Face of a Killer

40

“It’s not the boat,” she told Carillo after she left Jazmine Wheeler’s office. “It was never about the boat.”

He pushed open the door, held it for her. “I thought we’d determined that when we were at Becky Lynn’s and she blew us off.”

“But we didn’t determine why.”

“And you’re going to tell me, when?”

She merely smiled.

“You know that whole anticipation thing, Pollyanna? It only works for sex.”

“Frank is really Francisco.”

Carillo stopped midstep. “You’re telling me that the Cisco

Kid referenced in the notes is Johnnie Wheeler?” “Has to be. And it makes perfect sense. Francisco’s of ficial story was that he was a contract electrician for the army. Jazmine Wheeler thinks that unofficially he was doing something more, since they sent him all over the world. And get this, he was killed in an explosion right around the same time my father lost a couple fingers in an explosion.” “There’s a coincidence that would be hard to explain,” he said, pausing to answer his cell phone. He mouthed, “Lettie,” listened for a bit more, then said, “Yeah. We’re on our way. Just stopped off to get something to eat.” He disconnected, said, “Lettie says that Dixon’s looking for us.” “Us? I’m not even here.”

“If I had to hazard a guess, your babysitters snitched you off.”

“Great.”

“Don’t stress,” he said, as they walked out the door and to their car. “That’s why I picked up the extra nachos. Bribe the boss.”

“What are they? Gold-plated?”

“Just soggy from sitting in the car for the last twenty minutes. So tell me what else she told you.”

Sydney related the rest of her conversation with Jazmine as they drove back.

“So, what you’re saying,” he said, as he parked in the front of the federal building, placed his placard in the window that would ensure the parking vultures left his car alone, “is that all these guys were working an operation together, some black ops thing, and Wheeler’s father gets killed, your father’s hurt, forced to quit, and that’s where this all begins?” “It has to be. Orozco said they tried to kill him in the past. Maybe they missed and killed Wheeler’s father by mistake. More importantly, Orozco said my father believed the explosion was no accident, and he blamed McKnight.” “And this church connection is how your father found Wheeler?”

“My father didn’t attend church. I’m guessing he made up that whole connection, because it seemed believable, and would completely eliminate any mention of just how and why he sought out Wheeler, and why he contacted the others for money for Cisco’s Kid, AKA Francisco’s kid, Johnnie Wheeler.”

“Which means it could’ve been blackmail?”

“Or just the prodding of someone’s conscience.” “In some circles, that means the same thing.” Their surveillance team pulled into a space behind them, but didn’t follow them up, no doubt figuring that in the confines of the federal building, little could happen. Sydney, however, couldn’t help but recall the face of the man from the elevator, especially when they got on, rode it up to the Bureau office. She wasn’t about to let down her guard, even in the relative safety of the building.

They headed straight to Dixon’s office, neither of them expecting to see SAC Terrence Sheffield in with him. Sheffield was taller than Dixon by a couple of inches, and older by at least a decade. His lined face was permanently etched with that better-not-find-out-you’re-doing-something-you’re-notsupposed -to-be-doing look, which was mirrored by Dixon’s less permanent don’t-drag-me-into-what-you-were-doingor-there’ll-be-hell-to-pay look. Choosing between the two,

Sydney would have to say Dixon was the one they wanted to placate, but she wasn’t sure just how, especially when

Schermer walked up, saw them, said, “I got that info on

BIC-”

“Later,” Carillo said, holding up the Taco Bell bag with what seemed more confidence than Sydney felt. “Got your lunch, boss,” he said to Dixon. Schermer backed off, apparently reading the tension.

Dixon, who hadn’t ordered lunch, said nothing. SAC Sheffield asked, “What took you so long?”

“Traffic,” Carillo said, at the precise same time Sydney said, “Long lines.”

Sheffield narrowed his gaze at them. “There’s a Taco Bell five minutes from here. How much traffic can there be?” Carillo handed the lunch bag to Dixon. “They shred their cheese funny. This Taco Bell is best.”

Dixon took the bag, eyed Sydney, no doubt seeing the dust and cobwebs on her clothes, and said, “I need you both in my office now.”

