Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

She trudged up the rain-slicked steps, still unable to think what she was missing. Her front door was adjacent to her neighbor’s front door, both accessed via stairs on the side of the house that overlooked the driveway. Their landlord lived below them in the renovated house. With the exception of the teenage boys next door who thought this particular street of mostly single-family homes was their personal drag strip, she liked her neighbors. They were an eclectic group, diverse, much like the city itself. Sydney’s immediate neighbor went by the name Arturo, as opposed to the more formal Arthur on his birth certificate, because he thought using Arturo would bring him more commercial advertising jobs. He was single, in his twenties, made quite a bit of money, and rode a motorcycle, which was why Sydney had ended up with the garage. Arturo lived alone with a large white poodle, Topper, not, thankfully, a prissy poodle, but the sort without his fur trimmed, which made him look more like a giant sheep.

Sydney loved that dog. She liked Arturo, too. He had a key to her place and watered her plants when she was out of town on cases. The neighbors below them, Darlene and Rainie, a lesbian couple in their late fifties, owned the house, and told Sydney they thought Arturo was gay, but had yet to come out of the closet. Of course they based this observation on the fact that their across-the-street neighbor had a daughter, single white female, early twenties, and Arturo barely gave her a second glance. The only thing Sydney knew for sure about Arturo was that he was a closet chef, and there were many nights when she came home to find that whatever recipe he had experimented with, she was the willing recipient of his largesse. Of course, there were often strings attached. Dog sitting for one. Sydney didn’t mind. The pay was good. Now if she could just convince him to let her take his ultra sleek, ultra fast charcoal-black Ducati motorcycle out for a spin. Unfortunately that was his baby, and no one touched that bike. But a girl could dream…

Tonight as she stood on her porch stomping her feet dry, then fitting her key into the lock, it was to the scent of simmering garlic and other savory herbs. She hadn’t even realized she was hungry until that moment, and just when she was wondering what sort of store-bought entrees she had stashed in the freezer, and could heat up before she left for the rally tonight, Arturo’s door opened and out bounded Topper. The dog shoved his nose into her hand, forcing her to pay attention to him. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, scratching him behind his ears. “I was up at your favorite place just a little while ago.”

Arturo watched for a moment, then said, “Can you babysit Topper for a couple nights? I have to fly to L.A.” “Shouldn’t be a problem.” She opened her door and Topper stepped in, circled up on a braided rug in front of the couch as though he already knew the drill.

“Pawn him off on Rainie downstairs if you end up on some callout. Any chance you’re up for garlic-encrusted rack of lamb?”

“Hmm, let me think about that.”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” he said. “And bring the dog.” He shut the door, leaving Sydney and Topper to themselves. She tossed her keys onto the table by the door, glanced at the envelope containing her father’s photo and the letter, and told herself she’d look at it tonight when she got back from the rally. Right now she wanted nothing more than to relax, put everything that happened today, yesterday, all of it out of her mind. She sank into the couch, laying her hand on Topper’s head. “Long day at the office,” she said.

Topper said nothing.

She loved that dog.

Senator Gnoble glanced around the festivities held at the area skating rink, watched the dozen or so kids trying to do the limbo, of all things. “For God’s sake, were there no amusement parks open? A zoo?”

“In the fall? Too cold. Turnout would be low,” Prescott said, double checking his clipboard, making sure he hadn’t forgotten to call anyone. “And remember, it’s all about photo ops. This way we get a guaranteed crowd with kids in the picture. And it’s in the middle of your home territory and close to your targeted families.”

“We could’ve done better than this, surely.”

“Right now your biggest supporters are the local police unions. Much easier to get them and their kids here in a show of support. And it was the only thing we could find at the eleventh hour, never mind that it is several hundred thousand dollars less to rent this and open it up to the public than Great America.”

“Don’t expect me to put on skates.”

“Not even for the hokey pokey? Might make the front page.”

“Speaking of the press, who showed?”

“Still waiting on the Chronicle. And that one we definitely want. After the way they painted you in that death-penalty case article involving Wheeler and your friend Kevin Fitzpatrick, we need a kinder, gentler image. You’ve already got the conservative vote. Now I’d like to get the bleeding liberals in the city to buy in.” He nodded toward the lobby. “Speaking of targeted families…”

He saw Gnoble glance at the area that appeared to be used for birthday parties and the like, where Sydney’s mother, Mary Fitzpatrick-Hughes, sat helping to tie the skates of Sydney’s half sister, Angela Hughes. No sign of Sydney, yet. Come to think of it, no sign of Gnoble’s wife…

Gnoble started toward them. Prescott followed, getting in one last instruction. “Think camera angles.”

He was pleased when Gnoble fixed a broad smile on his face, calling out, “Mary? Tell me that’s not the baby, Angela? I didn’t even recognize her.”

“Mom, can you tell him I’m not a baby?”

“Honey…”

Angela gave an exaggerated sigh, leaned toward her mother, and in a rather loud whisper, said, “Do I call him Uncle Don or Senator Gnoble when we’re in public?”

“Angela, please,” Mary Fitzpatrick-Hughes said, with an apologetic look toward Gnoble as she smoothed the child’s blond curls back from her face. Prescott made a mental note to ensure this child was rounded up for photos. Perfect face. Angelic.

The child stood, held out her hand. “Thank you very much for inviting me.”

Gnoble shook hands, smiled. “Have a good time.” She skated off, and he turned to Mary with a look of concern. Prescott tried to maintain a discreet distance, while still being able to hear what Gnoble was saying. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine, Donovan. It’s good to see you.”

“You too. And Sydney? Is she coming?”

“She might be delayed. But she said she would.”

“And Jake? How is he?”

“Fine. He had to run a couple errands, but he’ll be by as soon as he can get here.”

“Good, good. I look forward to seeing him again.”

The damned press had finally gotten their act together, a few of them heading their way with cameras at the ready, and Prescott gave a discreet cough, alerting him to their arrival. Gnoble clasped Mary on her shoulder, stepping just close enough to imply concern, and Prescott kept his expression somber as he listened in. “Tell me how you’re really doing? Today of all days. Twenty years…”

She took a deep breath, tried to smile, and when the flashes went off, Prescott could’ve sworn her eyes were glistening with tears. It was a perfect shot, and truth be told, he was impressed at Gnoble for instigating it. “I try not to think about it. Some days it’s easier than others. Today’s not one of them.” “I’m sorry,” Gnoble said, before letting go. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through these past two decades.” A moment of silence, and then he glanced toward the skating floor. “Cute kid. I can’t believe how big she’s gotten.”