“Go figure. Apparently in his haste to flee, he pushed me into traffic.” Sydney lifted her hair on her left temple and showed him the lump.
“Ouch. You okay?”
“Just a bump.” She looked down the street, then said, “There’s some other guy I saw here. I also saw him in the federal building.” She gave them the man’s description. “Any chance you saw him out and about while you’ve been following me?”
He narrowed his gaze at her head, as though he, too, thought she’d been bumped too hard. “No, but we’ll keep an eye out. Maybe you should have that looked at. We could give you a ride.”
Sydney glanced back at Carillo, who walked up to the car to see who she was talking to. “My babysitters,” she explained.
And then Carillo nodded to something in the back of Dunning’s vehicle. “Tell me you weren’t wearing that gray sweatshirt and racing around the Mission District trying to drag hookers from their hidey-holes?”
Dunning looked in the back, then laughed. “Uh, no. Getting too old and fat to go chasing after hookers,” he said, though Sydney didn’t see an ounce of spare flesh on the guy. “I was wearing it out on the range this afternoon.” He reached back and lifted it, pulled a couple of brass casings from it, then tossed it back. “You want,” Dunning said to Sydney, “I could drop you off wherever it is you need to go. Doctor? Home? At least if you’re in my car, I know where you are.”
Before Sydney could answer, Carillo gave the car door a slap. “Thanks, but we’ve got a ton of paperwork to fill out from the car accident.” An SFPD radio car pulled up, the officer who’d raced off at the shots-fired call. Carillo called out to him. “Didn’t find your guy?”
“No. Maybe it was just someone popping off a couple shots. Who knows.”
“Big city,” Dunning said, putting the car into gear.
Carillo pushed away from the door, put his arm around Sydney’s shoulder. “See you guys. Don’t work too hard.”
“How hard can you work, parked in one place? We’ll be in that little alley about a half block up. We’re monitoring your radio, so call if you need us.” They drove off, and Carillo punched in a number on his cell phone. “Dixon?” she heard him saying, and knew without a doubt that her night of working was at an end. “Yeah, it’s Carillo. Fitz was in an accident… No, the shots-fired call wasn’t ours. Not involved…” A moment later, Carillo was handing her his phone. “Dixon wants to talk to you.”
She took the phone, held it to her ear. “Hey.”
“You’re going to the hospital.”
“I’m fine. I don’t think-”
“Call me when you’re there. Don’t even think about coming back to work before you get a release for duty.”
She handed the phone to Carillo just as Scotty drove up, and she wondered if her evening could get any worse.
Apparently it could, since he insisted on transporting Sydney to the hospital, because Schermer and the others were going to stay on, help SFPD and their other agents see if they couldn’t locate Sweatshirt Guy. She still needed to give a full statement to SFPD, but by the time the officer got to her, started writing it down, SFPD’s dispatch reported finding a body slumped in an alley about two blocks away, and the officer taking their report was off again.
Just as well. The lump on her head was no longer numb, but now pulsing with a knifelike pain, enough to where she didn’t care who took her to the hospital, and Scotty ushered her into the front seat of his car. He looked over at Carillo, said, “Sorry about the backseat. Office on wheels, you know.”
Sydney glanced back, saw a file box, maybe a week’s worth of newspapers, and several empty bags of fast food, as though he’d spent the last several days working out of his car-probably parked just up the street from her house, come to think of it. The thought irked her, but not enough to overlook the significance of those files. Scotty was in California to work one case, and she had a strong suspicion some of it was sitting in that file box. Unfortunately, any chances of her getting into it without being seen were slim to none. She thought about texting a message to Carillo, telling him instead of using the damned box for an armrest, he should be looking inside of it. She decided by the time she figured out how to text a damned message, they’d be at the hospital. Had Angie been here, she’d have it entered in and sent before Sydney even brought up the proper screen. Not that it mattered. A few minutes later, they were pulling up in front of the ER. Scotty wanted to swing by the ambulance entrance, drop her off, but she insisted on parking and walking. “I’m not an invalid, I have a goddamned bump on my head,” she said, and that settled it.
He parked, the three of them got out, walked into the emergency room, and she had to admit that the nice thing about hospitals was that unless there were some major emergencies going on, the ER staff usually ushered the law enforcement types in pretty quickly. Unfortunately, Scotty hovered over her so closely that she didn’t have a moment to get Carillo alone, tell him what she saw. She was poked and prodded, had her eyes checked, and told they’d need to do a CAT scan before they even thought about releasing her. The nurse said it might be a few minutes, and Sydney decided it was now or never. She looked right at Scotty. “Is my phone in my jacket pocket? I should call my mom. Let her know what happened.”
Scotty reached into his pocket and handed her his phone. Figured.
“If I call her on that at this hour, she’ll freak when she sees the number come up on caller ID. Tony,” she said to Carillo. “Check my pocket, see if my phone is there.”
Carillo walked over to where her clothes were hanging from a hook on the wall, patted the pockets. “Not here.”
“I hope I left it in the car, and didn’t lose it out on the street. All my numbers are filed in there. I need that phone.”
