“I’ll check and get back to you.”
Carillo nodded his approval as Sydney hit end and clipped the cell phone on her belt. “Not bad, Fitzpatrick. Didn’t know you had it in you to be proactive.”
“Just when I start thinking you’re a nice guy. You must have had a deprived childhood.”
“Think how boring I’d be if I hadn’t.”
They spent the next hour watching ERT dredge the lake around the area where Tara was found, because according to SFPD, Tara thought he threw something heavy in the water just before he dumped her, something that made a loud splash. She didn’t think it came from the back of the vehicle, nor did she have an idea of what it might have been.
She didn’t dare open her eyes to see, not wanting him to know she was still alive. And so Sydney and Carillo stood there, watching, wondering what they might recover. So far they’d pulled up a child’s sneaker, a few empty beer bottles, a crushed metal trash can painted the same green as the benches, a woman’s purse, a bicycle that looked as though it had been run over, and an ice chest filled with rocks, no doubt to make it sink. No weapons, nothing that stood out. The ice chest was what the techs were concentrating on, thinking that the suspect might have tossed that in, purposefully sinking it, because he’d used it in his crimes. They were in the process of photographing it when Dixon called. “I’m at the hospital now. The only thing she remembers about the drive that night was the guy started swearing when he hit something.”
“Like a curb?” Sydney thought of the black mark near the mud-filled tire tracks.
“Like a car.”
“A car?”
“Or something solid was what she told me.”
“When?”
“Just before he dumped her at the park. Sort of woke her up, the loud noise at the back end of the vehicle.” “You mean he hit a car in the park?”
“Yeah. Backed into it, then took off, swearing, panicked from the way he was driving. She said it was only a couple minutes after that he threw something in the water, came back, dumped her in the water, then fled. Prior to that, he’d been very meticulous, took his time, like it was planned, laid out. That’s all I got, though. She’ll have the nurse call if she remembers anything else.”
“Thanks,” Sydney said, then related the info to Carillo. “Damn,” Carillo said, looking around the park with renewed interest. “What the hell did he back into?” “Parked car? Telephone pole? Whatever it was, it was in a couple minute drive from the dump site.”
“We should check everything from about a two-minute to four-minute radius.”
She looked around the park, beginning to wonder if there might be a different explanation. “What if you struck something while you were backing up, hit the gas a bit too hard? Drive around for a minute, maybe two until you were sure no one heard? The street makes a circle.”
Carillo eyed the tire tracks. “Panic that might be increased from hearing tires ripping up grass and wet soil? Nothing like getting stuck in the park with a body in the back.”
“Exactly,” Sydney said. “But what would he have hit?”
And that was when they both turned and looked out at the water where they were still dredging the lake, and then on shore where ERT had deposited all the detritus and junk they’d found on the bottom.
“The trash can?” Sydney said. “That could sound like a car if you hit it.”
“Sure as hell make a splash if you got pissed and tossed it in the water. If you’re right, lunch is on me.”
“Lunch. You’re on.”
They walked toward the garbage can, which was resting on its side, dent down, and Sydney signaled for someone from ERT to come over.
“Any way you can tell if this thing’s been involved in a recent vehicle collision?” Sydney asked.
The agent, Maggie Winters, pulled some latex gloves from her pocket. “Well, something definitely smashed it,” she said, putting the gloves on, then righting the can so that she could walk around it. It wasn’t but a few seconds later that she said, “Not sure that it was a vehicle collision, but it definitely made contact with something.” She pointed, and they had to move closer. “See this? Fresh gouges in the green paint, where it scraped against whatever hit it. Metal’s clean right there. Shiny. No oxidation.”
“Could that have been made by the dredging equipment?” Sydney asked.
