Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

  “In this part of town, I think they’re one and the same. I’ll go pick up your stuff. Don’t go into any more bars until I get back.”

  “What about lover boy?” Sydney asked, nodding to where Carillo and Candy were huddled together in a doorway of a closed shop, looking for all the world as though they were involved in some verbal foreplay, as he stuffed a twenty into her cleavage.

  “Poor guy,” Schermer said. “They are never gonna let him live this down.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at the notion. Schermer drove off, humming the “Y.M.C.A.” song, and Sydney rejoined Carillo. “You got a moment?”

  “Wait right here,” he told Candy, then stepped out of the doorway.

  “Don’t you think you’re getting a bit too much into your role?”

  “Jealous?

  “You can’t imagine. Please tell me you’re getting something for my money.”

  “I showed Candy the photo. Didn’t know our Jane Doe’s name, but remembers her, because she was complaining about some guy in a white van driving past, giving her the creeps.”

  “White van?”

  “Bingo. And Candy knows someone who knows every working girl down here, so we just might get that positive ID on our Jane Doe.”

  “And we know our victim was a working girl?”

  “Safe bet if she was hanging in the bar we just left. Apparently it’s the new hot spot for the working class to find them.”

  “Tell her to go for it.”

  “She’s gonna want more money.”

  “And what, you forgot your wallet?”

  “It’s the beer money. Need to keep that separate from the informant money.”

  “Don’t forget where it came from,” Sydney said, digging out another twenty.

  About ten minutes later, Schermer was back with the makeup, and Sydney sat in his car, applying black eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and heavy orange-red blush-definitely not her color, and definitely didn’t go with her sunburn. But then, this wasn’t about her.

  “Looks good,” Schermer said. “Now run some of this through your hair.” He opened a small jar of styling gel. “It’ll give you that haven’t-washed-your-hair-all-week look that’s so prevalent with hookers.”

  “It’s scaring me that you’re so up on this,” Sydney said, putting some gel on her hands, then rubbing them together before running it through her hair.

  He didn’t comment, just nodded out the window. “Isn’t that Carillo’s hooker? She’s looking a bit frantic.”

  Sydney glanced up to see Candy and another woman on the street corner, yelling and pointing, she thought, at a tall, thin man wearing a gray hood. The man hurried forward, looked back over his shoulder, then took off running, just as Carillo’s voice came on the radio. “That’s him!” he shouted. “The guy who was with our Jane Doe.”

  31

  Doc Schermer pulled out, following their suspect’s direction of flight, but it was slow progress as cars whipped out of parking spaces, or stopped to claim a coveted spot. Sydney kept her eye on the suspect, darting between pedestrians on the heavily crowded sidewalk. The street was filled with cafes and bars, and a few shops that were open for business.

  “We’re going to lose him,” she said, as Schermer had to stop once again, this time for an SUV that was trying to fit in a space barely big enough for a compact. “I’m getting out.”

  Schermer picked up the radio. “We still have visual. Fitz is getting out on foot.”

  “Ten-four,” Carillo said, his voice sounding like it was coming from a shaker as he ran. “Call… PD… get… assistance.”

  Carillo was about a half block back, while the suspect was about a block beyond her in the other direction. Sydney grabbed the portable radio from her backpack, then took off running toward the suspect, paralleling him on the opposite side of the street. He looked back once, saw Carillo chasing him still, and continued on. Sydney was fairly certain he didn’t realize she was there, but only because he didn’t look her way. Plenty of people on her side of the street did, however, some swearing at her as she raced past them toward the intersection. He was maybe fifty yards ahead of her, when several people exited some nightclub directly in her path, and she nearly bowled a man over.

  “Hey!” the man yelled, grabbing her.

  “FBI,” she said, holding up her radio as if that were proof. He let go and she ran past. Scanned the crowd across the street. A few pedestrians crossed the intersection farther up, but their suspect wasn’t one of them. Sydney didn’t think he’d made it that far, which meant he must have ducked into one of the businesses. She gathered that Carillo had come to the same conclusion, because he also stopped on the opposite side of the street from her, looking around both directions.