Carillo was smart enough to realize when it was time to quit, and they followed him and SAC Sheffield back to

Dixon’s office. Dixon closed the door behind them, and she thought, This can’t be good, he knows we were at the methadone clinic, especially after the look he gave her as he set his Taco Bell bag onto his desk, and said, “We have some problems, Fitzpatrick.”

Sheffield’s phone rang, and he told Dixon, “You haven’t eaten all day. Better get started.” He took his call, and she forced herself not to look at Carillo as Dixon attempted to pull a nacho from the container, only to have it disintegrate into mush and fall onto his desk. The glare he threw their way before he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic fork did not bode well for them, nor the hesitation after his first bite of what must surely have been ice-cold congealed beans and nacho cheese. Not surprisingly, he took several bites to make it look good, a sure sign that once the

SAC left, he was going to have their asses.

Dixon would not say a thing before then. To do so meant he did not have control of his subordinates, something he would never admit to in front of his boss. Which meant the problems he’d mentioned were nothing to do with their foray into Hunters Point and the methadone clinic, because clearly neither he nor Sheffield was aware of it… yet.

She figured Carillo came to the same thought at the same time, because he met her gaze, gave a shrug, figured he was good for now, then relaxed back into his chair, probably secure in the knowledge that it was her name specifically mentioned in concert with the word problems.

She patiently waited, not an easy thing to do when she saw

Dixon eyeing the Taco Bell bag, then pulling out the receipt, glancing at it, then the two of them, which made her wonder what he was gleaning from the location no doubt printed upon it. She was almost grateful when Sheffield ended his call and said, “Okay. Let’s get this over with. Fitzpatrick, as of now, you’re off the case.”

She almost asked, What case? since technically she couldn’t work until the doctor released her. Her next thought was that they knew about her trip to Baja, which meant she was destined to spend the next five years in the basement filing fingerprint cards.

“That was Behavioral Analysis,” Sheffield continued, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “They agree with our assessment on the death threat we received this afternoon. It doesn’t fit their profile, but for whatever reason, the killer has targeted you, Fitzpatrick, and we’re not taking any chances.”

“Killer?” she asked. “You’re talking about the alleged hit from the senator’s office?”

“No. The serial killer the task force is working on. The one suspected in your Jane Doe sketch.”

“A separate death threat?” Sydney echoed. With this many people lined up to kill her, maybe spending the next five years in the basement filing cards wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Dixon said, “I got this call on my voice mail maybe twenty minutes ago.” He punched his access code, then the speaker function of his phone.

“Read about your girl in the news today,” came a voice that was low, muffled. Something in the background sounded like car traffic. “Almost got run over… You don’t want her to end up like the other women, you might want to keep her out of the way.”

“It’s not specifically a death threat,” Sydney said, hoping to defuse whatever it was her bosses were contemplating.

She did not like that she was being made the center of attention on several fronts. This killer’s, the Bureau’s, and anyone else who was reading the news.

“She’s right,” Carillo said. “It could be interpreted as an Ijust-want-to-hurt-you-really-bad threat.” Sydney threw him her best shut-up look, but all he did was ask her, “That the same voice you heard that first time?”

“My gut says no, but it’s more muffled than before. Hard to say.”

“Did you record it?” SAC Sheffield asked. “That first call?”

“Unfortunately no.” Because by the time she realized it wasn’t a prank call, he’d hung up.

“At least we have this one recorded,” he said. “Let the techno geeks analyze it. But with this new threat, we can’t let you remain in San Francisco.”

Sydney froze. Shoving her down in the basement, well, in this case, a back office, was one thing. Relocation was quite another. She glanced at Carillo, who looked as shocked as she did, and it was a moment before she realized the SAC was informing her of her choices for relocation. “… to the following offices.” He dropped a paper onto Dixon’s desk. “If not, the director is willing to make a direct placement to Quantico, since your specialty in forensic art can be utilized there, either at the academy, or on assignments. You have forty-eight hours to decide.” Sydney’s mouth dropped open. Before she could utter a word, he said, “For your safety. I don’t want my agents running around as bait. Not an efficient use of manpower.” Sheffield glanced at his watch, said, “We’re in agreement, then. Right now, I’m late, so I’ll let

Dave handle the rest.”

He left, but the tension in the room didn’t lessen any. “A transfer?” Sydney said again.

Carillo craned his neck to read the list Sheffield had left behind. “Arkansas, Tennessee, and… Missouri. Could be worse.”

