“Come in, sit down,” he said, waving her toward one of the thick-cushioned leather chairs. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” She sat in the almost silken leather, a bit beyond the government-issued chairs she was used to in the Bureau offices. Senator Gnoble smiled at her, waiting, and she wondered just what she really expected of him. He’d always told her that no matter where he was, what he was doing, his door was always open to her, because her father would’ve done the same if something had happened to him and he’d had children. When Sydney had graduated high school, her mother had said he’d even offered to pay her way through college, though she hadn’t needed it, because of her scholarship. But sitting here in the senator’s office, it was hard to think of him as her mother’s friend, the man she’d grown up calling Uncle Don. “I was hoping you might have a few minutes.”
“If it’s about that article, Sydney-”
“It’s about McKnight’s suicide.”
His gaze flicked to the open door. He got up, closed it, then came and took the seat opposite her. “How on earth did you hear about that?”
“The background the FBI was doing on him.”
“Of course. I forgot. For the confirmation.”
“He left a note. I want to see what was in it.”
“Sydney-”
“Do you know what it said?”
“I only heard there was a note…” His gaze drifted to the window, and he started turning a ring around and around on his finger. It looked like a class ring of some sort, red stone, antiqued gold, and brought to mind the rings all the men in the photo wore. When he noticed her watching him, he stopped, took a deep breath. “I, uh, think it was something about what was found in his background that would’ve precluded him from being appointed to the position.”
“Was it something to do with my father?”
“Why would it have anything to do with him? McKnight wanted one thing only, to hurt those of us he thought got in his way.”
“One of the agents who spoke to McKnight said he apologized about something he did to my father.”
He frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“They were in the army together. You all were. That’s where you met. Isn’t that why you all wore the same rings?”
He looked down at his hand. “Yes. I’d forgotten. But we met in basic training. After that, we all ended up in separate units, and I’m the only one who stayed in the service. But unless you count the time we got caught sneaking into boot camp drunk, there wasn’t a lot that happened between us.”
“What about after, when my father was a civilian employee? Was there something my father did that was wrong? Something McKnight did that he’d apologize for?”
Gnoble took a deep breath. “Your father was a good man, Sydney.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“A stellar military career for the short time that he was in. And then the contract work he did, the photography, the artwork… Had he not retired because of that tragic accident, who knows? Maybe we’d be viewing his work at some gallery.”
“Why would McKnight be apologizing?”
“I have no idea. Your father overextended himself, made a few mistakes when he opened up the pizza parlor. I think McKnight might have lent him money, money that didn’t come from the most reliable source, which is what was-I think that’s what was found in the background check. I don’t have all the details.”
That could possibly explain the note telling McKnight to send the money to her father’s pizza place, but not the reference about why it would be for the boat, Cisco’s Kid. Nor did it explain Scotty’s remark about her father’s manager, McKnight’s wife. “And Becky Lynn’s involvement?”
“Sydney. Don’t ask me about this.”
“I need to know.”
He hesitated, looked away for a moment, before saying, “I think your father and Becky Lynn were having an affair…”
The first thing she thought of was her mother telling her that her father wasn’t a saint. Then she thought about Becky Lynn’s connection to organized crime.
Sydney stood, walked toward the window, then paused at a photo of Gnoble shaking hands with the president. “Did McKnight have something to do with my father’s death?”
Silence reigned. She turned, faced Gnoble, who still sat, giving her a look of sympathy. Finally, he stood. “We know who killed your father. He’s in prison.”
“And he says he didn’t do it.”
“He has the burns on his hands.”
“Which I can’t explain. But he knew things.”
“What things?”
Suddenly she felt foolish for even bringing it up, but she was in it this far, and she wanted answers. She told him. And when she finished, his look once again held nothing but sympathy.
“You’re tearing yourself up for a few little things, coincidences, if that. I saw the evidence, Sydney. I read the investigation. He’s guilty.”
“But what if he isn’t?”
“A twenty under the till? A can under the counter? Even if it was true, there isn’t a court that would reverse it based on that.”
“No, but you could contact the governor and tell him there are doubts that need to be looked into.”
“I’ve publicly come out in support of his death sentence, and now you want me to approach the governor for clemency? Never mind that they’ll rip me apart on every campaign ad between now and the election, the man killed your father.”
“And if he’s guilty, he pays. But what if he isn’t? What if this has something to do with why McKnight killed himself? You might be the one man who can do something about this.”
“All right. I’ll look into it. But I want some sort of promise from you in return.”
She waited.
“You tell no one of this conversation. Not your mother, not your stepfather. No one. If this gets out before I have some proof, my opponents will ream me.”
“Agreed.”
“And I don’t want McKnight’s name brought up publicly. It’s already bad enough that he’s linked to me through the nomination process, then ends up killing himself.”