  He spoke into his radio, his voice stilted, out of breath. “See which way?”

  “No,” she keyed back. “Don’t think he made it to the next intersection.”

  Doc Schermer drove up, came to a stop, and held up his hands, ignoring the nitwit in the car behind him, honking.

  “Circle the block, see if he made it past here,” Sydney radioed. “Carillo and I will check the businesses.”

  Doc waved his hand, signaling for her to pass, since he was conveniently stopping the traffic. She did, then darted across the opposing lane when that car stopped as well. Carillo, waiting for her on the other side, nodded at a blackboard listing the pasta specials for a cafe. “That’s where I last saw him. In front of that restaurant.”

  “Then let’s start there.”

  They walked in the entrance, and the woman working the front seemed to stare at Sydney’s hooker face a few seconds too long. “Two?” she asked.

  Sydney pulled out her credentials, so there was no mistaking their intent. “FBI. We’re looking for someone. Where are your restrooms?”

  She pointed toward the kitchen in the back.

  “You see a white male wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt come in here?”

  “No,” she said, and they walked past her, eyeing the patrons, who seemed to be eyeing Sydney. Maybe she’d been a bit too successful with that makeup. Not that she cared at the moment, and they checked the bathrooms, then into the kitchen. No one saw anything. They left that restaurant and checked the bar next door, with the same results. Two cop cars were cruising past when they stepped out, which meant Schermer had succeeded in getting help at least, and they stepped into a used music store with no customers.

  The cashier, a dark-haired twentysomething with a bad haircut and piercings in both eyebrows and his top lip, looked up from his issue of Rolling Stone when they walked in, his bloodshot eyes barely registering a reaction when he saw their badges. “Yeah. You must be looking for that guy who ran through here. What’d he do, like rob a bank? Oh, wait. Like they’re closed.” He started to laugh.

  “Which way?” Sydney asked.

  “That way,” he said, pointing. “Ran through the back.

  Heard the door slam shut.”

  Carillo glanced at her as they walked toward the rear of the store. “High?”

  “That would mean he had brain cells to begin with.” They checked the few aisles, and the too-small restroom just off the storage room, then stopped at the back door. Sydney put one hand on the push bar, drew her gun with the other, then eyed Carillo. He drew his weapon as well as a

  Stinger flashlight, gave her a nod, and she pushed open the door.

  They came face-to-face with a brick wall. To the left was a padlocked iron gate that belonged to the adjoining restaurant, blocking any access to the catwalk, which meant he had to go right. They started in that direction, but then stopped when they came to a second catwalk separating the music store from the adjoining business, a cleaners that was closed. The well-lit catwalk led back to the street. “Which way?” Sydney asked.

  “You go right, I’ll go left. We’ll meet up on the corner.” They split up. Sydney continued to the right, holstering her weapon when she got back to the sidewalk at the front of the
store. She looked both directions, didn’t see their suspect, then started toward the corner, where she’d said she’d meet up with Carillo, shaking the doors of the closed dry cleaner’s. Locked tight. She walked to the next business, an avant-garde theater called the Purple Moon, known for its popular drag queen reviews. A show was just breaking, it seemed, when she had to stop to allow a number of patrons to exit. She glanced in the doorway, saw a burly doorman, and decided it couldn’t hurt to ask if he’d seen anyone.

  “Actually, I did see a guy with a gray sweatshirt,” he said. “Kept looking over his shoulder. But we’ve just had a bunch of people leaving, so he might not even still be here.”

  She peered inside at the crowd. It was too big a building to search alone. “Thanks. I’ll get my partner, and we’ll come in and check the place, if that’s okay.”

  “Feel free. We’re between shows anyway, so I can turn on all the lights.”

  “Any chance he could’ve gone out a back way?” she asked, stepping aside for several more people who were exiting.