Sydney felt sick as she looked at the list. She liked being on this side of the country near her family, near her sister.

She was even beginning to really like working with Carillo, a fresh change of pace from the staid hours she put in at her old office, and she glanced over at him, saw a spark of concern as he looked at Dixon, waiting for some sort of explanation.

“My guess,” Dixon said, eyeing the two of them, “is that someone doesn’t think Fitzpatrick should be involving herself in whatever it is she’s involving herself in. So you might want to ask yourself who has that kind of connection to pull those strings?” He looked right at her, as though he knew the answer.

And he probably did. Because they all knew that Scotty had those sorts of connections, she’d certainly seen examples of that just in the past few days. She couldn’t forget how quickly he’d shaken things up, even as far as the coast guard and getting her off that cutter. And in his misguided- or otherwise-belief that Sydney shouldn’t be doing what she was doing, he merely had to make a couple more convincing calls.

And that was assuming it really was Scotty pulling the strings, which was a far sight better than the other possibilities. That one of the other government organizations was behind it bothered her much, much more. There were no checks and balances for that sort of thing. What they tried to do to her in Baja was a perfect example. People disappeared, or were killed, and you didn’t find out about it until decades down the road because of some fluke, some presidential appointment and an astute FBI agent, who took the time to read some Senate subcommittee report.

Forty-eight hours to decide… Wheeler would be executed, and she’d be in some other state too far away to do a thing. “Do you”-her gaze flicked to the list, and she felt ill-“think there’s any chance it might go through?” Dixon said, “The way Sheffield was talking just before the pair of you got here, I’d say yes.” He held up the receipt from the Taco Bell, read aloud, “1610 Jerrold Avenue. That’s in

Bayview-Hunters Point.”

“Better cheese,” Carillo said.

“Cut the crap. What’s going on?”

“It’s my fault,” Sydney said. “He just happened to be in the car.” She glanced at Carillo, who was pretending to pull a noose around his neck and string it up. “I’ve been asking questions about my father’s case, because… I want to know why he was murdered, and if the suspect about to be executed is really guilty.”

“Whose jurisdiction does the murder belong to?” “Santa Arleta’s,” Sydney said, even though they both knew the answer.

“Then let them handle it.”

“She is,” Carillo replied. “She was just helping them do a little legwork is all.”

“Then use their legs. And their cars. And their manpower.”

Dixon opened his bottle of Tums, shook out a few. “Is there anything else you’ve forgotten to inform me of?” “Can’t think of anything,” Sydney said. Carillo gave a shrug, as though to agree.

Dixon eyed the two of them. “You,” he said to Sydney,

“have forty-eight hours to decide on where it is you want to go. I’d suggest you use the time wisely. And Carillo. Keep in mind we have our second task force sting tonight.” “Finished all the paperwork on it this morning.” Dixon weighed the Tums in his hand. “Have the op plan on my desk before you step out again. And make sure Fitzpatrick’s name does not appear anywhere on it.” They started toward the door, then stopped as he stressed, “ And, whatever it is you’re not working on, try to remember that the

ASAC and the SAC do not have the same sense of humor and compassion that I used to have before I came to work here and somehow made the mistake of pairing you two up.

Capice? ”

“ Capice,” they both said.

“Tonight, we concentrate on only our current case.” To which Carillo said, “Scout’s honor.”

Dixon looked down at his nachos, then dropped them into the trash where they landed with a thud. “Next time, no jalapenos, okay?”

“Told you he didn’t like jalapenos,” Carillo said, as they walked out the door.

Outside his office, she said, “Do you ever know when to shut up?”

He grinned. “Occasionally. More important question you should be asking is why do you think it was not the same caller?”

“Because the first guy was very specific about adding details of the crime. This second caller said he read about it in the paper. And he called Dixon’s phone. Why not my voice mail, since that’s the number the first caller used?” “Good point. So, what’s up with Scotty? You think he’s dirty?”

“I used to think he was so clean he squeaked. Now I’m not so sure. At least about the transfer.”

“So, what’re you going to do about it?”

“Only one thing to do. Find Scotty and talk to him about it.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

She pulled out her phone, punched in Scotty’s number. “I haven’t quite decided, but I’m fairly certain that if I have my way, being transferred will be the least of my concerns.”