Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

The scent of cinnamon and chocolate mixed with coffee swirled up from the cup as she lifted it to her mouth.

Venegas wasted no time, however, as he’d made it clear the night before when she’d called him that he could stay but a few minutes. “I worry about your presence here, looking for this Robert Orozco,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“His name is, how do you say it… flagged? in our system. More importantly, there was an automatic audit, in that I couldn’t run him without including which agency was requesting the info. I fear it may present a problem, but your name and mine are now linked to the internal audit. I did, however, say it was via phone call. How am I to say you were actually in our country when you called?” He eyed her as she sipped the fragrant brew, savored the cinnamon and chocolate warming her tongue. “Unfortunately there is much that worries me about this, and if you want some advice from me, I would go back to your country, the sooner the better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aside from the initial want of money laundering and being armed and dangerous? He remains as elusive now as he did twenty years ago when your government first started looking for him.” Agent Venegas glanced at his watch before turning his somber dark gaze on her once more. “Your statute of limitations has long since run its course on Orozco. It makes no sense that my government still has his name flagged. What, then, is your government’s real interest in him?”

“Precisely one of the reasons I want to talk to him. That and what he might know about my father’s murder.” She showed him the faxed photo of Cisco’s Kid, but he had no suggestions on where she might find it.

She thanked him for his help and the coffee, and after they shook hands, he held her gaze a moment longer. “Be careful, Senorita Fitzpatrick. I am uncomfortable with this flag on Orozco’s name. Computers are fast, and Baja so easily accessible.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He turned, got into his car, and drove away, leaving her standing there, contemplating his words. That there was still a computer link to Orozco down here meant someone had a fair idea he’d been in Mexico all this time, and was just waiting until someone stumbled across him. No doubt the flag was of the sort that would send notification to whomever was looking for Orozco, but that was a detail she had little control over. What she needed to do was find him first, get the information she needed, then get the hell out of there. She’d spent a few hours the night before in Tijuana, asking around about the boat and Robert Orozco before she’d hired a car to drive her down to Rosarito when it soon became obvious that she wasn’t far enough south.

On the one hand, she was disappointed she couldn’t find him so easily, on the other, it confirmed in her mind that her memory had served her correctly, that her father had taken her to someplace south of Tijuana. And Rosarito Beach, one of the fastest growing cities for tourists and locals, fit that description. What didn’t fit, however, were her memories. Hers had been of a much smaller, sleepier town. Now there were high-rise condos built between the pink and turquoise motels everywhere she turned, and multitudes of houses built into the once desolate chaparral-covered hills that looked out over the Pacific Ocean. Urban vacation sprawl, Americans snapping up dirt-cheap villas and condos that if purchased and built north of the border would cost millions for a slice of ocean views and rugged coastlines.

She walked through the town, trying to get a feel for it, see if there was anything she remembered. A giant arch with “Bienvenidos a Rosarito” painted across it welcomed tourists to the town. It was still early, but the shopkeepers beneath tiled roofs were sweeping the storefronts and setting out their pottery and knickknacks in preparation for the day, giving the area an old world feel as they spoke in Spanish too rapid for Sydney to understand. She wandered about, asking about fishing charters, and Robert and Cisco’s Kid, but no one could offer her anything further.

Several times that morning, she felt as though she were being followed, watched, but when she turned around, looked, she saw nothing that stood out. Nothing but workers, tourists, a few locals smoking on the street corner. Perhaps it was Venegas’s warning about the flag on Orozco’s name, or simply a feeling of guilt for all the rules she’d broken in the last few days, the least of them being that she was carrying concealed. Mexico was not the place to get caught carrying unauthorized weapons, and she, not being there officially, was completely unauthorized on many counts. A week ago, she would never have even imagined breaking such a rule. But she was no longer that same person. The day before, she’d deplaned in San Diego, dropped by the FBI field office, picked up the copy Carillo had faxed of her and her father on Cisco’s Kid, before crossing the border on foot, armed not only with her Glock, but also with lots of cash.

The almighty dollar went a lot further down here, and she’d had no trouble hiring a car to drive her down to Rosarito from the border, but as she walked the shops and then the beaches, showing the copy of her father’s photo, asking if anyone knew Robert and Cisco’s Kid, she began to wonder if she’d remembered wrong. She’d spent the hours before sunrise surfing the Internet on the hotel’s computer, trying to look up fishing expedition companies. Most, she’d discovered, were owned and operated in San Diego, even though their boats were docked down here. Those she immediately discounted. Robert Orozco wouldn’t chance any U.S. ties, she was certain. But neither would he chance having a company in his own name, which made it a lot more difficult.

She took a taxi to the marina south of the hotel, had the driver wait, then walked around, and knew without a doubt this was not the right place. Too modern. The marina couldn’t have been more than a few years old, nor were the condos built behind it on the hill. Frustrated, she returned to the taxi. “Are there other marinas around here?”

“Do you want to fish? Or go boating?”

“Neither. I’m looking for a boat and a man who owns it.” She showed him the picture.

He nodded, traced his fingers across the background. “Different now. But maybe near Ensenada. You want me to drive you?”

“How far?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes?”

Robert Orozco’s two-year-old granddaughter, Rosa, picked up a small rock and tossed it into the surf. She laughed, toddled ahead, searched for another rock, not venturing too far from Robert’s watchful gaze as he and Tomas walked behind her, talking.

“I’m getting worried,” Tomas said. Tomas was the brother of Robert’s common law wife, Juana, and the only one who knew his true background.

“We knew this day might come.”

“It was not supposed to turn out this way.”

“Who’s to say how it should have turned out?” They walked in silence for a while longer, while little Rosa chased a seagull, falling into the soft sand on her hands and knees, and Robert thought that all in all, he’d had a good life these past couple of decades. They didn’t live in a palace, but it was still a good life, and one he would sorely miss. Perhaps if he was careful-

Rosa screamed, ran back to him. An odd wave rolled up, catching her chubby little legs. She jumped into his arms, laughing as he lifted her. He kissed her, set her back down, and she was off once more, and he sighed. “A good life, no?”

“What will you do?”

“Just what we planned. I have no choice. What did she look like?”

“An American woman dressed all in black. Wearing a black leather coat. She stayed at a hotel in Rosarito.”