  “Not without sounding the alarm.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She weaved her way through cross-dressers, transvestites, and just plain old heterosexuals out for an entertaining evening. Some milled about, lighting up cigarettes, others walked to the street corner. Carillo called her on the radio. “Think I… a gray hood… the corner, where… those… are… your way.”

  She could only copy about half of what he was saying and moved to the corner to get a better view.

  Carillo’s voice crackled with static. “Right-”

  She looked up. Could just make out the top of Carillo’s head as he raced down the sidewalk. And then she caught a glimpse of a gray hood as a man barreled through the crowd, shouldering pedestrians right and left. Before she could move, he shoved her in the street. Knocked the air from her lungs. She heard the squealing of brakes. Her head hit something solid. And the world turned into a mosaic of black and white specks.

  32

  Richard Blackwell shoved his hands into his coat pockets, tucked his head down low, and walked toward the corner, trying not to be seen by the multitude of people gravitating through the area after the fiasco on the corner. He wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed, but either that idiot Prescott had jumped the gun-again-or the serial killer he’d promised to set up as the patsy had unwittingly slammed right into Sydney Fitzpatrick.

  And wouldn’t that just be rich.

  Jobs like this weren’t supposed to be rocket science. They were supposed to be neat. Clean. He’d set the whole damned thing up so it couldn’t fail, and yet every time he turned around, something was going wrong.

  Maybe what he needed to do was put a bullet through Prescott’s head. Make all their lives easier.

  That happy vision faded at the sight of the charcoal-gray Crown Victoria that pulled up on the street corner, then sped off in the direction the attacker fled. A moment later, some transvestite was helping Sydney Fitzpatrick up from the ground. Before he had a chance to clear the area, it was flooded with cops and agents, and he stepped into the doorway of a restaurant, pretended to read the menu posted in the window as he pulled out his cell phone and hit send. “We have a problem,” he said when the call was answered. “It might be bigger than we think.”

  When Sydney was able to focus, she became aware that there were at least a dozen sets of eyes looking at her, mostly men, and the absurd thought that, clearly, the majority seemed more skilled at applying makeup than she had ever been, swept its way into her consciousness. And she was conscious. A good thing. She could now breathe. Also a good thing. Apparently the car whose hood she had landed on had thankfully been slowing to turn the corner. Sydney tried to stand, felt her knees give way, and was grateful when someone grabbed her and helped her back to the sidewalk.

  The driver got out, frantic. “What happened? Why’d you jump in front of my car?”

  Jump? Hardly, she thought as Carillo came running up.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine,” Sydney said. “Lost my radio.”

  Carillo took over for the well-manicured transvestite who had been assisting, putting his arm around her until she was certain she could stand. “You need an ambulance?”

  Sydney took stock of her body parts, figured the weakness in her knees was more from the rush of adrenaline than from any injuries. There was a slight lump on her temple, but other than that, she felt okay. “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone pushed me.”

  “Sweatshirt guy?”

  “If I had to guess. You said you saw him here?”

  “Pretty sure that’s who I was chasing. I was halfway up the block

  …” Carillo assisted her to the curb, eyeing the crowd who’d gathered. “Anyone see what happened?”

  There was a lot of looking around, shoulder shrugging, comments that ranged from “She jumped out” to “She tripped and fell.”

  “I didn’t trip, I didn’t jump,” Sydney said, between gritted teeth.

  Carillo drew her away from the others. “Just checking. Don’t get so testy.”

  Like he wouldn’t be if someone had pushed him into the street. But Sydney didn’t respond, because the burly-armed bouncer from the Purple Moon walked up. “You still looking for that guy? Gray hood?”

  “Yeah,” Sydney said.

  “He ran that way,” he said, pointing in the direction they’d come from originally. “Least I think it was him. Saw him take off from about here right after I heard the screech of brakes.”

  “You’re sure it was the guy in the gray sweatshirt?”

