Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

  “I went out this afternoon, talked to the bartender who called us to say he overheard a couple talking about Fitzpatrick’s drawing. Turns out the bartender’s not the one who heard it, like we thought when we got the call. He heard someone talking about someone who heard it.”

  “Great,” Carillo said. “Won’t be any hearsay issues there.”

  “The good news,” Schermer continued, “is that he thinks he can put you and Fitz in touch with someone who may know who it was that did the talking.”

  “Getting murkier by the second,” Carillo whispered.

  “Who’s supposed to meet up with us?” Sydney asked Schermer.

  “Someone named Candy. That’s all we know. You’ll meet up with her at the Gold Ox, since that’s where our informant said she last saw the Jane Doe, who apparently went there, thinking higher-class place, more money from clients.”

  She looked at Carillo and said, “If that’s high-class, wonder where it was she’d been working before.”

  Dixon cut in with “Okay. That should cover everything. You two meet up with her, determine if she knows who it is you need to talk to. Get a name, see if it was our Jane Doe, hit the other area bars that our Jane Doe was seen in, pop open a beer in each, move to the next bar.”

  “Do we get to drink the beer?” Carillo asked.

  Dixon ignored his comment and said, “Also note that SFPD sent out a warning that a purse snatcher is still working the area, and if we catch him, they’d appreciate it. Just don’t blow this operation on a purse snatcher. Any questions from the support agents?”

  No one had any, and Dixon told them to hit the streets.

  29

  Sydney made a beeline for Scotty, who was heading out the door and walking toward the elevator. “Scotty!” He stopped, and when she caught up to him, he said, “This is not a good time.”

  “Sounds like it’s never going to be a good time.”

  Carillo walked up, just as the elevators opened. “You two lovebirds want to step in, or you flying down?”

  Scotty shot him a look of disapproval, but said nothing, and the three of them stepped away from the elevator, and the presence of several other agents who walked up, waiting for the next car. When the other agents stepped on and the door closed, she asked Scotty, “Was that one of your men at the hospital that night?”

  Carillo’s brows lifted, but he remained silent, as Scotty held her gaze, took a resigned sigh, and said, “Yes.”

  “Was he placing a GPS device on Dixon’s car, too?”

  “He did. It has since been removed, once he determined just whose car it was.”

  “This is rich,” Carillo said, laughing. “Dixon’s car, too?”

  Sydney turned to him. “You might want to ask if there’s one on yours.”

  “Better not be.”

  “There isn’t. But we did consider it.”

  “Good thing you re considered.” Carillo glanced at his watch. “Look, we need to get the hell out there, so if I can make a suggestion? Go out, arrest this asshole who made the death threat, and let Fitz and the rest of us get on with our lives?”

  “Super plan,” Scotty said. “You know who to arrest? Because frankly, I’d like to find the right guy, in case he’s fucking serious, and decides to take her out when we arrest the wrong goddamned person.” The elevator opened, and Scotty stepped on. “You two want a ride out there?”

  Carillo held up the op plan. “Erickson’s giving us a lift. But thanks for the offer,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound grateful. Scotty disappeared into the elevator. After the door closed, Carillo said, “Okay, he’s rattled.”

  “I gave him the bank bag.”

  “And you think that’s what shook him up?”

  “Big time. So, could you decipher what was in it any better?”

  “Account numbers, names. I’m guessing in code, at least some of them. Come on back. I’ll show you while we’re waiting for Erickson.”

  “I gathered from Robert Orozco that whatever it contained, it would point to all the major players.”

  “I’d let Doc Schermer have a peek.”

  “I don’t know… They’re shooting people over this stuff.”

  “He used to work all that bank fraud. He was even around back when BICTT was making its splash at HQ. Besides, you don’t think Scotty’s gonna clue you in, do you?”

  “Good point.”

  “I made two copies before I put the original back in the pouch, so you can decide what you want to do with it.” He glanced at his watch as they walked through the hallway back to their office. “We need to be out front in five minutes.”

  “Any more thoughts on that suicide note and how it ties in?”

  “Nothing to figure out, with the magic acronym, BICTT, mentioned not once, but twice in it. CIA’s been through so 228 Robin Burcell much shit, last thing they want to do is open up an old can of worms. Come to think of it, they were probably scrambling to find out just who all McKnight mentioned. Maybe they’re the ones who followed you down to Baja, deciding if they couldn’t figure out who everyone was, maybe you could?”

  “You mean tying them to the bank scandal?”

  “Bingo.”

  “We know McKnight wrote the note. Orozco was Boston, and he told me that Iggy was short for Ignoble.”

  “If that’s Donovan Gnoble’s nickname, I’d have to say these men knew something more about him than he portrays to his constituents.”

  “Especially when you consider that according to the note,

  Iggy was worried that they could tie everything to BICTT and ruin him.”

  “But what’s the significance of this boat, Cisco’s Kid, especially now that it’s being used as a giant planter for flowers?”

  Sydney didn’t like to think about that part, that her father was socking away blackmail money, even if it was for something as simple as a fleet of fishing boats. “Since my father ended up dead, I’m guessing the money never made it down there.”