Carillo said, “You want me to check in the car, see if it’s there?”
“If it’s not, you’ll need to call Schermer, have him check out on that street corner. Oh God, Scotty, my head hurts.”
And sure enough, Scotty was at her bedside, taking her hand in his. “You want me to call the nurse, get something for the pain?”
“You know what I’d really like, Scotty? A Coke. You wouldn’t mind getting me one, would you?”
“Sure.”
“Actually,” Carillo said. “I’ll do it, soon as I check the car for your phone. I need to make a call anyway. Check in with Dixon. Besides, you send this guy out there,” he said, nodding at Scotty, “he’s likely to break his neck in a hurry to get back to you.” He started out the door, then stopped, patting at his pockets. “Funny thing is, I didn’t drive. Keys?”
Scotty reached into his pocket, dug out his keys, and tossed them to Carillo, his attention fixed on Sydney. There was going to be hell to pay after this, trying to ignore the look in Scotty’s eyes, his hope that there might be something left between them after all. “You haven’t seen some guy following me, have you?” she asked Scotty after Carillo left.
“What guy?”
She gave him the description, even as a stab of guilt hit her, because she did care about Scotty, and didn’t like that she was keeping him occupied while Carillo searched his car. She must have winced at the thought, because Scotty asked, “Maybe I should call that nurse.”
“No, I’m fine.” As fine as one could be in this situation, and, as Scotty stroked her hand, she sent up a fervent wish that Carillo had no trouble determining that she left her phone behind just so he could look at those files, because she didn’t want to think she was messing with Scotty’s head for nothing. She sighed, closed her eyes, figuring it was going to be a long, long night.
33
“Three days!” Sydney stared at the release-to-duty form before turning her accusing glare on Scotty, wondering if he had something to do with this. “I’m perfectly fine. I do not need three days to recuperate.”
The doctor, unfazed by her outburst, handed her a scrip for a mega dose of Motrin. “You were hit pretty hard. Get some rest. See your own doctor in
a few days, maybe he’ll reevaluate.”
Carillo wandered in right about then, handing her a can of soda. “Oh good. You’re done.”
“Oh good. Warm soda.”
“The call took longer than I thought. I see the bump didn’t change your lovely personality any.”
She held out the orders. “Three days until released for duty.”
Carillo glanced at Scotty. “Guess that should make it easier on everyone all the way around, eh?”
“I know Sydney’s not happy about it, but I am,” Scotty said. “Get her off the street with no one thinking twice.”
“I am so seeing my own doctor tomorrow. I am not going to be pulled from the street.”
Scotty took the scrip from Sydney’s hand, saying, “Where do you want to get this filled?”
“I don’t need it filled. It’s Motrin. I have a bottle full of it at home.”
“But it’s eight hundred milligrams.”
“Which equals four little pills. Somehow I think I’ll manage.”
A nurse came in with a wheelchair, and when Scotty left to get the car, Carillo said, “You’re a little upset.”
She looked away. “Upset? I am so pissed right now, I could scream.”
“Well, don’t do it, or you’ll end up in the psych ward, and probably for longer than three days. By the way, I found your phone. On the front seat of Scotty’s car.”
“Is that it?”
“That is what you wanted me to go out there and get, right?”
“You didn’t see the file box you had to climb over to get into his car?”
He grinned, and she realized he was playing her. “I was trying to figure out a way to get back in there myself. You beat me to it. Copied a couple notes while I was there. Let me look into it tomorrow, see if it pans out. And I can bring you your sketch stuff for that age progression.”
And though she was dying to know what he’d dug up, Scotty walked in, and she had to content herself with the knowledge that Carillo was going to look into things himself. It was not, however, enough to lessen her anxiety over being removed from active duty for three days, and the more she thought about that, the angrier she got.
Scotty drove to her place. As he rounded the corner, his radio crackled with static, no doubt his team keying their mikes, letting him know they had seen him drive up. He pulled into the driveway, turned to Carillo in the backseat. “You want to take her up, get her settled? I need to call the guys, let them know what’s going on.”
“Sure.”
She wanted to snap that she could get herself upstairs on her own just fine. Instead she exited the car, slammed the door shut.
Carillo followed her. About midway up the steps, he said, “I figured after the good news, you’d be calmed down by now.”
She stopped, turned, looked him right in the eye. “Calmed down? Scotty’s gotta be high-fiving his guys right now. I’m out of commission.”
“With very good reason,” he said, glancing back at the car, where Scotty was talking on the phone. Carillo ushered her up the stairs. “You work on the age progression on your unknown in that photo, and I’ll work on the names I dug up in his files. Orozco was in there. Scotty’s gotta be working the BICTT thing. Which means that whatever is going on in Gnoble’s office, getting someone all antsy to take you out, it has to do with McKnight sending you that photo, or something close to the timing of it. You didn’t receive anything else in the mail right then, did you?”
“Yeah. The card from my aunt commemorating the death of my father. And unless she’s hidden a code in it, something I highly doubt, I’d have to say she’s not involved.”
“Regardless, between the two of us, we might be able to put something together. So in the meantime, play nice with Scotty so you don’t get yanked into some protective custody situation.”