“I’d like to see this letter for myself-” She stopped when Gnoble’s secretary knocked on the door.
“Sorry to disturb you, but that call you were waiting for came through.”
“Yes. I’ll pick it up.” He turned back to Sydney. “Call me the moment you discover anything that… might help with your case. I’m here for you. You know that.”
“Thank you, Senator,” she said, then walked out the door.
As she left, she heard Gnoble say, “You can put the call through,” and she couldn’t help but wonder if he would really do as he said, look into the matter, or was it just another politician’s promise?
12
Sydney took the elevator to the thirteenth floor, thinking about Donovan Gnoble and his answers, his nonanswers to her questions. In her mind most politicians that high up in the political spectrum got there or stayed there by means less than altruistic. Gnoble, however, had always seemed on the up-and-up. Surely her mother would never have remained friends with him otherwise? She was about to add that her father would never have remained friends with him, but she wasn’t quite sure what to make of her father after the last two days.
She waved at the receptionist who buzzed her into the Bureau offices. Just down the hall to the left, she stopped at a wall-mounted counter, pulled her time card from the slot above it, and signed in. Hard not to see the blank space from yesterday, a day that was supposed to be spent in quiet introspection, remembering her father as he was supposed to be remembered.
She didn’t necessarily trust Gnoble to do what needed to be done. Not because he wasn’t a good politician, but precisely because he was a good politician. He’d always put his political interests first. That was the name of the game. And what of McKnight? she wondered, as she shoved her time card back in the slot. Could she trust th
at Gnoble would look into that, tell her what he found, even if it conflicted or cast doubt on his political ideals? After all, McKnight committed suicide while being looked at for a political appointment, and his name was connected to Gnoble’s.
And wasn’t that the point? Damned good one at that. She took out her cell phone, called Scotty as she walked to her desk.
“What are the chances you can get a copy of McKnight’s suicide note from Houston PD?” she asked.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Can you?”
“Figuring you’d want to see it, I’ve already tried. It’s not going to be easy. Hatcher’s already back in D.C., and Rick Reynolds, the agent who was looking into it after Hatcher left, says he’s not touching it with a ten-foot pole. There’s some political voodoo on the case, according to him, and he’s this close to being transferred to an outhouse in the wilds of some state with a population less than a thousand.”
“What do you mean political voodoo?”
“The note’s off-limits, which, I suppose, is good news, because if there is anything about your father in it, it’s not coming out in the papers. Gotta go. Another call coming in.”
“Scotty-” He disconnected, and before she could try calling him back, Lettie walked by, saw her, and said, “Dixon told me the moment you get back from court, he wants to see you.”
The first thing anyone noticed upon walking into Dixon’s office was the brochure for Tahiti on the wall, and below that a calendar marking off how many days until his retirement, which Dixon could cite not only to the day, but to the minute, maybe even the second. The calendar’s placement, as well as the Tahiti brochure, were there as a not-so-subtle reminder that if his subordinate agents knew what was good for them, they had better not do anything to screw up and keep him from the long-anticipated trip he intended to take once he reached the magic age of fifty. According to the calendar, he’d hit that in about four years.
Those in the know used that calendar as a gauge for his moods. If he was staring at it, be careful. At the moment Sydney walked in, he was buried in paperwork, a good sign, or so she thought, and she knocked on the open door.
Being a supervisor, he had his own agenda, because the first thing he said was “Thought you might like to discuss what happened the other night with the drawing.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t.”
“ Pretend you would.”
“I had my mind on something else at the time?” “Like what?”
The million-dollar question, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to throw it out there now. “The usual, wondering if SFPD had any leads, was Reno PD doing the follow-up?”
“No, they haven’t. And Reno PD doesn’t have anything, either.”
“Which means whoever you assign is going to have a lot to do on the case,” she said, trying to deflect his attention.
“It’s not like you to feed me bullshit, Fitzpatrick. What the hell is going on?”
If a lie would get her out of this, and she was any good at it, she would have concocted one on the spot. And the truth sure as hell wasn’t going to work. Then again, maybe part of the truth… “Don’t suppose you caught the article in the Chronicle. The one on the death penalty?”
“I scanned it briefly. Why?”
“One of the cases they detailed is the guy convicted of killing my father.” Dixon put down his pen, gave her his full attention. “He’s due to be executed, but claims he’s innocent. It was twenty years yesterday, so it got to me. The anniversary.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s why you asked for leave.”
That and the hangover she’d been anticipating. “In a nutshell.”
“You going to be okay? Or you need more time off?”
His more-time-off question was double-edged, something Sydney knew from experience, and she decided right then and there that she wasn’t about to reveal her visit to San Quentin and definitely not Scotty’s news, either. Not yet. Dixon didn’t want to hear that any agent working for him was having issues, was emotionally involved in anything that would take time from real work. Bottom line, he had to make reports to HQ in Washington, and her caseload was part of his stats. She gave a casual shrug. “I’ll be fine.”
