Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

  Fortunately she didn’t have to wait long. Scotty stepped away from the car, slapped the door with a bit of familiarity, then crossed the street toward the federal building. Sydney remained where she was as the car pulled out, drove in her direction, then changed lanes to turn the corner right beside her. She focused on the plate, but as the car neared, she realized she didn’t need to see the plate at all to see who the car belonged to. She recognized the driver, his crooked nose. He’d driven Gnoble and Prescott to her house that afternoon. So what the hell was Scotty doing talking to Gnoble’s driver? Any logical explanation eluded her, and as the car passed, she peered into the back windows, tried to see if there was someone there, but couldn’t tell because of the tinting.

  She didn’t move until the car turned the corner up the block, and only then hurried to the back entrance of the federal building and up to her office, rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them.

  Scotty, apparently, didn’t return to the building, not that she was expecting him to. But she didn’t have time to worry about it, because the moment she stepped into the Bureau offices, she was caught up in the preparation for the next Operation Barfly task force as the agents assigned to go out were gearing up. Doc Schermer saw her, handed her a stack of papers. “Since you’re stuck in the office, any chance I can get you to run a bunch of license plates for me? We’re about ready to head out, but these look promising-license numbers that were taken from older model white Dodge vans from the area our hookers saw the guy who looked like your sketch.”

  “Not like I have anything better to do.”

  “Thanks,” he said, then rushed off. Suddenly he stopped, turned, looked at her. “I heard about the transfer.”

  “No big.”

  “Yeah, it is. Carillo’s been moping around the last six months, ever since Sheila asked him for a divorce. I don’t know if it’s this Jane Doe case, or just being partnered up with you, but he’s like his old self again.”

  She crossed her arms, couldn’t help but smile. “You saying that guy will miss me?”

  “Carillo? No. I’ll miss you, because he’s almost pleasant to be around again.” He winked at her, walked off. “Let me know when you get those plates run.”

  She took the papers to her desk, realized that in some ways Schermer was right. Carillo was definitely easier to be around, though she wasn’t sure that she had anything to do with it. Her case maybe. Not her.

  A few minutes later, she saw Carillo walking to his desk. He looked up. “You’re back,” he said.

  “Waiting for Scotty. We’re going to catch a bite, while I grill him about what he knows.”

  “Good luck with that. Everything that comes out of his mouth these days is like a piece of disinformation, which makes me think the other government agency he’s working with? Gotta be CIA. By the way. We got a call from SFPD, who said that one of their undercovers talked to a couple hookers who said that the guy in your sketch was definitely hanging around the past couple nights. So, pretty good chance he’s the one who knocked you in front of the car.” He picked up a stack of folders on his desk, looked around for whatever else he needed. “Here’s to hoping we get him tonight.”

  “Try not to have too much fun out there without me, okay?”

  “Not a chance,” he said, grabbing his keys, then walking out. He paused at the door, looked back at her. “Maybe the transfer won’t go through.”

  “Maybe,” she said, but with little faith. After he left, she stared at her computer screen, thought about her fate as the voices of the agents walking down the hall toward the conference room drifted back to her. There was one thing she could do to avoid a transfer, avoid being dragged to some outpost where she would no doubt be relegated to working paper crimes.

  Resign.

  She hoped it wouldn’t come to that… She loved her job-well, most aspects of it-but she had to be realistic. Right now she needed answers, and if necessary, she’d walk out of the Bureau, end her career, if that was what it took to get them.

  She finished running the plates, printed them up, then carried them into the conference room, where the task force briefing was taking place. Doc Schermer and Jeff Timmons were introduced to everyone as the agents working relief. They’d make the rounds, taking the place of any agents or officers needing breaks. Ren Pham-Peck was assigned to replace Sydney’s position, working with Carillo as they barhopped. They were quite the combination, Carillo, the tall Italian, and Ren, a petite Vietnamese woman with dark hair and dark eyes, a big smile, and a vivacious personality. One would never guess by looking at her that she was an FBI agent, which made her perfect for the part.

  Twenty minutes later, everyone was filing out the door of the briefing room, leaving Sydney alone, until Schermer and Timmons walked in with Scotty about an hour later.

  “Not a lot going on out there,” Schermer was telling Scotty.

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “For now. So, what are you two up to?”

  “Just going to get a bite to eat.” Scotty looked at Sydney. “Where to?”

  “Chinese.” She dropped her radio in her purse, then followed Scotty out.

  As they walked down the hall, she heard Timmons say to Schermer, “Why is it the girls always get the free meals?”

  “What? You want to be a girl now?” she heard just as they stepped out the door.

  Scotty seemed lost in thought as they rode the elevator down, and Sydney wondered about the senator’s car, and just who Scotty had been talking to down there. “Something on your mind?” she asked.

  “Everything,” he said.

  Amen to that, Sydney thought, but figured she’d let it go for now, not sure it was the right time to go into specifics.