“No. Whatever hit it, hit it pretty hard. Hard enough to rip the metal.” She stopped, looked around, spied another green trash can, and pointed. “That one’s held to the post by a chain. Makes sense,” she said, returning her attention to their trash can. “It looks like it was jammed between something vertical, like a post. The chain probably held it in place, which no doubt caused more damage than if it had just been loose.” She circled the trash can, stopping on the other side. “And whatever hit it on this side was also narrow, which means if it was a vehicle collision, the vehicle hit it at an angle, not straight on. See this here? Little bit of white paint transfer. What color was the UnSub’s vehicle?”
“We don’t have a color from the witness. She didn’t see it.”
“It’d be nice if this was it,” Carillo said to Maggie, eyeing the paint transfer. “We can use a break.”
“If this is it,” Maggie said, “your color is probably white. Going on the theory this is from a vehicle collision, then most of the damage occurred from whatever was behind the trash can when the vehicle hit it. Had to have been something solid, not giving, otherwise we wouldn’t see damage on both sides. And if someone was driving fast enough to do some damage to this, tear it from the chain and grommet, that means there was probably damage to the car.”
“If he was backing in?”
“If I’m correct and he hit it at an angle, look for pieces of taillight or brake light. If he was pulling in, broken headlight or signal lamp. Those are usually what’ll give before the metal does. And if you find out where this trash can was located, you might find some green paint transfer on whatever was positioned next to the can. You also might find some green paint transfer on the vehicle.”
“Do me a favor, Maggie,” Carillo said. “Assume our UnSub did hit it and take all the necessary precautions.”
“Will do.”
They thanked Maggie and walked back to the gouged-up grass.
Carillo kicked at another trash can nearby. “Maybe we could get the guy who empties the things every day. See where one might be missing.”
“Or,” Sydney said, eyeing the tracks, and noting they came in at an angle from the sidewalk to the benches just as Maggie had conjectured, “we assume the collision was where the tire marks ended and start our search there.”
“Don’t try to work this into more than one free lunch.”
“Not sure if I can handle more than one meal with you,” she replied, moving forward, stopping where the tracks ended, right at the backside of one of the benches. “Fresh scratch marks on the back of the bench frame… And if that isn’t a dead giveaway, then maybe the chain hanging from this grommet is?”
“Unfortunately it’s green, just like the garbage can.”
“But taillights aren’t,” she said, spying a piece of broken red plastic at the base of the bench, something she’d missed on the first go-around.
“One thing about our evidence collection team. They know their stuff.”
Maggie definitely knew her stuff, Sydney thought, as she dropped to her knees and started digging. Sometimes brake lights had part numbers on them, numbers that could be traced back to specific car models, something to help narrow down their search, especially if he decided to fix his van and purchase the part at a car repair shop that kept records of customers.
Carillo merely stood there, watching.
“You could always get down here and help.”
“When you’re doing so good?” He leaned against the bench, enjoying himself a bit too much at her expense, especially when her cell phone rang. “You might want to answer that,” he said, crossing his ar
ms.
“Funny,” Sydney said, standing, assuming it was Dixon. There was nowhere to clean her hands, unless she wanted to walk over to the lake and dunk them. “See if it’s Dixon and answer it, would you?” Sydney stood and cocked her hip so he could grab the phone.
He took it, looked at the number, then flipped it open, while Sydney got back to squishing through the mud. “Carillo here,” he said, listening, then, “Her partner. She’s kind of… indisposed at the moment. Digging through the mud.”
“Who is it?” Sydney asked, suspicious because she was pretty certain that Carillo didn’t consider her his partner by any stretch. Her suspicion doubled when he gave a catlike smile. “Give me that phone.”
“Your hands are muddy,” he whispered.
“Then put it up to my ear.”
“Yeah,” he said, into the phone. “I’ll tell her. What time?”
She stood, reached one muddy hand toward him. “Phone. Now.”
“Seven. We’ll be there.” He flipped it shut, then clipped it back onto her belt.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Accepting a date for you.”
“You said ‘we’ as in both of us.”
“She invited me, too.”
