Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

When he finally pulled up in front of her house, he radioed whoever was watching her place, got the “all clear.” If they were watching her this close, was it possible they were monitoring more than just her physical presence and her home? Her phone calls, perhaps-not that she was about to ask him. “I’d say thanks for the ride,” she said, opening the door, “but I’m not sure I’m grateful.”

“I’m only the messenger. Maybe I should come up. Check out your apartment.”

“Whatever.” Okay, so she was being short with him, forgivable under the circumstances, she figured. Even so, she had an agenda, something she couldn’t afford to forget, and countdown to takeoff was now only two and one-half hours. She tried to smile, said, “Sorry. It’s just a lot to absorb right now.”

“I know. And if I could make this all go away, I would,” he said, sounding so apologetic, she almost sympathized with his position. Almost.

“Who knows about this? Who am I allowed to tell?” she asked as they walked up the stairs. She saw Arturo through his kitchen window, drying a dish, and wondered what delights he’d cooked up tonight.

“No one in your office knows. We’ll be informing the SAC, once we get clearance.”

And she could well imagine what Dixon would do the moment the Special Agent in Charge, Dixon’s boss, walked into his office, notified him of what was going on. Dixon was going to know in a hot second that her trip to Houston had nothing to do with their serial killer case, something she’d have to deal with later. Right now, she needed that suicide note.

She unlocked her door, and to make it seem as though she were buying into Scotty’s presence and all he’d told her, she asked, “You want to check out the place, make sure it’s okay?” There was really only one way in or out, and that was via the front door, or, if desperate, through the kitchen window, accessed via the balcony. The only other windows, her bedroom and the front window, were fairly secure, being on the second story with no access unless one used a ladder, something that might be noticeable, since they’d have to prop it up in the front or side of the house, both visible from the street.

Just as she thought, he walked in, checked out the place, then walked out. “I can stay, if you like.”

She handed him the originals of what McKnight had mailed to her. “Actually I might have to go to the office tonight. Finish up a couple reports with Carillo from our search at the park.”

He hesitated, before saying, “Do you know how long you’ll be?”

“Couple hours at the most. Would’ve done it earlier, but I wasn’t about to miss Angie’s party.” And then, just to get a bit more info on how close they were watching her, she asked, “Do you need me to call when I get to the Bureau?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll know.”

“What if they lose me?”

“They won’t. But if you’re worried, don’t drive too fast.” His laugh sounded forced. “Actually it might not be a bad idea if you do let us know what you’re doing. Eliminate the surprise factor. More importantly, Syd, eliminate your routine factor. Go running earlier. Or later. Better yet, don’t run until we get this cleared up. And if you can’t reach me, call this number.” He took out a pen, jotted a number on the back of one of his business cards. “Jared Dunning. He’s in charge of your surveillance, and if he’s not on, he’ll have this number forwarded to who is.”

She took the card, noted it wasn’t one of the local FBI prefixes, and wondered what agency this Jared Dunning worked for. Something else to check out, she figured, dropping the card into her purse.

He leaned forward, kissed her cheek. “This will all work out. Trust me.”

In a heartbeat, she thought, as she closed and locked the door. When she heard his engine turning over, she took out her cell phone to call Carillo. Somehow they were going to have to figure out how to get to the airport and shake this surveillance. Her thumb poised over the send button, she eyed the brand-new phone, issued just a few days ago.

Because hers had stopped working.

Suddenly stopped.

Her glance strayed out the window, to Scotty’s departing car, wondering if they would go that far, jam her signal so she’d have to be issued a new phone. A phone they could listen in on, or at the very least track her movements with GPS…

A disturbing thought. The little bit Scotty had told her did nothing to help. She was still upset he’d kept this from her, which made her wonder who had issued the orders keeping her in the dark, and just how far they were going to keep tabs on her.

Don’t drive too fast.

She looked over at the number Scotty had left her, this Jared Dunning, and what bothered her was Scotty’s mentioning that other agencies were involved. So, other than the FBI, who?

She started pacing. Her father had worked black ops for the army. .. That scenario didn’t fit with the FBI, a domestic law enforcement agency. Army, covert operations…

Son of a bitch. She stopped, upset she hadn’t thought of this earlier. Then again how could she, since they’d purposefully kept her in the dark? How the hell had she not seen this?

Calm down. Maybe she was wrong.

Calm down, my ass. She grabbed the recycle container from beneath the sink, and then her keys, and marched downstairs, pushed in the code for the garage in the keypad, waited. When it opened, she walked past Arturo’s motorcycle and headed straight for the recycle bin, throwing the top open and dumping her container into it, promptly dropping several cans on the ground. They bounced and clattered, one rolling beneath the car.

Right where she wanted it.

She bent down, made a show of looking for the can, then walked to the front of the car where she wouldn’t be seen from the street. She knelt, shone her tiny blue light from her key ring on the undercarriage.

And saw it. The GPS tracking device attached near the wheel well. That meant she was right about her phone. They had no doubt jammed her signal, making her think something was wrong with it, so she’d be forced to get a new one, which they conveniently had waiting for her. If she had to put money on which organizations Scotty was working with, she’d bet NSA or CIA.

Didn’t matter which one. Both played by their own rules. Only one problem. No one knew what they were.

Jared Dunning sat up when he saw Sydney Fitz- patrick disappear from sight in the garage. He’d been sitting on her house all night. Just like the night before. And the night before that. One would think seniority would have advantages. Like maybe he could take the day shift part of this babysitting operation. He glanced over at his partner, saw him snoozing in the passenger seat, and whacked his arm to wake him. “Hey. She’s moving around in there.”

“Huh?” Mel focused on the apartment. Or tried to.

“She’s in the garage. Dumped some stuff, then ducked down in front of the car.”

“Shit. She’s not trying to take off on us, is she?”

Jared watched, saw her get up, toss a can into the bin, then brush her hands off. “Guess not. Looks like she dropped something. Picked it up.” And a moment later, she walked upstairs, but instead of going home, she knocked on the neighbor’s door.

Several minutes later, she emerged, disappeared back into her own apartment. “We shoulda bugged his phones, too,” Jared said.

“What for? You ever see him home for longer than a few hours the whole time we been sitting on this place?” About five minutes later, as if proving Mel’s point, the neighbor came out, dressed in full-on motorcycle gear. Black pants, boots, black leather coat, a backpack with reflective strips slung over his shoulder. In one hand he carried a jet-black helmet. And in the other, somewhat ruining the whole ninja biker look, the leashed giant white poodle, which he was apparently leaving behind. Again. Seemed that’s all their target did was watch the neighbor’s damned dog for him, Jared thought as she opened her door, petted the dog, then stepped aside to let them both in.