  “Of course,” he continued, “I assume you want to know if I had anything to do with the transfer?”

  So much for letting it go. “Did you?”

  “The truth is that I suggested it up front when I informed them of our joint investigation. Apparently they changed their mind, until you asked to assist. This recent talk has nothing to do with me.”

  “Joint investigation? As in OGA?” she said, referring to the other government agency. The one he wouldn’t name.

  And sure enough, he looked over at her, didn’t answer.

  She waited until they were in his car and he was pulling out of the garage. “Why is it that I sense a bit of discomfort in talking about who exactly is involved with this case?”

  “There was a time when rules and regulations meant something to you.”

  “They still do. I’ve just learned to interpret them a little differently than I used to.”

  He glanced over at her, gave a tired sigh, then asked, “Which restaurant?”

  She specifically chose one on the outer perimeter of the bars that Carillo and Ren were going to be walking through. Scotty drove around, found a parking spot just a few doors down from the restaurant-courtesy of the official FBI placard he placed on the dash, and the red curb signifying No Parking at the corner. The perks in this job were few and far between. Had to take them where they could. Inside, they ordered, then sat at an empty table, waiting for their food, keeping one ear trained on the radio, while Scotty occupied himself by reading a takeout menu.

  After several minutes, Scotty reached over, touched her hand, and she nearly jumped. As it was, her pulse started racing, not in a good way, and she told herself this was out of character for him. He was usually so formal in public places, and it was with great effort that she managed to appear calm on the outside, as he said, “What do you want to know?”

  As his gaze met hers, Sydney realized that in a way, she was afraid. Afraid that he might be holding back some very important information, information that could help her. “Who were you talking to when I saw you outside the building this afternoon? You seemed upset.”

  He stiffened. “Upset? I don’t recall being upset with anyone.”

  “Someone in Senator Gnoble’s car? I recogn
ized his driver.”

  When Scotty relaxed, leaned into his seat, she wondered if she’d somehow misread the situation. But then he said, “You know, his driver used to be a cop, up until a few years ago when he took the job with the senator.”

  “You know him?” Scotty shrugged, glanced at the menu, and then it hit her. “ He’s your informant?”

  “We should have ordered Mongolian beef.”

  “Is there any aspect of this case you can discuss with me?”

  He studied the menu. “Pot stickers. I can never find good pot stickers in D.C.”

  So clearly he’d only taken her to dinner to temporarily placate her. But maybe she could get info another way. “Did your surveillance team mention to you that I took a little drive this afternoon?”

  “They did,” he said, flipping the page, running his finger down the list of entrees.

  “I spoke with Wheeler’s aunt. She works at the clinic that Carillo and I visited. Turns out that one of the men in that photo that McKnight sent to me just so happens to be Wheeler’s father.”

  “That right?”

  “And, coincidence of coincidences, he was killed in an explosion right around the same time my father happened to lose a couple fingers in an explosion and had to retire from his freelance army job.”

  He glanced at her, but otherwise remained impassive.

  “That would probably be right around the time that Robert Orozco fled to Baja.”

  That got his attention. He lowered the menu, as well as his voice. “If you do nothing else, Sydney, leave that photo alone. And that case. And any mention of what happened in Baja.”

  “Why?”

  “It has nothing to do with anything.”

  “I think it has something to do with my father’s murder.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I think Wheeler was framed. I think my father was friends with Wheeler’s father, and that’s why he was helping out Wheeler, until Gnoble put the kibosh on it, because he didn’t want to leave a paper trail to this BICTT thing. My father blamed McKnight for the explosion that injured him and killed Wheeler’s father. And I think that when your buddy Hatcher started digging into McKnight’s past, this all came out, and McKnight couldn’t live with the guilt so he wrote an explosive suicide note that sure as hell pissed someone off, and started a chain reaction somehow. And therein lies the answers to some questions the Bureau was searching for twenty years ago, when Senator Gnoble sat on a subcommittee on the biggest banking scandal in history that he happened to be part of. BICTT, to be exact.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe you’re right about part of that, that your father sought Wheeler out because of a past association, but Wheeler killed him. There is proof. Photos. Surveillance photos.”

  “As I’m well aware of.” Which reminded her that Carillo said they’d probably be in tonight. “But what about all this stuff my father was involved in with McKnight and the senator? The work they did for the government?”

  “I don’t know all your father’s secrets. But I can tell you this much. I don’t believe that Wheeler is as innocent as he claims. I told you, I have the-”

  “Was my father involved in the BICTT banking scandal?”

  He was quiet for so long, at first Sydney thought he might refuse to answer. But then, “Dig too deep, and you might not like the answers.”

  “I’m fairly certain I won’t like them. I already don’t like them-at least those I’ve been allowed to discover. You show up at my apartment, try to hide information that proves my father might be involved in illicit activities, twenty years after the fact, and for what? To protect my sensibilities? Or because of some elaborate subterfuge and cover-up?”

  “And what if it’s a little of both?”