  “Hence the boat being used as a planter?” He unlocked his desk drawer, pulled out several sheets of paper containing what appeared to be long strings of numbers and letters. “As you can see, this doesn’t mean a lot. To me, at least.” “Which literally gets us nowhere.”

  “I think we need to get that last guy identified.” She looked over at him. “But he is identified. I almost forgot. Orozco mentioned the name of Frank White. Said the guy was half black, half Puerto Rican.”

  “The guy from your photo?”

  “Maybe. Not like I have a better theory.”

  “Let’s run his name.” He shoved the photocopies back into his desk, locked it, then hit a key on his keyboard to wake his sleeping computer. The screen came to life, and he brought up the name search, typed in “Frank White,” put in an approximate age, and hit enter. A few moments later, they stared at the screen. “Well, that was a waste of time,” he said, looking at the notation that came up, stating there were too many entries to search the database without further information. Carillo deleted the information, and they retraced their steps to the elevator, while he called Erickson to say that they were just leaving the building and would meet them out front. Sydney knew it had been too good to be true, that they might be able to plug in the guy’s name, come up with something that would tell them anything at all.

  “So what’s your plan?” he asked as they exited the elevator and walked through the lobby.

  “Plan?” They heard the other agents calling in their positions. She looked over at Carillo as she pushed open the glass door and exited the building. “I don’t think I’ve sat still long enough to think of one. Every time I get an answer, I have fifteen more questions.” She held the door for him, then let it fall shut. “Something else Orozco told me when I was down in Baja. That if my father hadn’t been killed in that robbery, they would’ve killed him anyway.”

  “Telling.”

  “Definitely. Between the guy on death row who says he didn’t do it, and an old team
member who says my father was marked, I’ve got to think that Johnnie Wheeler might very well be as innocent as he claims.”

  “The way I see it, he might be on death row, but he’s a lot safer than you are right now. Even before you came home with a bank pouch full of cryptic numbers, someone was trying to kill you.”

  “It’s got to be the photo,” she said, just as Erickson pulled up out front with the car, waiting to drive them to the Mission District. “That’s what started it. Why else would someone try to kill me when it suddenly arrives in my mailbox?” “Okay, let’s say it is? What now?”

  “An age progression on the remaining man who needs to be identified. Might be a helluva lot easier trying to figure out who he is by what he might look like today.” “Not a bad idea,” he said, before Erickson rolled down his window, and they had to turn their attention to present matters: serial killers preying on young women.

  30

  The Mission District had its share of problems, and no wonder. It was a strange and sometimes uneasy mix of culturally diverse businesses and residences, everything from dive bars to coffeehouses, thrift stores to art galleries. Commissioned murals on some walls and annoying graffiti on others coexisted in neighborhoods filled with workingclass families and gentrified newcomers. Chic restaurants were popping up in empty lots, and if the food prices were too high, there were still plenty of mom-and-pop joints to round out the menu for those looking for a place to eat after visiting the avant-garde theaters or upscale nightclubs- assuming one could find parking. That wasn’t their concern. Nor did they delude themselves about where they’d be looking for their witnesses. Their focus would be on the areas that most cops drove through in pairs, because sometimes the gang factions, whether bikers, Hispanics, Asians, or whoever, had issues. They didn’t play well together.

  Carillo suggested they hit another area bar first, just to make it look good, so after Erickson and Ren Pham-Peck dropped them off, they walked the half block to the Dusty Rose. Sydney figured no one was making her for an FBI agent, not in her biker gear, and any stares coming their way had more to do with Carillo, whose dark Italian just-got-outof-bed look was only enhanced by the stubble that graced his square jaw.

  After several minutes, when it became clear that the sort of clientele that frequented this bar was probably not the sort they were interested in, they left and walked the couple of doors down to the Gold Ox, which definitely fit in with their idea of the sort of bar their UnSub might frequent to pick up a hooker. The place was dark, smoky, its floors sticky with spilled beer, never mind a rougher crowd to match.

  Once again, Carillo became the focus of the few women present, as did the men they were with, probably sizing up the competition. To be honest, Sydney thought, there was none, even if all Carillo needed was the tool belt to go with his faded blue jeans, red Pendleton, and white tee. He was the kind of guy who could dress up or down and still look good. And although he was trying to look less like a cop, and more like someone who just wanted to get a drink after a long hard day at work, Sydney felt that several women were tempted to tuck some greenbacks into his waistband. Although Sydney wasn’t one of them, she was supposed to act like she was, and so she kept her hand on his shoulder while he ordered two beers from the bar-Budweiser for their working-class persona. They took the bottles, moving away from the bar to get a better view of the room. Sydney, on the lookout for not only their hooker informant, but anyone else who looked like he could be a danger, sidled up to Carillo as they leaned against the wall, watching a couple of guys play pool.