“Fine. I’ll be nice.” She unlocked the door. The moment she opened it, Topper’s large white head emerged. “Hello, Toppie!”
“Didn’t know you had a sheep,” Carillo said.
“Topper is not a sheep. He’s a poodle.”
“A poodle, huh? That’s why they give them the foo-foo haircuts? So you can tell they’re dogs and not livestock?”
“He’s named after a very lovable character in the movie of the same name. He belongs to my neighbor.”
“What’s he doing at your place?”
“I sort of forgot I agreed to watch him tonight. In exchange for Arturo lending me his motorcycle.” He petted Topper while Sydney opened a cupboard to get him a snack. When Carillo walked into her kitchen, he stopped before the painting on her easel. “What is that?”
“I have no idea. Sometimes I just paint and see where it takes me.”
He cocked his head, trying to look at it from a different angle. “Don’t think you want to go where this one’s taking you.”
“Why not?”
“Flames in hell.”
She gave Topper his dog biscuit, then walked to the easel to look at the painting, thinking it did look like flames. “I started it right after my visit with Wheeler.”
“Maybe you subconsciously wanted him to burn in hell for what he did.”
The thought she had painted flames bothered her, especially considering that a fire had been set to cover her father’s murder. She moved away from it, shook out another biscuit for Topper.
Carillo looked at a few of her other paintings stacked against the wall in her kitchen. “Abstracts?”
“A kick I’m on.”
He nodded, then glanced around the kitchen, at the brushes, the cans of turpentine, and other art supplies. “Hope you don’t cook in here. This place would go up in a hot second.”
“That’s why God made microwaves and neighbors who can cook.”
“You definitely need to get that neighbor something for Christmas. What’s his name?”
“Arturo.”
He walked to the door, looked out the window. “So you think these guys bugged your apartment, too?”
“Better not have.”
“But you don’t know.”
“No.” Topper finished his biscuit, then sat by the door. “Oh, sorry, Top. You want to go out.” She didn’t have the energy, but picked up his leash anyway.
“You want me to take him around the block? I gotta wait anyway, until Schermer can swing by, pick me up.”
“Would you?”
“Or will he walk me?”
“Topper’s good on a leash.”
Carillo clapped his hands. “C’mere, boy.” Topper clambered over. “You want to go for a walk?” His words sent Topper into a spin before he sat, waited for the leash. Carillo walked him out, no problem, and Sydney locked the door, then dropped onto the couch, deciding she wasn’t getting up for anything. Even to let him back in. Well, maybe to let him back in. But that was it.
Her stomach had other plans, and when it started rumbling, she tried to remember when it was she last ate. Cheesecake. There was definitely some of Arturo’s cheesecake still in the fridge, and she got up, cut herself a generous slice, and started eating, not even bothering to sit. She glanced over at her painting, thinking about what Carillo said, and it struck her that here she was, eating a slice of heaven, looking at a painting of hell. The irony of it all, she thought, wondering if it had truly been flames her subconscious had painted. Logical, certainly, considering she’d started it after her visit with Wheeler, the man convicted of her father’s murder and the arson of the pizza parlor.
She had seen flames that night.
A painting of hell…
She stared at the canvas and for some reason was compelled to add some paint, and she set down her plate, squeezed some red onto the palette. Deep dark red. Not all over, just a spot near the top left. But something was off, and she took a darker color, dabbed a small diagonal line through the red spot of paint.
The moment she finished it, stepped back, looked at it, she was disturbed. More than disturbed. Her gaze caught between the flames and
the black depths she’d painted. And then it was drawn to that red spot, the last thing she saw in her mind. Like a devil’s eye, she thought. Staring at her.
She ignored the beating of her heart, and felt she should recognize what it was she’d painted. Really, it was nothing more than being stressed from the accident. The blow to her head, never mind the whole shooting in Baja.
And of course she was tired. Who wouldn’t be after the past couple of days? She had no idea what she was looking at, or even if it meant anything. No doubt some psychiatrist could put a name on it, transference of something or other, especially after Carillo had mentioned that she’d painted hell.
She was entitled to be upset, she thought, and decided she’d had enough of painting for the night.
She put the brush in some cleaner, set her empty plate in the sink.
Topper barked outside, and she looked out the window, saw Schermer pull up to the front of the house. Carillo stood in the driveway with the dog, talking to Scotty. He waved at Schermer, then followed Scotty up the steps. She unlocked the door, let them in, and Scotty said, “Should you be up?”
“No. But how else were you going to get in?”
He walked into the kitchen, looked over at her painting, shook his head, and said, “You should take some Motrin and go to bed.”
“And what were you planning on doing?”
“I get to relieve one of the guys parked up the street for a few hours. But when I’m done, maybe I could sleep on your couch instead of driving back to my hotel?”
“You need a key to get in, or did your spooks already pick my lock and make a copy?”
“A key would be nice.”
“Yeah,” Carillo said, handing her Topper’s leash. “That way he can make a copy and get it back to you.”
“Don’t you have to go out and look for serial killers?” she asked, the night taking its toll on her patience.
Face of a Killer Page 25