  His blue eyes were unreadable. And she remembered what Carillo said, that they didn’t know where Scotty stood in all this, but she also knew she couldn’t just let things slide, and so she decided to be very direct. “Then I want the truth. I don’t believe that Wheeler killed my father in some simple robbery gone bad. If there was something else going on, I want to know what it was, and I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s an election year and your boss doesn’t want to stir up a pat, high-profile case that involves my life. Because if it takes me going to the press to get answers, I will.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “From where I’m sitting, it seems like the prudent thing to do. Someone in Gnoble’s office still wants to kill me-over what? I think the voters have a right to know about his past. He’ll lose, and then there’s no more threat. Because that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

  “You’re assuming it’s about the election, Sydney.”

  “Well, isn’t it?”

  “What if it’s something else, something that doesn’t go away after the votes are in? That’s why we’re investigating. That’s why you’re being transferred. That’s why we haven’t made an arrest, because we don’t know what it’s about.”

  “Oh bullshit, Scotty. This is a classic case of one arm of the government not telling the other what the hell is going on. CIA keeping secrets from FBI. Army intelligence refusing to share with either of you. Those black ops guys that came after Robert Orozco in Baja, and then me, had to have been working for some branch. If not ours, then theirs. Special Forces? SAD?” she asked, referring to Special Activities Division, the CIA’s covert paramilitary operations, used when the U.S. wants to ensure there are no connections to tie the government to the covert mission.

  “They were after Orozco and the bank pouch.”

  “I don’t care who they were after. They were shooting at me. And just because I happened to make it back, and the CIA and the FBI and the goddamned army decided to compare notes and finally let me walk out of there, it doesn’t mean it’s okay. It means they’re still trying to cover up another lie that covers up another lie, and I’m getting in the way, because I want to know which one of those goddamned lies has to do with why my father died. If Wheeler is guilty, so be it. If he’s innocent, then someone out there killed my father, and I want to know who and why and get him. They’re going to execute that man in less than forty-eight hours if I don’t do something. And if that picture that McKnight mailed to me has something to do with it, and you know the answers, so help me-”

  Scotty took a frustrated breath. “In the past ten years, every time we turn around with some banking or lobbying scandal, some political contribution for contracts scandal, Gnoble seems to have his fingers in it. He’s got to be guilty of something, and then the few times we actually get him on something, he gets off with a slap on his hand, makes his pretty speech about how he can understand how his actions were misconstrued and that he only had the best of intentions, then apologizes. The Senate Ethics Committee issues a mild rebuke, and then he’s right back at it.”

  “So he’s the Kevlar King. Does that make him any different from any other politician?”

  “It does if we know he’s doing it, then look the other way. As usual, he’s the frontrunner in the polls, because he’s smart enough to keep his nose clean the year before elections, and no one can remember just what it was he was being rebuked for. They see the war hero, the get-tough-on-crime guy. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, washes a few dishes in some soup kitchen so you can see his battle scars, and you’d never guess that just a year ago, he was being investigated for taking illegal political contributions from well-greased lobbyists.”

  Scotty leaned back in his seat, held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “We finally got an informant who is that close to getting us in on some of his charitable organizations that we’re certain are front companies-”

  “His driver.”

  “Yes. And then he overhears a phone conversation Gnoble’s aide is having about who they should hire to take you out, only he can’t tell who the guy is talking to.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple days before I showed up at your door.” Scotty glanc
ed up, eyed the waiter pouring water a few tables away, making sure he still couldn’t be overheard before continuing. “And, as much as one would like to think that your life being endangered was the impetus for all this, the truth is that three days before that, our informant overheard Gnoble telling someone on the phone that McKnight is being considered to oversee the federal budget, and if they don’t hide the BICTT money,

  he’ll never get approved. The moment that happened, the investigation was ripped from our hands faster than you could say CYA.”

  “Then how is it you’re still on it?”

  “Quite simply I pointed out that they needed me. With our history together, I was the only one who could get close to you without any questions from Gnoble or anyone else.”

  “Great.”

  “No different from you using me to get what you wanted, Syd. A chance to stay on the case.”

  “Okay, so we’re both lowlifes,” she said, just as Schermer’s voice came on the radio, announcing he’d found a white van with a missing taillight and a woman’s purse on the front floorboard. Several agents called in that they were heading that way, and she turned her attention back to Scotty. “So why is the CIA so interested in Gnoble to begin with?”

  “Because a lot of the stuff Gnoble’s involved in has to do with national security. Always has, even before he was elected to the Senate.”

  “Starting with when he was the U.S. Army’s liaison to the Senate? Back when my father worked for him?”

  “Yes. And as a result, every scrap of info we get in our investigation has to be vetted through the CIA first. There are aspects to this case that you or I will never be allowed to know about, including some of what involved your father. You can choose to dig for the truth, Sydney, but I’m here to tell you that some things are best left buried, and sometimes it’s better the devil you know, than the one you don’t.”