Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

Traffic was still pretty heavy heading out of the city, especially crossing the Golden Gate, and what should have been a twenty-minute drive up to Santa Arleta took an hour.

Her mother lived at the very north end of town, on a hillside accessed by a narrow winding street. Sydney directed Carillo to take the exit just past Santa Arleta-not because it was quicker, but because Sydney tried to avoid the city itself, the neighborhood where she grew up, and the restaurant where her father had died. If Carillo guessed why they took the longer route, he said nothing, and for that she was grateful.

“Nice area,” Carillo said, slowing as he rounded the curve just before her mother’s house. Typical for the locale, the property lines were narrow but long, extending up into the hill, the houses and yards separated by oaks and eucalyptus and ivy vines with twisted, gnarled trunks as thick as a tree’s. An old-growth hedge, as well as the ivy, hid the front of her mother’s house, so that if you were standing in the street, you’d have to know it was there or you’d miss it. The illusion of privacy was one of the things her mother loved about the place, one of the reasons she stayed in Santa Arleta. When they pulled up in the driveway, Angie came running out, throwing her arms around her older sister with her usual exuberance. “Guess what?” she shouted. “I got a puppy! I got a puppy! You’ll never guess what I named it. Sarge! My own police dog!” She stopped long enough to cock her head at Carillo. “Are you Sydney’s new partner?”

“Tony Carillo, at your service. So, where’s this canine-intraining?”

“In the kitchen,” she said, pulling on Sydney’s hand, trying to get her to walk faster.

Angie opened the side door, letting them into the kitchen, then paused and in a quiet voice said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention that I’m going to make Sarge a police dog in front of Daddy.”

“Not a word,” Sydney said, ignoring the amused look in Carillo’s eye, as Angie led them straight to a cardboard box tucked in the corner, waving for them to move quicker. Inside, curled up on a towel was the cutest little… mongrel. Maybe a cross between a beagle and a wire-haired terrier, and judging from the short little legs, a breed as far from a police dog as Jake could get, probably part dachshund. “Isn’t Sarge cute?” she asked.

“Adorable,” Sydney said. She set her purse on the floor by the box, then knelt down beside her sister.

Angie reached in, lifted the puppy out. “Did you have a good nap, Sarge?” she asked in a singsong voice.

Carillo eyed the little dog’s belly and kicking feet, then grinned. “You, uh, realize Sarge is a girl?”

“Yeah,” she said, nuzzling her face against the puppy’s. “But girls can be sergeants, and everyone knows you can’t name a police dog some sissy name.”

“I see what you mean,” he said. “Of course, if you’re going to have a proper police dog, you have to train her with sign language.”

“Really? Do you know any?”

“The three most important ones. Stop,” he said, holding his hand palm out, just like a crossing guard. “Down,” he said, lowering his palm so it was parallel to the floor, then making a downward motion. “And sit.” For this he turned his palm so it faced the ceiling, then jerked it upward. “You do this every time you train your puppy, she’ll know what to do even if she can’t hear you.”

“Really?”

“Just like the real police dogs do,” he said, as Jake and her mom walked into the kitchen.

Angie dutifully made the introductions. Jake shook Carillo’s hand. Sydney’s mom smiled at him, but gave Sydney a reserved “Glad you could make it, or will you be getting called out to work before the night’s over?”

Sydney was saved from responding when her sister peered out the kitchen window and shouted, “Aunt Eileen and Uncle Leland are here!” She raced out the door to show off her puppy, and, Sydney, feeling uncomfortable in her mother’s presence, followed Angie out to say hello, and was surprised to see Donovan Gnoble stepping from a black Cadillac parked in the driveway behind her aunt’s car. Angie waited on the sidewalk, holding tight to Sarge as she looked up at Sydney and whispered, “I did not invite him. Mom did.”

“Moms are like that,” Sydney whispered back.

“I’ll bet if my birthday was after the election, he wouldn’t come.”

Sydney laughed, gave her sister a hug, before turning her attention back to her aunt and uncle, who shook hands with the senator, then walked up to the house with him.

Aunt Eileen was Sydney’s father’s sister, Uncle Leland her husband, both of whom made the extra effort to remain closely entwined in their lives after her father’s death. Sydney had spent nearly every summer on their farm, starting at about age five. She’d learned to ride motorcycles around manure piles, and race speedboats in the Delta. Character building, her father had called it. Her mother had agreed, and, apparently, after Angie was born, so had Jake, because Aunt Eileen asked if they’d allow the same with her, and they did so gladly-though Jake put the nix on the motorcycle and speedboat lessons. Not that Angie had any interest in that or the horses or the cows or the chickens, the things that Sydney loved. What captivated Angie’s attention, much to Jake’s chagrin, was that Uncle Leland was a retired cop, and had no shortage of exciting war stories to tell her.

Angie allowed Aunt Eileen and Uncle Leland to hug her, and when Donovan seemed ready to step in for the same, she held out her puppy to him and said, “Isn’t she cute?”

Donovan gave the dog a tentative pat on the head. “Very.”

Sydney stifled a grin, putting her arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Let’s all go inside. It’s chilly out here.”

“Oh, Leland,” her aunt said, stopping them. “Run to the car and get that box of photos for Sydney.”

Her uncle returned to the car, and Aunt Eileen linked her arm through Sydney’s, saying, “I found the most wonderful photos of your father for you. I thought you might like to have them, maybe start a scrapbook.”

“Thank you,” she said, as they walked to the front door.

“I’m sure your mother must have some stored away. You should ask her for them.”

“Ask me for what?” her mother said, kissing Eileen’s cheek as she stepped in.

“Photos of Kevin. I think Sydney should start a scrapbook.”

Her mother smiled that vacant smile of hers. “I’ll put the kettle on for your tea, Eileen.”

Eileen followed her mother into the kitchen, then helped set the table. Uncle Leland and Donovan were discussing the election process, and Jake and Carillo raided the fridge for beer, while Angie attempted to teach her puppy sign language, saying, “Sit,” and pushing Sarge’s little rump down as she made the sign, bringing her palm upward. Eventually she put Sarge in her box, then came out to stand by Sydney in the living room. She looked back at Carillo, who was busy talking about fishing with Jake, and she whispered, “You two guys aren’t going out, are you?”

“No,” Sydney said. “He’s here for the free food.” “That’s good. Because I helped make the cake. It’s sort of lopsided. If you were going out, I’d at least want to give him one from a bakery, or something.”

“He won’t mind,” Sydney said, as the doorbell rang. Jake walked over, opened the front door. “Hey, Scotty.

Didn’t expect-”

“-me to miss Angie’s birthday. I know. Just had to drop by, since I was in town.”

Sydney glanced over at Carillo, who gave her a didn’tknow-he-was-coming shrug. Or something close to that, she supposed.

Scotty walked over to where she and Angie stood. “Happy birthday, squirt,” he said, handing her a business envelope, preprinted from the FBI.