Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“We don’t have a color from the witness. She didn’t see it.”

“It’d be nice if this was it,” Carillo said to Maggie, eyeing the paint transfer. “We can use a break.”

“If this is it,” Maggie said, “your color is probably white. Going on the theory this is from a vehicle collision, then most of the damage occurred from whatever was behind the trash can when the vehicle hit it. Had to have been something solid, not giving, otherwise we wouldn’t see damage on both sides. And if someone was driving fast enough to do some damage to this, tear it from the chain and grommet, that means there was probably damage to the car.”

“If he was backing in?”

“If I’m correct and he hit it at an angle, look for pieces of taillight or brake light. If he was pulling in, broken headlight or signal lamp. Those are usually what’ll give before the metal does. And if you find out where this trash can was located, you might find some green paint transfer on whatever was positioned next to the can. You also might find some green paint transfer on the vehicle.”

“Do me a favor, Maggie,” Carillo said. “Assume our UnSub did hit it and take all the necessary precautions.”

“Will do.”

They thanked Maggie and walked back to the gouged-up grass.

Carillo kicked at another trash can nearby. “Maybe we could get the guy who empties the things every day. See where one might be missing.”

“Or,” Sydney said, eyeing the tracks, and noting they came in at an angle from the sidewalk to the benches just as Maggie had conjectured, “we assume the collision was where the tire marks ended and start our search there.”

“Don’t try to work this into more than one free lunch.”

“Not sure if I can handle more than one meal with you,” she replied, moving forward, stopping where the tracks ended, right at the backside of one of the benches. “Fresh scratch marks on the back of the bench frame… And if that isn’t a dead giveaway, then maybe the chain hanging from this grommet is?”

“Unfortunately it’s green, just like the garbage can.”

“But taillights aren’t,” she said, spying a piece of broken red plastic at the base of the bench, something she’d missed on the first go-around.

“One thing about our evidence collection team. They know their stuff.”

Maggie definitely knew her stuff, Sydney thought, as she dropped to her knees and started digging. Sometimes brake lights had part numbers on them, numbers that could be traced back to specific car models, something to help narrow down their search, especially if he decided to fix his van and purchase the part at a car repair shop that kept records of customers.

Carillo merely stood there, watching.

“You could always get down here and help.”

“When you’re doing so good?” He leaned against the bench, enjoying himself a bit too much at her expense, especially when her cell phone rang. “You might want to answer that,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Funny,” Sydney said, standing, assuming it was Dixon. There was nowhere to clean her hands, unless she wanted to walk over to the lake and dunk them. “See if it’s Dixon and answer it, would you?” Sydney stood and cocked her hip so he could grab the phone.

He took it, looked at the number, then flipped it open, while Sydney got back to squishing through the mud. “Carillo here,” he said, listening, then, “Her partner. She’s kind of… indisposed at the moment. Digging through the mud.”

“Who is it?” Sydney asked, suspicious because she was pretty certain that Carillo didn’t consider her his partner by any stretch. Her suspicion doubled when he gave a catlike smile. “Give me that phone.”

“Your hands are muddy,” he whispered.

“Then put it up to my ear.”

“Yeah,” he said, into the phone. “I’ll tell her. What time?”

She stood, reached one muddy hand toward him. “Phone. Now.”

“Seven. We’ll be there.” He flipped it shut, then clipped it back onto her belt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Accepting a date for you.”

“You said ‘we’ as in both of us.”

“She invited me, too.”

“Who?”

“Your sister. She said you forgot to call her this morning to wish her happy birthday, and she wanted to make sure you were coming over tonight for cake.”

She sank back against the bench, her hands held out so she wouldn’t get any mud on her clothes. “Damn it. I forgot. I’ve got that redeye tonight.”

“Make a quick run up there, say happy birthday, then off to the airport. Plenty of time. So, when do you want me to pick you up?”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I like birthday cake.”

“Let me put it this way. I’m not sure you want to go- never mind I don’t want you to.”

“Problems on the home front?”

“My mother and I are having… issues, and me not calling my sister this morning is just going to be one more nail in my coffin.”

“Oh, good. Entertainment while we eat.”

Carillo called Dixon while Sydney found one more piece of taillight stuck in the mud, this one with a bit of marking on it, which meant it was possible to identify the type of vehicle it might have come from. That done, she gave the pieces to Maggie Winters, who bagged and tagged them, then Sydney walked to the restroom to wash her hands in water so cold it felt like pins and needles spouting from the faucet. There were no paper towels, and her fingers were numb by the time she walked back to their car, where Carillo was waiting, holding up a sack from McDonald’s. She looked around, saw several McDonald’s bags in the back of the ERT van. “Don’t even think about claiming this is my free lunch.”

“I can pay Johnson for you, and it could be.”

“No way. I’m going to stick it to you for something better than fast food.”

“You know…” Carillo grabbed several french fries from his bag, pointed them at her. “You should think about taking that photo of yours to your mom’s tonight. See if she recognizes the two guys.” He ate the fries, nodding as though he was supremely pleased he’d come up with that idea himself.

“I told you we have issues. She’s pissed I went to visit Wheeler in prison, and if I drag that thing out there, start asking her about it, Jake’s going to lay on the guilt trip.”

“Jake?”

“My stepfather. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a nice guy, but he’s taken it as his personal quest to shield my mother from the past.”

“You worried about your mother’s feelings, or finding out what the hell is going on?”

“Fine. I’ll bring it.”

“You going to eat your fries?”

She handed over the bag.

By the time they left the park, it was close to five, and she was hoping that Carillo would have changed his mind about coming with her to her mother’s house. He did not, saying he’d pick her up at her place. When Sydney met him out front, a brightly wrapped package in her hand, the photo safely tucked in her purse, she was surprised to see him holding up a child-sized white tee with “San Francisco FBI” emblazoned across the front. “Your sister doesn’t have one of these, does she?”

She had several, but Sydney wasn’t about to mention it. “Trust me, she’ll love it. But you didn’t have to get her anything.”

“She invited me over for birthday cake.”

“Because she’s polite and you hijacked my phone.”

“You asked me to answer it. Her name’s Angela, right?”

“She goes by Angie.” To everyone except her mother.

Carillo scrawled the name across a large manila envelope, slid the T-shirt in, handed it to Sydney, then shifted to drive and took off.