He stared at her for several seconds, perhaps to ensure that she really would be okay, then, finally, “You talk to that officer from Hill City who drove up here about a sketch?”
“Case is a couple weeks old. Partly decomposed body, no available ID, though the officer thought it might be related to our case we picked up last night.”
“I agree with her.”
“Since it’s cold-”
“I don’t like coincidences. I’d like you to go down today, see what can be done.”
“Today?”
“You have something else that’s more important?”
“The Harrington report.” That particular report was due on his desk last week, and his expression told her she’d just given the wrong answer. She quickly added, “But it’s almost done.”
“Get to the point where the ‘almost’ part is eliminated from the ‘done’ part when you come back tomorrow. I’d like that guy sitting in a jail cell.”
“First thing in the morning,” Sydney said, hightailing it out of there. She wanted the time to contact Houston PD, find out about that suicide. But between the sketch and the Harrington report, she wondered when she’d have the time. The Harrington report was left over from her last assignment working white-collar crimes, an insurance fraud operation that was about to result in the arrest of more than ten individuals, including a prominent doctor, George Harrington, who had masterminded the ring that had netted his medical practice several million dollars.
Unfortunately for George Harrington, he was caught when his office billed an insurance company for a procedure his patient didn’t need. An appendectomy. The insurance company brought it to the Bureau’s attention, pointing out that said patient had already had his appendix removed several years before.
If Sydney wanted any peace in looking into the matters involving her father, she’d need to get on that sketch and get the Harrington report turned in. Lucky for her, the case was virtually done, which meant she could devote her full attention to turning in a sketch on the Hill City victim. Well, devote as much attention as her swirling thoughts would allow.
Hill City, located just north of San Mateo, was a quaint town of middle-class homes that were probably worth a small fortune, thanks to their proximity to San Francisco. The police department was located in an antiquated building in the center of town, where a large sign posted out front depicted the new building forthcoming once a bond was passed.
Sydney walked up to the glass double doors, pushed one open, then stepped into a small lobby. To the left was a door that led to the police department, where Sydney was greeted by a woman at the front counter.
Credentials in hand, Sydney said, “I’m Special Agent Fitzpatrick. Is the detective who is handling the Jane Doe working here?”
“Jane Doe?”
“Body found out in a marsh.”
“Oh. That’d be Detective Rodale. I’ll call him for you. Just have a seat.”
She directed Sydney to a very small waiting room consisting of four chairs just off the records section. Sydney sat, waited. About five minutes later, the detective walked in. He was wearing tan slacks and cowboy boots, and a navy sport coat that did little to hide the belly that protruded over his large silver belt buckle, the sort given out as trophies for a rodeo.
“You’re with the FBI?” he asked, his tone implying he was anything but impressed.
“Yes. I understand you have a Jane Doe that needs to be identified.”
“How’d you come about that info?”
Call it intuition, call it her previous eight years on the force before becoming a special agent-it was clear he wasn’t thrilled about her presence. There were two strikes against her. One, she was a woman. Two, she was a federal agent. Thank God not all officers
were of similar mind. That same intuition told her, however, that if he knew Officer Glynnis had tipped her, Glynnis would bear the brunt of his anger. “National database. That’s why we have y’all entering every tiny detail from your reports.” She gave him her sweetest smile.
He seemed to buy it. “Yeah. Okay. Right this way.” And so Sydney followed him back to the detective bureau, which consisted of about six desks in a large room. He sat at his desk, didn’t offer her a seat, then hefted a thick black binder from a shelf behind him. “Everything’s in here.”
Sydney pulled up a chair from beside the desk, sat, opened the binder. “What’s your take on it?”
“Probably a hooker got mixed up with someone who didn’t like what she was charging. Or you Feds got a better scenario? I’m assuming that’s why you’re here? To take over the case?”
She flipped through the pages, trying to see if it might be related to the case they picked up the other night. The injuries were so much more severe, she couldn’t judge on that factor. “I’m here only to do a forensic drawing to assist you. For identification purposes.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to post her picture?” He crossed his arms. “Maybe one of her clients will recognize her.”
She examined the close-up photo of the victim. “If you think someone can get past the caved-in skull, filmy eyes, and the fact there are only a few strands of hair left on her head because of decomposition. And did you plan to show the neck stab wounds with it?”
He didn’t respond, which made her wonder if he was truly contemplating such a thing. For the public to view a photo of a victim in that manner was incomprehensible, and Sydney glanced at him to see if he was serious.
She decided he was, and figured she’d move on. “Dental?” “Negative.”
“Prints?”
“Only partials left. Submerged too long. Nothing came back. Not one lead panned out, so you can say this is one cold case. Which doesn’t change the fact that we don’t want or need you here.”
Face of a Killer Page 9