Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“You do realize that by the time I’m old enough to vote, Senator Gnoble so won’t even be a blip on my radar screen?”

“Prescott?” his caller said.

“One second.” He looked at the girl again, tried to think of what he should tell her, but in the end, figured it was best just to let it be. “Smile for the camera, eh?” The kid rolled her eyes, skated off, and he returned his attention to the phone, making sure his expression read friendly and fun, as he lifted his hand to cover his mouth on the off chance someone there could read lips. “I need the senator reelected. If he’s not, then not only do I lose my job, you lose yours and something much, much bigger than that measly salary he pays us. We don’t have much time to make this go away. The sooner, the better.”

“Here’s the thing. I can’t do something unless you tell me what it is you want done.”

Prescott hated depending on other people. His glance strayed across the rink to where Sydney Fitzpatrick stood off to the side, avoiding her mother, avoiding pretty much everyone. “I’ll get back to you on that. Shortly.”

Any chance Sydney had of sneaking out of the skat- ing rink was thwarted when her half sister, Angie, insisted she skate a few rounds with her. It was hard to resist anything Angie requested. She’d been a surprise midlife baby, born eight years into her mother and Jake’s marriage. And while neither had expected or wanted any children when they were married the year after Sydney’s father had been killed, no one would guess it now. They were devoted parents. As for how Sydney felt about Angie, her heart had belonged to her baby sister the very moment she grasped Sydney’s finger in her tiny little fist. Sydney knew right then and there that she’d give her life to protect her sister’s. Not that she needed to worry about Angie. Jake was easily the most overprotective father on the face of the earth, though at the moment conspicuously absent, which surprised her.

At the skate desk, Sydney checked out a pair, then carried them well away from the senator and his groupies. She sat, removed her shoes, wondering about Donovan’s interest in learning anything that might exonerate Wheeler. Because he was truly concerned? Or because of his real agenda, doing what he thought was right to keep his numbers up in the polls? He certainly didn’t need help in that regard, but she supposed it was the nature of the beast, none of which had anything to do with why she didn’t come out and tell him exactly what she’d learned from talking to Wheeler. Out of context it would sound completely ridiculous, she told herself as she tied her skates, then sought out Angie in the rink, somehow managing to skate without falling on her face. She tried to remember the last time she’d even worn skates. Probably when she was Angie’s age, she realized, eyeing her sister.

Sydney had always thought Angie resembled Jake much more than their mother, with Angie’s blond hair, dimples, a dusting of freckles across her nose, a smile that lit up the room, and a sharp eye that missed nothing. As in now.

“Are you upset with Uncle Don?” Angie asked. “Not just him. Politicians in general.”

“I’d rather be a cop than a politician.” She grasped Sydney’s hand, helping her to get her balance.

“A very wise decision. The not being a politician part.” Sydney lurched, wobbled, but remained upright with considerable effort. “Didn’t think I could skate, did you?”

“Is that what you call that?” They’d made it all the way around, then twice more, before she added, “Why’s Mom staring at you every time we pass her?”

“Is she?” Sydney didn’t doubt it, was purposefully avoiding her mother’s gaze.

“Yeah. Is she mad at you?”

“Just worried.”

“What is that? The grown-up way of saying mind your own business?” Angie craned her head to see as they skated past. “That is so not a worried look.” Then, “Oh my God. Do you have any of your cards?”

Angie came to a stop, and Sydney nearly fell in the process. She pulled her hand from Angie’s, grabbed the wall. “For what?”

“Nick Santos just skated on. He thinks he’s all that, because his dad is a deputy sheriff. You have to show him your card.” And then, before Sydney knew it, Nick Santos, the boy in question, skated alongside them, and Angie gave him her sweetest smile. “Hi, Nick.”

“Angie.”

“This is my sister. She’s an FBI agent.”

“I know,” he said, giving Sydney only a fleeting glance as though he’d heard this line before. “My dad’s a deputy. He’s on SWAT.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But Sydney draws dead people.”

Nick eyed her with renewed interest. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Angie said, crossing her arms with a burst of confidence. “You have to see her card. It says Forensic Artist on it.”

Nick gave Sydney a skeptical look, and, to defend her sister’s honor, she pulled out the soft card case from her blazer pocket and removed a business card, handing it to Angie, who then gave it to Nick.

“Dead people? That is so cool,” he said, tracing his finger over the embossed letters that spelled out Forensic Artist. He glanced at Angie, his gaze more respectful, as he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, keeping the card. “You want to skate around with me?”

Her eyes lit up, until she looked at Sydney, no doubt recalling that she had promised to skate with her.

“I really need to take a break,” Sydney said.

Angie gave her a grateful smile, then skated off with the boy who was “all that,” leaving Sydney no choice but to face their mother.

She navigated off the floor, feeling her mother’s gaze on her the entire time.

“Hi, Mom,” she said when she reached the table, where her mother sat monitoring the shoes and kids’ belongings strewn about the several tables claimed for the occasion.

Mary said nothing at first, while Sydney sat, deciding to remove the skates before she broke her neck. Mary watched her for several very long silent seconds, then, “Why?”

“I told you, it was something I had to do.”

“You’ve said that every year for the last, what? Four, now? And you’ve never done it.” Sydney had no idea what she should say, what made it different, except that with the impending execution, she knew this was her last chance.

Mary Fitzpatrick-Hughes fixed her gaze on Angie as she skated round and round with the boy, Nick. “Did you get my message about babysitting Angela?”

“Yes. I’m sure it’ll be fine, Mom.”

“It’ll just be overnight, and she doesn’t have school the next day, but I can call Rainie if you’d rather not.”

“Mom. I want to do it.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, and finally her mother said, “So what happened?”

Sydney wanted to let her know, quite simply because she longed for nothing more in that moment than to have her mother wrap her arms around her and tell her that everything was okay, that there was some mistake, and the killer wasn’t out there still. But Sydney couldn’t. It wasn’t for her to burden her mother with anything more than what she’d already been saddled with in her time, and Sydney ignored the thought that she’d done that very thing, just by telling her mother of her visit. “Nothing, Mom.”

“Nothing? He just sat there and stared at you? I thought you went there to ask him why?”

“That was only part of the reason I went. And I don’t want to talk about it right now. I can’t.”

Her mother’s lips pressed together in a thin line. She sat there for a moment, still watching Angie. Finally, “I can’t believe you went. How could you do that?” And then, with one last stab of maternal guilt to bestow, she added, “On today, of all days.”