“Who?”
“Your sister. She said you forgot to call her this morning to wish her happy birthday, and she wanted to make sure you were coming over tonight for cake.”
She sank back against the bench, her hands held out so she wouldn’t get any mud on her clothes. “Damn it. I forgot. I’ve got that redeye tonight.”
“Make a quick run up there, say happy birthday, then off to the airport. Plenty of time. So, when do you want me to pick you up?”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I like birthday cake.”
“Let me put it this way. I’m not sure you want to go- never mind I don’t want you to.”
“Problems on the home front?”
“My mother and I are having… issues, and me not calling my sister this morning is just going to be one more nail in my coffin.”
“Oh, good. Entertainment while we eat.”
19
Carillo called Dixon while Sydney found one more piece of taillight stuck in the mud, this one with a bit of marking on it, which meant it was possible to identify the type of vehicle it might have come from. That done, she gave the pieces to Maggie Winters, who bagged and tagged them, then Sydney walked to the restroom to wash her hands in water so cold it felt like pins and needles spouting from the faucet. There were no paper towels, and her fingers were numb by the time she walked back to their car, where Carillo was waiting, holding up a sack from McDonald’s. She looked around, saw several McDonald’s bags in the back of the ERT van. “Don’t even think about claiming this is my free lunch.”
“I can pay Johnson for you, and it could be.”
“No way. I’m going to stick it to you for something better than fast food.”
“You know…” Carillo grabbed several french fries from his bag, pointed them at her. “You should think about taking that photo of yours to your mom’s tonight. See if she recognizes the two guys.” He ate the fries, nodding as though he was supremely pleased he’d come up with that idea himself.
“I told you we have issues. She’s pissed I went to visit Wheeler in prison, and if I drag that thing out there, start asking her about it, Jake’s going to lay on the guilt trip.”
“Jake?”
“My stepfather. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a nice guy, but he’s taken it as his personal quest to shield my mother from the past.”
“You worried about your mother’s feelings, or finding out what the hell is going on?”
“Fine. I’ll bring it.”
“You going to eat your fries?”
She handed over the bag.
By the time they left the park, it was close to five, and she was hoping that Carillo would have changed his mind about coming with her to her mother’s house. He did not, saying he’d pick her up at her place. When Sydney met him out front, a brightly wrapped package in her hand, the photo safely tucked in her purse, she was surprised to see him holding up a child-sized white tee with “San Francisco FBI” emblazoned across the front. “Your sister doesn’t have one of these, does she?”
She had several, but Sydney wasn’t about to mention it. “Trust me, she’ll love it. But you didn’t have to get her anything.”
“She invited me over for birthday cake.”
“Because she’s polite and you hijacked my phone.”
“You asked me to answer it. Her name’s Angela, right?”
“She goes by Angie.” To everyone except her mother.
Carillo scrawled the name across a large manila envelope, slid the T-shirt in, handed it to Sydney, then shifted to drive and took off.
Traffic was still pretty heavy heading out of the city, especially crossing the Golden Gate, and what should have been a twenty-minute drive up to Santa Arleta took an hour.
Her mother lived at the very north end of town, on a hillside accessed by a narrow winding street. Sydney directed Carillo to take the exit just past Santa Arleta-not because it was quicker, but because Sydney tried to avoid the city itself, the neighborhood where she grew up, and the restaurant where her father had died. If Carillo guessed why they took the longer route, he said nothing, and for that she was grateful.
“Nice area,” Carillo said, slowing as he rounded the curve just before her mother’s house. Typical for the locale, the property lines were narrow but long, extending up into the hill, the houses and yards separated by oaks and eucalyptus and ivy vines with twisted, gnarled trunks as thick as a tree’s. An old-growth hedge, as well as the ivy, hid the front of her mother’s house, so that if you were standing in the street, you’d have to know it was there or you’d miss it. The illusion of privacy was one of the things her mother loved about the place, one of the reasons she stayed in Santa Arleta. When they pulled up in the driveway, Angie came running out, throwing her arms around her older sister with her usual exuberance. “Guess what?” she shouted. “I got a puppy! I got a puppy! You’ll never guess what I named it. Sarge! My own police dog!” She stopped long enough to cock her head at Carillo. “Are you Sydney’s new partner?”
