Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

  “I’m gonna have to take your word on it, since I’ve never seen the guy. Question is, what the hell does it mean?”

  “Maybe that Wheeler is telling the truth. Someone set him up.”

  “Question is, did they set him up on purpose, or was he just a convenient patsy?” He looked at his watch. “We gotta get moving, or your shadows are going to raise all sorts of hell, and I’d like to make sure they don’t do it before we make both contacts. Since I told Dixon I was going to stop by and make sure you were okay, then go to lunch, we could stop at the Taco Bell near the methadone clinic where Jazmine works.”

  “You don’t think we should stop by the clinic before we go to Becky Lynn’s?”

  “Just the opposite. It’ll put me back in town when Dixon starts chomping at the bit, wondering where I’ve gone off to. And by the time we drive up north, see Becky Lynn, then come back down and hit the drive-through before we make our stop at the clinic, it’ll be too late for your shadows to do much about it.” He started up the car, looked over at her. “Of course, you’ll have to deal with Scotty and whatever repercussions come out of that, because you know these guys are gonna blow a gasket when they figure out what we’re doing.”

  “Him I can deal with. Dixon, on the other hand…”

  “Least of our worries,” he said as he pulled up alongside Jared Dunning’s car. He rolled down his window, waited for Dunning to lower his as well. “We’re heading to Taco Bell. One down in Bayview-Hunters Point.”

  “Why down there?” Dunning asked, looking tired and annoyed.

  “You are clearly not a Taco Bell connoisseur. The ones around here suck. But first we gotta make a stop up in Sausalito. Drop off some paperwork. You’re welcome to follow.”

  “Isn’t Sausalito north of the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “As a matter of fact it is. We’ll only be a few minutes, if you want to wait here for us before we head back down to lunch.” Dunning uttered a few choice swearwords as Carillo rolled up his window, then politely waited for Dunning to pull out after him before he took off. “Don’t think he’s real happy.”

  “I don’t think he believes you. Now, where were we? Something about McKnight testifying?”

  “Right. Sort of like the story Orozco told you. McKnight testified that he believed he was an innocent patsy. That the BICTT board of directors, that would be the international guys who couldn’t legally open a bank in our country, used his all-American name to secure investors, and to cover the foreign paper trail for the real investors. He says he knew nothing about it. The involvement of BICTT was merely as an advisory capacity, for international banking matters, and that he had no idea they were actually shareholders, or that everything under the sun was going through their office before he attached his signature.”

  “With a scandal of that magnitude, how the hell did McKnight survive to have his name suggested as the federal procurement czar?”

  “First of all, because he was cleared. Utterly and completely, and even though the Senate subcommittee report seems to indicate his story is dirtier than hell. Might have stayed buried had the president not tried to appoint him, thereby setting a chain of events into motion. When Scotty’s friend Hatcher walked in to do a background, it was the one thing that apparently no one else really bothered to do before then. Or maybe hoped no one would do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sit down and actually read a copy of the subcommittee report. All umpteen-million pages of it. It seems McKnight and his BICTT investors were purchasing shares just below the five percent that would trigger the requirement of SEC disclosure-an obvious violation of SEC law, and one that McKnight, with his banking background, would have known about.”

  “So how the hell did he skate on this?”

  “Could be that a certain fairly new senator was sitting in on those hearings.”

  “Donovan Gnoble?”

  “None other. At no time did Gnoble ever mention that he knew McKnight, shared any business holdings with him, or that McKnight served under him during his years in the service, whether enlisted, special ops, or black ops. Of course, if it was black ops, no way would Gnoble mention it. And that would certainly explain why he’d overlook some serious flaws in the hearings and let McKnight skate. He can’t tell on McKnight, and McKnight can’t tell on him.”

  “So Gnoble is dirty.”

  “The question is, is it government-sanctioned black ops dirt, or un sanctioned black ops dirt?”

  “Or a little of both.”

