Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“You really don’t have a choice. Because the moment I’m pulled off my cases, I’m going to put in a formal complaint about how your incompetence put me and my family and my very young and innocent sister in the most extreme danger.” “Damn it, Sydney! Where are you?”

“Working a follow-up on my serial killer case. Oh, and you might want to inform Carillo. I think he has a right to know that for the past few days, he was an unwitting target.

That way he can make an informed decision on whether or not he wants to be sitting in the same car as me. Gotta go,” she said, just as the gate attendant picked up a microphone to announce the boarding of her flight.

“Syd-”

She shut down the phone, then dropped it in the backpack.

Special Agent Vincent Pettigrew of the Houston field office was a tall, gray-haired man with a lined face that spoke of a love for the outdoors and the sun, and an expensive navy suit that spoke of a love for the finer things in life. If he thought anything of Sydney’s unusual biker garb, he didn’t mention it, nor did she offer an explanation. He picked her up from Intercontinental airport, drove her to Webster, where they did a quick check on the murder case that, who would’ve guessed, turned out not to be related to her case at all, and then started on their drive to Houston, where she queried him about how he got started in the Bureau. Apparently he owed his title of doctor to the Ph. D. he’d acquired before being lured to the FBI twenty-three years ago. They’d asked him for assistance in a stolen art case, and he’d discovered it was a lot more exciting than his first-year teaching job at the university in Virginia. “It was the guns,” he told Sydney after they’d stopped for much needed coffee. He checked his rearview mirror, changed lanes, merging onto the freeway. “I was fascinated by all these smart guys running around like 007. I got to hold an actual Renoir in my hands. Figured it was going to be all artwork, all the time, some sort of specialized art task force, so when one of the operatives on the case told me I should think about joining up, I jumped.”

“And how many art cases did you get to investigate?”

He glanced over at her, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “In the twenty-three years I’ve been with the Bureau? Quite a few, but only two that made me salivate over what was stolen. Consulted on several more. In the end, I’ll get the best of both worlds. I’ll be retiring in a few weeks, and I’ve just accepted a university teaching position in art history that could lead to tenure in Virginia, so all in all, can’t complain.”

“Not bad.”

“How about you? Why’d you go into law enforcement?” “Same as you. Fascinated by the guns.” She left it at that, too tired to do much talking herself. And as they drove, she couldn’t help but remember her stepfather, Jake, telling her that she’d let her father’s murder define her. Maybe it wasn’t the fascination of the gun as much as the knowledge that if she carried one, she’d have some power to protect those she loved. But how could she protect them against something she had no knowledge about? She’d called Carillo as soon as she’d landed, told him what Scotty had told her last night, asked him to look up anything and everything on the banking scandal Scotty had mentioned. And now she had to content herself with waiting, because what she was asking was no small feat. How much of her father’s murder, McKnight’s suicide, the hit on her life, was tied up in that old case?

“Except for the skyline, it’s not exactly the most inspiring of scenery,” Vince said several minutes later, looking over at her, perhaps seeing her eyes drift shut. “Most people think it should be wide open land with longhorns grazing.”

She smiled, tried to act interested, and only then noticed there was nothing to look at but strip malls and car dealerships that lined the freeway. The downtown skyline was impressive from this distance, though, as several high-rises actually reflected the blue sky and the puffy white clouds that graced it. “It’s a pretty city.”

“Clean, too. But somehow I don’t think you’re here for the travelogue…”

She laughed, appreciating his attempt to make her at ease. “So, what can you tell me about this matter?”

“Nothing, except it’s one hot potato. Someone came in, sanitized the entire case.”

“Why?”

“Right-wing Republicans taking the brunt of yet another scandal? Then again, maybe something bigger.”

“And if it is something bigger?”

“Whichever agency did the whitewashing, they’re higher up the food chain than us. You can’t just march into a police department the size of Houston and make a suicide note disappear.”

“It’s gone?”

“That’s the rumor. Every photocopy and mention of it. The report was computer generated, so if it was mentioned in the original, and we’ve got no reason to think otherwise, you couldn’t tell. And Hatcher, the agent who was first looking into the case because of that background he was doing? Well, he pretty much spooked Reynolds, the guy you first called, with his talk of national security Patriot Act stuff.”

“You think it really is a national security issue?”

“Knowing the way the gazillion branches of our government all fail to communicate with each other, who the hell knows? Me, I like the scandal theory, because it fits in with my all-top-government-officials-are-dirty theme.”

They arrived in downtown Houston, and just as Vince said, it was indeed a very clean city. The PD was in the heart of the city, located in a white and tan, twenty-six-story building on Travis Street. Vince pulled into a monitored parking garage, filled with undercover cars, numerous white marked police vehicles, and a few older-model sky-blue police cars, probably being phased out of the fleet.

Vince called from his cell phone, letting his contact know they’d arrived. “Alexander’s waiting for us at his office,” he said. Inside were two banks of elevators, and Vince hit the up button on one that covered floors one through sixteen, then held the door for Sydney to step in.

“What floor?” she asked.

“Six. Homicide.”

She hit the button and the door slid shut. Investigator Alexander Hilleary was waiting in the doorway of the homicide office when they got out, a manila folder tucked beneath one arm. He was about the same height as Sydney, five-nine, with brown hair and brown eyes, maybe in his thirties, wearing a gray suit and a burgundy tie. He walked up to them, shook hands with Vince and then Sydney, before leading them to his desk, and its collection of Yu-Gi-Oh!, Pokemon, and ninja figures that seemed out of place next to the odd assortment of books on homicide and forensics. The file cabinet next to it was filled with family photos, a number of them showing a young boy playing soccer.

Hilleary opened the file drawer, deposited his folder, then asked them, “You two want coffee or something?”

Sydney nodded. “That would be great.”

Vince declined, and Hilleary poured two Styrofoam cups, handed Sydney one. She sucked hers down, while Vince asked Hilleary, “So, what the hell’s going on in this place?”

“How about we go sit in one of the interview rooms. Get a little privacy.” He led them down the hall, showed them into what was commonly called a “soft” interview room, one with a couch and armchair, usually reserved for witness interviews as opposed to suspect interrogations.

Sydney asked, “You were on the McKnight suicide?”

“That’s right. We really didn’t do much, other than go in, look around, confirm that, yeah, it’s a suicide. Then get back to the real work.”