Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“An official ID card?” she asked.

“Last I checked, your dad wanted you to be a ballerina.” “A doctor,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I want to be in the

FBI. Now if this were an application…?”

He laughed. “Sorry. Just a little money to buy that new pup of yours a real dog bed.”

“Thank you! How’d you know I have a new dog?” “Your mom told me.”

She smiled, reached up, gave him a hug. “I didn’t even know you were here. I thought-”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did!” She ran off to show her mom what Scotty had given her, and then Carillo got into the act, saying he, too, had a gift.

The moment she was out of earshot, Sydney asked Scotty,

“What are you really doing here?”

“Can’t I come by to give Angie a gift?”

Someone had let Sarge out of her box, because the puppy came scurrying out of the kitchen, sliding on the hardwood floor. Scotty glanced past her when Donovan Gnoble, her aunt, and her mother laughed at the puppy’s antics, and it hit her why he’d suddenly shown up. Scotty, Mr. Fast Track to the Top, had always been inordinately fascinated by her family’s connection to the senator. He’d just never been able to arrange a meeting until now, apparently. And sure enough, he made a beeline to her mother, who introduced him.

If anyone could make something out of that connection, Scotty could, she thought, then chanced to glance over at Sarge, who looked ready to squat on the floor. “No!”

Sydney scooped her up, rushed her into the kitchen and out the side door. She lowered the puppy to the ground, then stood there, while Sarge waddled about, sniffing at the grass, and then the pansies.

A moment later, her mother walked out, gave an exaggerated sigh. “I think she’s too young to take care of a dog.”

“She’ll be fine, Mom.”

“But apparently you won’t? Why else would you need to run off to some prison?”

It seemed her mother was not going to let them get past this issue. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you I was going to the prison. I didn’t realize it would hurt you this much.”

“Hurt me?” Her mother crossed her arms, looked away. “My God, Sydney, I can’t even understand what possessed you to do such a thing.”

Part of her wanted to shout out that her mother had another husband, a new family, but her father would be lost to her forever. She bit her tongue. Her mother had married Jake, and he’d always been there for her. For both of them. And there was Angie, full of life and love, the sister Sydney couldn’t imagine living without… “I can’t explain it, Mom. And I don’t expect you to understand it. Going to San Quentin was just something I felt I had to do.”

Angie bounced out the door, wearing her new FBI tee. “Where’s San Quentin? What did you have to do?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” her mother said, then threw a look at Sydney that seemed to shout: See the problems you’re causing?

Angie narrowed her gaze, but before she could ask any further questions, Carillo called out from the dining room, “Hey, Angie. Come show me that shirt,” and off she went.

“Mom, please… I said I was sorry. But he was my father. His history is mine. I know absolutely nothing about what he did before he opened that pizza parlor.”

Her mother looked away, and in a strained whisper said, “Some things are best left buried.”

Sydney bent down, picked up Sarge to bring her back inside. But then her mother offered a wan smile and, surprising her, gave her a hug, then took Sarge from her arms as they walked inside. “I know I’m being silly, just wanting to protect you from bad memories,” she said, setting Sarge inside her box. “Of course you want to know about your father. And I’m sure all this talk about photos and your aunt’s scrapbooking makes you want to do something yourself.”

“Well, yes,” Sydney said, grabbing on to that idea for all it was worth. “I even have an old photo I was hoping you could look at, see who was in it. For the scrapbook.”

When her mother didn’t balk outright, Sydney walked over to her purse, still on the floor next to Sarge’s box. She glanced into the dining room, watched as Angie pirouetted about in her new shirt, while the men talked about the old Chris-Craft boat Jake was refurbishing in the garage. Figuring they’d be occupied for a few minutes on that topic alone, she slid the photo from the envelope. “I don’t suppose you know anyone from this, do you?”

Her mother had just opened up the dishwasher to put away the clean dishes, then looked over. “Of all the pictures for your album, do you really want that one?”

“Why? What is it?”

“With the exception of your father and Uncle Don, a bunch of jerks, from what I remember. They thought they were God’s gift to the military. What did they call themselves…” She slid a glass into the cupboard, but her gaze was fixed out the window, then, with a sound of disgust, said, “The Posse. That was it. You want my advice,” she said, reaching into the dishwasher for another glass, “leave that photo out.”

“But who are they?”

“They worked with your father taking photos for those recruiting posters. He loved that job… They were always flying off to some exciting locale to get the best shot of someone jumping out of a helicopter, or blowing up something to make it look real. That’s how your father lost his fingers, you know. Those idiots he worked with set real charges instead of the fake ones for the photo. Thank God he was smart enough to get out and start his own business. As for their names, I have no idea.”

“Did anyone ever mention that Dad was in Delta Force?”

Her mother stilled. “What on earth are you talking about? He took photographs.” With a glance toward the dining room, she resumed putting glasses away.

“Was Dad doing some special ops thing for the army?”

“Special photographs, maybe. Why are you asking this? Where did you get that photo?”

Sydney would have preferred a direct answer, not a stalling technique. Then again, her mother was always trying to prolong a simple conversation into a bonding talk, and perhaps it was nothing more than that. “Just trying to put names to faces,” she said as the men walked in, apparently on their way to the garage to look at the boat.

Sydney’s mother seemed to pale, and it occurred to Sydney that she’d known all along about the special ops thing. “That’s why you said he wasn’t a saint?”

But before her mother could answer, Angie skipped over to take the dog from her box, then looked at the photo. “Wow! Army guys! Dad! It’s like when you were in the army.”

Jake looked over, saw the photo, his gaze narrowing. Before he said a word, Donovan Gnoble walked up, saw it. “Where’d you get that old thing?” he asked, taking it from Sydney.

Carillo gave a subtle nod toward Scotty. She looked, saw him standing there, leaning against the doorway as though nothing were amiss-if one didn’t know him. His gaze held hers, his blue eyes cold, hard. He wasn’t here for the lofty climb up the ladder after all, she realized, and she looked away, smiled at the senator. “You know, it’s the funniest thing. I just found it in some old album I had bouncing around my closet. I probably dumped it in there years ago, forgot all about it.” The room grew silent, the undercurrents palpable. “So… that was back when my dad used to take photos for those posters?”

“That’s what he did.” Donovan Gnoble stared at the picture. “Talk about your blast from the past. This thing’s so old, I barely recognize myself, especially without my goatee.”

She was in it this far, so she said, “Someone told me these guys look like they’re in Delta Force.”