  “Either way, if this were ever made public, it could potentially fuck up a really nice lead in the polls if, oh, the opposing candidate found out and put the proper spin on it. And Gnoble’s not the only party who’d like it kept under wraps. CIA sure as hell doesn’t want any of this festering history back out in the open. Not if, as Orozco told you, the BICTT scandal is just the tip of a very large iceberg that’s still floating around out there.”

  “I can see where it might look particularly bad, especially from where we’re sitting, but other than our own suspicions, and a bit of circumstantial evidence, showing Gnoble’s name on a report…” She glanced over at him. “The bank pouch from Baja. Orozco said that the guys that came after us were probably a team of black ops. They were sent to get that pouch.”

  “It makes sense. When you look at the whole picture. The background on McKnight, the upcoming election. That photo suddenly showing up in your mail. If it’s all related, then whatever got stirred up twenty years ago involving your father and Wheeler, it’s rearing its ugly head again. And if that’s what got your father killed

  …”

  He shrugged, left it hanging there. As if to say: What chance did she have?

  38

  Becky Lynn McKnight did not live in the nicest part of Sausalito, though Sydney wasn’t sure there was a bad part. Perhaps a more apt description was that Becky Lynn didn’t have a commanding bay view, which probably knocked off a cool million or so from the price of her home. Its very location, however, made the otherwise quaint, but pedestrian, single-story, stucco-sided home worth a veritable fortune.

  “You sure this is the right place?” Sydney asked, as Carillo slowed near the listed address. “Pretty damned nice, considering.”

  “Considering we have her flagged for OC, it fits. You don’t live in houses this nice if you’ve got no job and no income. It’s the one listed on our files, and the DMV shows that white Lexus in the driveway is registered to her.”

  “What’s that old saying…?” Sydney asked. “You’ve come a long way, baby?”

  “She wasn’t always a white-bread girl?”

  “I was pretty young at the time, but looking back, she had all the earmarks of a con. Sort of just breezed in one day, and next thing I knew, she was running the pizza parlor and my dad was helping her move her things from some dive bar to a nicer apartment.”

  “So she was a bad stray? Or just went bad?”

  “Who knows? I mean, if she’s flagged by our guys, what did my father really know about her?” And what did Sydney really know about her father…?

  They walked up the porch steps, and Carillo nodded in approval. “You know, government salary aside, if I got transferred to, like, Idaho, I could afford a little place like this and a Lexus.”

  “Even paying alimony to Sheila?”

  “Okay, maybe just the Lexus, but I bet the seats stretch out nice.”

  They stood to either side of the door, and Sydney knocked. A moment later, it was opened by Becky Lynn, now middleaged, but looking very elegant in her navy slacks and white sweater that seemed so… country club chic. Definitely not the blue-jean, sweatshirt-wearing woman who had come into the east-side pizza parlor each night when Sydney was a kid. Her shoulder-length, once-bleached-blond hair was now dyed a dark auburn, and her face was expertly made up. Perhaps she was on her way to a lunch date. She’d aged, of course, with the telltale crow’s-feet around her brown eyes, and the over-forty laugh lines and hint of jowls
haunting her mouth, which pressed together with tension, before turning up into a strained smile on seeing and no doubt recognizing Sydney. “Oh my gosh. Little Sydney?” She smiled, looked a bit too cheerful. “What a wonderful surprise!”

  She did not, however, invite them in.

  “Hi, Becky Lynn,” Sydney said, trying to keep things casual. “I was hoping I might ask you a couple questions about my father.”

  “I was on my way to a lunch date. Can it wait?”

  “Actually, no. May we come in?”

  Becky Lynn glanced at Carillo, and Sydney figured she was trying to determine his part in all this. “I guess. If it doesn’t take too long.” She stepped aside and allowed them entry. The gleaming hardwood floor was covered by a large Oriental rug that muted their steps as she led them into the front room decorated in light cherry. The decor was exquisite, and quite different from the Becky Lynn that Sydney remembered, a woman who thought that red flocked wallpaper would be perfect for the ladies’ room, until Sydney’s mother put the nix on that idea.