  “Pretty sure. Ripped his sweatshirt off as he ran. Tucked it under one arm, which is what makes me think it was the same guy. Then again, it ain’t like gray sweatshirts are all that unusual.”

  Unfortunately he was right. Sydney counted three in their general area, though their physical description was off from the first person they saw-a man whose face they didn’t see clearly enough to ID.

  Across the street a man stood staring, and when she looked at him, he turned, strode off in the opposite direction.

  Recognition hit her. “He’s the guy from the elevator. The… guy.”

  “What guy?” Carillo asked, looking where she was pointing.

  Too late, he was gone. Lost in the crowd, and her head throbbed as she tried to remember, tried to determine what was so odd about his presence. “He was watching me in court during my robbery case, and followed me up to the cafe.”

  “In the federal building?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Definitely. Cute Guy from the elevator.”

  “I don’t care if he’s Ugly Guy from the basement. What’s he doing here, watching you, then? Because the way I see it, if he was a cop, he’d be hauling his ass this way, find out what’s up, not hightailing it the opposite way. You see him around again, you call for help.”

  She reached up, touched the tender spot on her temple, trying to ignore the increasing headache. If a guy like that wasn’t a cop, and he had access to the federal building… She didn’t even want to think about it. “I need to find my radio.”

  “Wait here with the bouncer,” Carillo said. “I’ll find it.”

  Carillo left her beneath the awning at the Purple Moon’s entrance, then walked to the street corner. A black-and-white had pulled up and was taking the driver’s information, but then the officer rushed to his vehicle, saying something to Carillo just before he got in and raced off. Suddenly they were there by themselves, as though SFPD had abandoned them.

  “Shots fired,” Carillo called out to her, pulling a three-byfive card from his back pocket to start copying witnesses’ names. “Takes precedence over lowly agents being pushed into traffic.”

  The bouncer shook his head. “I gotta get a new job. Shooting here last night, too. Some woman shot her boyfriend.”

  Carillo went back to interviewing the witnesse
s, and Sydney asked the bouncer, “Did you see the guy walk out of here?”

  “Guy with the sweatshirt?” He crossed his massive arms. “Sorry. He coulda come in here, left with the crowd, but I was busy making sure they weren’t walking out with drinks. Didn’t notice him until I heard the car skid, and then the cop car sped after him.”

  “Black-and-white?” Sydney asked, wondering if SFPD had a patrol in the area by that time.

  “Nah. One of those undercover rigs. Dark Crown Victoria.”

  “Could you ID him?”

  “The cop?”

  “The guy in the gray sweatshirt.”

  “Didn’t get that close a look. Only noticed the sweatshirt, ’cause you asked about it. Figured he probably took it off, you know, to disguise himself or something.”

  Carillo returned a few minutes later. “Got everyone’s name who’s willing to give one.” He handed Sydney her radio, the hard plastic casing dented and scratched at the bottom from being dropped in the gutter.

  She keyed it, heard the feedback on Carillo’s radio, and figured it was none the worse for wear. “Great,” she said, thinking that the entire operation was ruined for the night. “Now what?”

  “Now you go home and we keep looking.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You have a lump on your head, never mind that Elevator Guy is wandering around down here. Either that or you were hit harder than you think. You’re going home.”

  A man pulled up in a dark gray Crown Victoria about two minutes later, and the bouncer said, “That’s the cop that took off after the guy.”

  Sydney looked over to see who it was. She didn’t recognize him, figured he was an undercover SFPD. “And you are…?”

  “Jared Dunning. One of your shadows.” He nodded to the man in the passenger seat. “Mel. One of your other shadows. We’re, uh, working with Scotty, and are under orders not to lose you this time.”

  “You find our UnSub?” she asked. He seemed surprised by her query, and she said, “The bouncer said you took off after the guy.”

  “So it was the same guy. I was looking for you, but saw him running. Thought he matched the description. Unfortunately I lost him a couple blocks from here. Medium height, carrying a gray sweatshirt. At least I think it was the guy. He didn’t stop to identify himself.”