  They weren’t there but a few minutes when a woman dressed in blue jeans and a hot-pink, low-cut, seen-betterdays cashmere sweater walked up and struck a pose, arms crossed, hips cocked. She eyed Carillo as if he were her next meal. “Damn,” she finally said. “They’re making cops betterlooking all the time.” He merely looked at her as she moved even closer, so that her face was mere inches from his, then whispered, “Don’t get me wrong. I like what I see. But next time, do something a little more. Look the part.”

  Their gazes held for a couple seconds, and Sydney admitted to being fascinated with the byplay. She’d never seen Carillo in action. Not like this. Apparently she hadn’t seen anything yet, because he caressed the woman’s cheek with the side of his beer bottle and said, “And if you were me, what would you do to… look the part?”

  To the observer who wasn’t privy to their conversation, it would seem like a typical seduction. A damned good seduction, Sydney thought, even with her standing next to him. In truth, it even put the woman off balance, because it took her a moment to answer. “You’re both too squeaky clean. Like you were supposed to be dropped off in Union Square, and took a wrong turn.”

  “That right?”

  “Yeah. Like you want to blend in? Come back with a hooker on your arm, then you’ll look like the kind of guy who dropped off his girlfriend in Union Square and is here for a reason.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Candy.”

  “Like cotton candy,” he said, touching her shoulder, the pink sweater, with his Budweiser.

  “Yeah.”

  “You working for someone?”

  “Not a chance. My turn now. A friend said I should come by. Have a chat. Why? ”

  He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Looking for someone. Heard you could help.”

  “Like I told the cops yesterday, if you’re looking for that purse snatcher, I have no idea who he is. Unless the price is right. No doubt he’s the one you’re looking for. Psycho.”

  “We’re looking for someone who killed a hooker.”

  She smiled, reached up, took his beer bottle from him, then took a long sip, before handing it back. “Tell you what. First bit of advice is on the house.” She cocked her head toward Sydney. “Biker clothes aren’t doing it for her. She needs to be less… virginal.”

  He grinned, holding his beer up in a mock toast. “Not sure that’s possible, Miss Candy. But thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “And you,” she said, apparently not quite finished doling out her counsel, “look like you’re trying out for the Village People Revival. Even so, I’ll help you. For a hundred bucks.”

  Sydney tried to keep a straight face, and really tried not to take advantage of the situation. But before she knew it, she started humming the “Y.M.C.A.” song.

  “I think I liked you better when you didn’t have a sense of humor,” he said, giving her a dark look. It turned darker when Sydney started laughing. He handed his bottle to the hooker. “Have a beer, Candy. Me and Pollyanna gotta go take care of some business.”

  Carillo took Sydney’s beer, set it on a ledge, as they started to walk out.

  “Okay, fine,” Candy called out, loud enough for several nearby patrons to hear. “Sixty.”

  Carillo kept walking.

  “Twenty?”

  He stopped, turned, eyed her, then, with a shrug, said, “Yeah. Sure.”

  Candy didn’t waste any time coming after them, nor did she waste any of the beer in the bottle, taking several long sips on her way out the door. The bottle was nearly empty when she set it down, followed them out.

  On the sidewalk out front, Carillo let go of Sydney, turning to face his newfound informant. “You’re going to help for twenty bucks?”

  “Easy money,” she said, looking up and down the street, then at him. “Don’t even have to-”

  “Why?” he asked, cutting her off before she could detail what it was she didn’t have to do for the money.

  “Because it’s not like anyone takes roll call around here to see who shows up to work each night, you know? One of my friends might be missing and no one even knows it.”

  “What do you think, Pollyanna? Should we pay her?”

  As far as Sydney was concerned, the woman had earned her money by not giving them up. Anyone in there who witnessed that exchange would think that Candy and Carillo had just agreed on a price for her services-whether for
him or for Sydney, or the both of them, would probably depend on the imagination of whoever was listening. “Why not?”

  “You’re in, Candy.”

  The woman held out her hand for payment.

  “You haven’t done anything,” Carillo said.

  “COD, or no deal.”

  “You got any money in that backpack, Pollyanna?”

  Sydney dug out a twenty and gave it to him.

  He waved it in front of Candy, and she tried to grab it. “Ah-ah. Info first,” he said.

  “Fine,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Carillo glanced at Sydney and shrugged. So there they were, on a highly detailed FBI op, following a hooker. Not exactly textbook, but then if she’d learned nothing else these past few days, it was that being creative sometimes produced better results. They hadn’t gone more than fifteen feet when a brown, older model Cadillac pulled up to the curb, the driver yelling out, “Hey.”

  It was Doc Schermer. The car was borrowed from DEA. A nice touch, since the typical government ride would be noticed from ten blocks away in this part of town, and Drug Enforcement Agency usually had a nice fleet of cars that were better suited.

  Sydney walked up to the car door, leaving Carillo and Candy on the sidewalk.

  “That a working girl or your contact?” he asked.

  “Both.” Sydney told him what happened.

  When he finished laughing, he said, “She’s right. You two do look too clean. Give me a few. I’ll run out to the drugstore and pick you up some stuff to get all dolled up. Didn’t you ever play hooker back at your old department?”

  “Yeah, except at the time I was supposed to be a hooker. For this operation, I thought I was supposed to be a date.”