  “What is it I can help you with?” Becky Lynn folded her hands in her lap, attempting, no doubt, to look calmer than she felt-a fact easy to discern from the strong and fast pulse in her carotid. She never asked who Carillo was, something Sydney found a bit odd. Maybe she knew Sydney’s profession and didn’t need to ask. Either way, they weren’t about to pull out their creds and make this an official visit.

  “I have some questions about my father… money he might have demanded from your late ex-husband. And a photograph I’d like you to look at.”

  “Oh? Is that all?” Her smile grew so relaxed at that point, Sydney figured she’d somehow missed something very big, something else she was worried about. “I do vaguely recall him contacting Will about money. It could have something to do with some irregularities I remember seeing in your father’s books, but those were destroyed in the fire.”

  “What sort of irregularities?”

  “He seemed to be in the habit of ordering large quantities of goods, goods that weren’t delivered, or were delivered damaged and were returned for a refund. Odd things like that. I needed the money, so I wasn’t about to rock the boat and let on I saw anything.”

  “Can you name any specific examples?”

  “It’s been so long, and really I put it from my mind once he died. I didn’t think it was the thing to do, pointing my finger at… your father, after his death.”

  “And I appreciate your concern,” Sydney said. Not. “But if you could try to remember anyway.”

  “Well, there was all that hamburger he ordered. I’m pretty sure we didn’t serve hamburgers,” she offered, and Sydney refrained from commenting that she was only thirteen, wasn’t there every day, and could have told her the same. “There may have even been some orders for liquor, where some whiskey or gin came in damaged, but maybe I’m remembering another place.”

  And that did send alarm bells ringing. Beer and wine were all her father’s liquor license allowed. Hard liquor being delivered, damaged, smacked of organized crime. But was this her father’s business, or was this Becky Lynn’s doing? She was, after all, the one currently being looked at for organized crime dealings. But Sydney kept her expression as neutral as she could, as though none of this meant anything to her. “Any visitors, anyone who came by that shouldn’t have been there?”

  “Heavens, Sydney. It was a pizza place just off the freeway. There were always people dropping by we didn’t know.”

  “Did you and my father have an affair?”

  She seemed slightly surprised by the question, but not overly so. “Did your mother say that? What a horrid thing to do. I’d think she’d want you to remember-”

  “I’m quite sure she has no idea I suspect a thing,” Sydney said, in her mother’s defense. “Did you?”

  “Not with your father. No.”

  Sydney took that to mean she’d had an affair with someone. “Robert Orozco, perhaps?”

  “I’m sure I never met the man.”

  “And yet you’ve been calling him down in Baja”-she turned to Carillo-“for how many years now?”

  “A lot,” he said.

  Sydney eyed Becky Lynn. “If I’m not mistaken, the most recent calls were right before your ex-husband killed himself, then right after…” She had no idea on the times, but figured it was a safe guess. Someone had contacted Orozco about the suicide, and he’d made it no secret that Becky Lynn was his contact.

  When Becky Lynn shifted uncomfortably, Sydney figured she’d guessed right on. “He was a friend of Will’s. I thought he should know that Will was having problems.”

  “But you don’t know him personally?”

  “No. I helped him out years ago by getting him some fake ID to leave the country.” She gave a saccharine smile, then glanced at her watch. “Now if you have no further questions?” she said, glancing at her watch.

  “Just a photo I need you to look at.”

  Sydney had tucked it in her purse; took it out of the envelope and handed it to Becky Lynn, who raised her brows, and immediately began shaking her head. “No… no. Except for your father, and my ex, I really don’t see anyone in there I know.”

  “How about the guy in uniform?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t recognize Senator Gnoble?”

  “ That’s Senator Gnoble? I guess I didn’t recognize him without that goatee. Or in uniform, for that matter. He looks so much younger than the pictures I’ve seen of him in the paper. Are we finished?”

  Sydney pointed to Orozco. “And Robert?”

  “So that’s what he looks like. He’s always just been a voice on the phone.”

  Right. “And this man,” she said, pointing to who they thought was Wheeler’s father. “Frank White?”

