poor souls who are key to all sorts of nasty surprises. Souls who have met their demises due to faulty aircraft, an unforeseen suicide, a sudden heart attack. Someone might cry foul, but nothing comes of it, if-”

“If what?”

“ If it is done right. My job is to pick the best method that raises the least questions. Your job is to pay me.” Blackwell stepped forward, leaned so close, Prescott could smell the coffee on his breath. “One more thing. That better be your dick you’re playing with in your pocket. I’d hate to think you’re stupid enough to think you can get a gun out, and shoot me before I kill you.”

“I could shoot you.”

They stood there, faced each other for several seconds, all the while with Prescott’s heart thump-thumping in his chest. And then Blackwell flashed that evil smile of his. “And you might even get off a lucky shot. But are you sure you could clean up the mess before the first eager volunteer gets here at the crack of dawn?”

Blackwell didn’t move. Prescott wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger. He fingered the gun, but knew he didn’t have the guts to try, and before he had time to think about it, Marla Gnoble walked in the front door. “I think you should go,” he said to Blackwell.

Marla watched Blackwell leave, then turned to Prescott. “What was he doing here?”

“Nothing,” he said, tossing the paper onto the desk. “What are you doing here so early?”

“With less than a month before the election, why wouldn’t I be?” She glanced back at the door as she shrugged out of her winter-white overcoat. “You look a bit shaken. Is there something going on? Something I should know about?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Good. I’ve got a migraine, and I’m not sure I could put up with any bad news this morning.” She paused in front of her office door, her hand on the knob. “I don’t suppose there’s any coffee made?”

“I’ll start it,” he said, and she closed herself in her office, leaving him in blessed silence. Prescott sucked in a deep breath, leaned against the desk, his knees going weak. It took a good five minutes before he was calm enough to start thinking. Thinking about the liability issues of having a loose cannon like Blackwell on his staff. But then his gaze caught on the article about the accident.. .

He picked up the paper, read it again. And realized he might not need Blackwell after all. Perhaps fate had provided the perfect opportunity. He could salvage this entire affair, take care of the matter himself, and save the exorbitant fee he’d foolishly promised to pay the man.

At nine the next morning, Scotty was still sacked out on Sydney’s couch when Carillo came by with her briefcase from work containing her forensic art tools, and, she assumed, the photo, probably tucked inside. Sydney was barely awake herself when she answered the door, her body still trying to recoup the lost sleep from the last few nights.

Carillo handed the briefcase to Sydney, as well as a cardboard tray with two hot coffees, then eyed the dog. “You walk the sheep yet?”

Sydney looked over at Topper, who wagged his tail, as though he knew just who the topic of conversation was. “No. I just got up myself.”

“Where’s your leash, dog?” Carillo spied it on the coffee table, picked it up, and Topper raced to the door, circled twice, then sat.

“Thanks,” Sydney said.

Scotty managed to sit up. “What time is it?”

“Little after nine,” Carillo said. He stood there a moment, looking at Sydney. “Think you’re gonna have a shiner. Might be cute with that sunburn.”

“Great.”

“Drink your coffee. I want to see some beautiful artwork from you in your convalescence. Got one for you, too, sport,” he said to Scotty. “Figured you’ve got a lot of investigating to do.”

Carillo walked out the door, and she handed one of the coffees to Scotty.

“Thanks,” Scotty said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fine. I thought I’d work on my art since I have nothing to do.”

“Great idea.”

“I can only paint and draw for so long. How long are we looking at before you arrest someone?”

“I hope not much longer. We’re trying to wrap this up. Get the evidence we need.”

“Do you have any idea what this is like for me?”

He shook his head. “I swear, Sydney, if I’d had any idea…”

After the tender moment at the door, she was fairly certain that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “Time for me to hit the shower.”

She left him sitting there, drinking his coffee. In the bathroom, she examined her face. Carillo was right. She had a nice bruise forming on the lump on her forehead, and the first traces of a black eye coming up. Maybe two. The lump was nicely hidden by her bangs. Cover-up should help conceal the rest. Not that she had anywhere to go, she thought, starting the hot water. By the time she got out, Carillo was there and Scotty had left. Topper was curled up on the rug, keeping one eye on her as she opened up the briefcase, took out the photo, her sketch pad, and a pencil.

“How long will it take?” Carillo asked.

“Maybe an hour.”

He looked at his watch. “That’ll give me time to get back to the office, look up a few things. I’ll stop by at lunch, see how it’s going?”

“That’d be great.”

He left. She reheated her coffee in the microwave, then dug through her file cabinet that doubled as an end table next to the couch, looking for her guidelines on age progression. Not everyone aged at the same rate. Some showed the years quicker, or looked older for a variety of reasons- drug use, time in the sun, smoking, to name a few. Others held on to their youthful looks, or even looked younger than they were, whether due to genetics, environment, health, or habits, it didn’t really matter. What did was the law of averages. Sydney would have to determine the ages of the men in the photo, guess from looking at her father just how long ago it was taken, then work from there.

The face ages in a fairly specific manner, and from looking at the photo, the deepening of the eyes, the early signs of creasing at the outer corners, and the very slight fleshiness beneath the jaw, she put the men in their early thirties, figured that would be right around the time period when all this first started. Twenty-two years ago was right when Robert Orozco fled to Baja, and since he was in this picture, she figured that was two years before her father was killed. .. She drew her gaze from her father’s face, instead concentrated on the one unidentified man, his dark skin, high forehead, which probably foretold even thinner hair on the crown than the norm, more than likely gray.

In her mind she went over the aging process, because she’d have to add all the steps to age the face properly. At forty-five, he’d be dealing with the forming of crow’s-feet wrinkles at the outer eye, and the area beneath the chin would start to look fleshy, less firm. At fifty, thinner hair, upper lids starting to sag, deeper set eyes, and the pouch beneath them becoming more noticeable. It was here where the definitive signs of aging often sent people scurrying for Botox and facelifts. This was the age when they noticed the wrinkles appearing mid-forehead, the flesh sagging in the cheeks and along the jawline.

At fifty-five the pouch beneath the eyes was more decisive, the zygomatic arch and the cheekbone more apparent, the temporal wall and the brow corner more pronounced. This was what she needed to add to bring this man, this stranger, to age, and she couldn’t help but look at her father in the photo, try to imagine him the same way, that somehow if she drew his face, progressed his age, he would seem… more real. Not just a memory.

She shook the thought from her mind, worked on the age progression sketch of the black man. Finished him so that he was now a man in his fifties, guessing that he’d have a conservative haircut, a somewhat high forehead, with thinning hair. When she finished, she looked at him, knew right away where she’d seen him before. Well, not him, but someone who looked very much like him.

In prison. He was a dead ringer for Johnnie Wheeler.