“Tony Carillo, at your service. So, where’s this canine-intraining?”
“In the kitchen,” she said, pulling on Sydney’s hand, trying to get her to walk faster.
Angie opened the side door, letting them into the kitchen, then paused and in a quiet voice said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention that I’m going to make Sarge a police dog in front of Daddy.”
“Not a word,” Sydney said, ignoring the amused look in Carillo’s eye, as Angie led them straight to a cardboard box tucked in the corner, waving for them to move quicker. Inside, curled up on a towel was the cutest little… mongrel. Maybe a cross between a beagle and a wire-haired terrier, and judging from the short little legs, a breed as far from a police dog as Jake could get, probably part dachshund. “Isn’t Sarge cute?” she asked.
“Adorable,” Sydney said. She set her purse on the floor by the box, then knelt down beside her sister.
Angie reached in, lifted the puppy out. “Did you have a good nap, Sarge?” she asked in a singsong voice.
Carillo eyed the little dog’s belly and kicking feet, then grinned. “You, uh, realize Sarge is a girl?”
“Yeah,” she said, nuzzling her face against the puppy’s. “But girls can be sergeants, and everyone knows you can’t name a police dog some sissy name.”
“I see what you mean,” he said. “Of course, if you’re going to have a proper police dog, you have to train her with sign language.”
“Really? Do you know any?”
“The three most important ones. Stop,” he said, holding his hand palm out, just like a crossing guard. “Down,” he said, lowering his palm so it was parallel to the floor, then making a downward motion. “And sit.” For this he turned h
is palm so it faced the ceiling, then jerked it upward. “You do this every time you train your puppy, she’ll know what to do even if she can’t hear you.”
“Really?”
“Just like the real police dogs do,” he said, as Jake and her mom walked into the kitchen.
Angie dutifully made the introductions. Jake shook Carillo’s hand. Sydney’s mom smiled at him, but gave Sydney a reserved “Glad you could make it, or will you be getting called out to work before the night’s over?”
Sydney was saved from responding when her sister peered out the kitchen window and shouted, “Aunt Eileen and Uncle Leland are here!” She raced out the door to show off her puppy, and, Sydney, feeling uncomfortable in her mother’s presence, followed Angie out to say hello, and was surprised to see Donovan Gnoble stepping from a black Cadillac parked in the driveway behind her aunt’s car. Angie waited on the sidewalk, holding tight to Sarge as she looked up at Sydney and whispered, “I did not invite him. Mom did.”
“Moms are like that,” Sydney whispered back.
“I’ll bet if my birthday was after the election, he wouldn’t come.”
Sydney laughed, gave her sister a hug, before turning her attention back to her aunt and uncle, who shook hands with the senator, then walked up to the house with him.
Aunt Eileen was Sydney’s father’s sister, Uncle Leland her husband, both of whom made the extra effort to remain closely entwined in their lives after her father’s death. Sydney had spent nearly every summer on their farm, starting at about age five. She’d learned to ride motorcycles around manure piles, and race speedboats in the Delta. Character building, her father had called it. Her mother had agreed, and, apparently, after Angie was born, so had Jake, because Aunt Eileen asked if they’d allow the same with her, and they did so gladly-though Jake put the nix on the motorcycle and speedboat lessons. Not that Angie had any interest in that or the horses or the cows or the chickens, the things that Sydney loved. What captivated Angie’s attention, much to Jake’s chagrin, was that Uncle Leland was a retired cop, and had no shortage of exciting war stories to tell her.
Face of a Killer Page 14