  “No. Name doesn’t ring a bell, and I can’t say I’ve ever met him. Really, is there a point to any of this?”

  “Just trying to figure the connection between my father, your ex, and the restaurant,” Sydney said, now just fishing for answers, because, frankly, she’d gotten nothing. “Especially any references to Cisco’s Kid.”

  Becky Lynn’s face paled. She sat up, brushed at her slacks, then crossed her legs, as though trying to appear far more relaxed than she was. “Cisco’s Kid?” she said, sounding, or trying to sound, confused. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “My father’s boat?”

  The woman narrowed her gaze. “A boat?” And then she smiled, truly relaxed, and Sydney realized she’d missed something critical. “You’re asking me about a boat? I’ve never seen your father’s boat. I’m sure I didn’t even know he had one.” Becky Lynn reached across and grasped her hand, and Sydney could smell the alcohol on her breath, see that her eyes were somewhat bloodshot. That brought a vague recollection of the woman making drunken phone calls periodically to Sydney’s mother. What they talked about, why her mother never discussed it, Sydney didn’t know. Becky Lynn gave a sigh, exaggerated for her benefit, no doubt, and said, “I really wish I could stay and chat some more, but I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late. It was so good to see you again, Sydney. I hope your mother is doing well.”

  Carillo and Sydney stood, and she walked them to the door, holding it open for them. Sydney paused on the threshold, looked out at the Lexus, and thought how much Becky Lynn had changed since the days of the pizza place…

  “You know,” Sydney said, her foot against the door. “I forgot to mention how sorry I was that your husband died.”

  “That’s right,” Carillo said. “We wanted to pass on our condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Becky Lynn replied, her saccharine smile back in place.

  And Sydney said, “You don’t happen to know what he was so upset about? I heard they found something in his background.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Something to do with…” She looked at Carillo. “What was it again?”

  “That old banking scandal.”

  “That�
�s right. BICTT. Isn’t that the one where the guys all got together, and if something happened to one of them, they had all these safeguards set up? Sort of as protection? Like that photo being mailed to me.”

  “Makes you wonder what the other safeguards were… Who else will get implicated,” Carillo said.

  They both turned toward Becky Lynn, who gripped the door, and clearly looked like she would’ve shut it on them if she could have somehow dislodged Sydney’s foot. “Whatever my husband was involved in, I have no idea. And if that’s why he killed himself, then so be it. Between him and his business ventures, they nearly bankrupted me.”

  Sydney gave a pointed look to the house. “Seems you recovered quite nicely. But thanks for your time,” she said, as she followed Carillo down the steps. And Becky Lynn looked vastly relieved, until Sydney added, “You’ve been more of a help than you realize.”

  They continued their way down the sidewalk, hearing the door shut firmly behind them. When they walked past the Lexus, Sydney looked down the long driveway that led to the back of the house, a deep and narrow lot, like many Bay Area properties. “You think she looked a little rattled when we left?”

  “Rattled? Why, Pollyanna. You’re not thinking anything untoward, are you?”

  “Of course not. I’m simply concerned enough to make sure she doesn’t faint, maybe need medical attention when she calls whoever she calls?”

  Carillo smiled. “I’m starting to like you more and more. Let’s just hope your damned shadows don’t get all antsy.”

  Sydney glanced down the street, gave a cheery wave to the men, hoping they’d stay put in the car, just before she and Carillo casually walked down the drive, until they were out of sight. She noticed the blinds were still closed, then moved up alongside the house, wedging herself between a camellia bush and the brick porch, just beneath the window on the side yard. Carillo went farther down, standing beneath another window. Their efforts paid off, because Sydney could just make out her voice, shrill enough to be overheard through the closed window, which, on this older house, was not double-paned. Apparently they had more than rattled her cage. Sydney could hear her pacing on the subflooring, since she was standing beside a vent, but caught only parts, as Becky Lynn wouldn’t stand still. “… Do you know who…” Then, “Yes. Here. And she had your…”