Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“Bingo.”

“We know McKnight wrote the note. Orozco was Boston, and he told me that Iggy was short for Ignoble.”

“If that’s Donovan Gnoble’s nickname, I’d have to say these men knew something more about him than he portrays to his constituents.”

“Especially when you consider that according to the note,

Iggy was worried that they could tie everything to BICTT and ruin him.”

“But what’s the significance of this boat, Cisco’s Kid, especially now that it’s being used as a giant planter for flowers?”

Sydney didn’t like to think about that part, that her father was socking away blackmail money, even if it was for something as simple as a fleet of fishing boats. “Since my father ended up dead, I’m guessing the money never made it down there.”

“Hence the boat being used as a planter?” He unlocked his desk drawer, pulled out several sheets of paper containing what appeared to be long strings of numbers and letters. “As you can see, this doesn’t mean a lot. To me, at least.” “Which literally gets us nowhere.”

“I think we need to get that last guy identified.” She looked over at him. “But he is identified. I almost forgot. Orozco mentioned the name of Frank White. Said the guy was half black, half Puerto Rican.”

“The guy from your photo?”

“Maybe. Not like I have a better theory.”

“Let’s run his name.” He shoved the photocopies back into his desk, locked it, then hit a key on his keyboard to wake his sleeping computer. The screen came to life, and he brought up the name search, typed in “Frank White,” put in an approximate age, and hit enter. A few moments later, they stared at the screen. “Well, that was a waste of time,” he said, looking at the notation that came up, stating there were too many entries to search the database without further information. Carillo deleted the information, and they retraced their steps to the elevator, while he called Erickson to say that they were just leaving the building and would meet them out front. Sydney knew it had been too good to be true, that they might be able to plug in the guy’s name, come up with something that would tell them anything at all.

“So what’s your plan?” he asked as they exited the elevator and walked through the lobby.

“Plan?” They heard the other agents calling in their positions. She looked over at Carillo as she pushed open the glass door and exited the building. “I don’t think I’ve sat still long enough to think of one. Every time I get an answer, I have fifteen more questions.” She held the door for him, then let it fall shut. “Something else Orozco told me when I was down in Baja. That if my father hadn’t been killed in that robbery, they would’ve killed him anyway.”

“Telling.”

“Definitely. Between the guy on death row who says he didn’t do it, and an old team member who says my father was marked, I’ve got to think that Johnnie Wheeler might very well be as innocent as he claims.”

“The way I see it, he might be on death row, but he’s a lot safer than you are right now. Even before you came home with a bank pouch full of cryptic numbers, someone was trying to kill you.”

“It’s got to be the photo,” she said, just as Erickson pulled up out front with the car, waiting to drive them to the Mission District. “That’s what started it. Why else would someone try to kill me when it suddenly arrives in my mailbox?” “Okay, let’s say it is? What now?”

“An age progression on the remaining man who needs to be identified. Might be a helluva lot easier trying to figure out who he is by what he might look like today.” “Not a bad idea,” he said, before Erickson rolled down his window, and they had to turn their attention to present matters: serial killers preying on young women.

The Mission District had its share of problems, and no wonder. It was a strange and sometimes uneasy mix of culturally diverse businesses and residences, everything from dive bars to coffeehouses, thrift stores to art galleries. Commissioned murals on some walls and annoying graffiti on others coexisted in neighborhoods filled with workingclass families and gentrified newcomers. Chic restaurants were popping up in empty lots, and if the food prices were too high, there were still plenty of mom-and-pop joints to round out the menu for those looking for a place to eat after visiting the avant-garde theaters or upscale nightclubs- assuming one could find parking. That wasn’t their concern. Nor did they delude themselves about where they’d be looking for their witnesses. Their focus would be on the areas that most cops drove through in pairs, because sometimes the gang factions, whether bikers, Hispanics, Asians, or whoever, had issues. They didn’t play well together.

Carillo suggested they hit another area bar first, just to make it look good, so after Erickson and Ren Pham-Peck dropped them off, they walked the half block to the Dusty Rose. Sydney figured no one was making her for an FBI agent, not in her biker gear, and any stares coming their way had more to do with Carillo, whose dark Italian just-got-outof-bed look was only enhanced by the stubble that graced his square jaw.

After several minutes, when it became clear that the sort of clientele that frequented this bar was probably not the sort they were interested in, they left and walked the couple of doors down to the Gold Ox, which definitely fit in with their idea of the sort of bar their UnSub might frequent to pick up a hooker. The place was dark, smoky, its floors sticky with spilled beer, never mind a rougher crowd to match.

Once again, Carillo became the focus of the few women present, as did the men they were with, probably sizing up the competition. To be honest, Sydney thought, there was none, even if all Carillo needed was the tool belt to go with his faded blue jeans, red Pendleton, and white tee. He was the kind of guy who could dress up or down and still look good. And although he was trying to look less like a cop, and more like someone who just wanted to get a drink after a long hard day at work, Sydney felt that several women were tempted to tuck some greenbacks into his waistband. Although Sydney wasn’t one of them, she was supposed to act like she was, and so she kept her hand on his shoulder while he ordered two beers from the bar-Budweiser for their working-class persona. They took the bottles, moving away from the bar to get a better view of the room. Sydney, on the lookout for not only their hooker informant, but anyone else who looked like he could be a danger, sidled up to Carillo as they leaned against the wall, watching a couple of guys play pool.

They weren’t there but a few minutes when a woman dressed in blue jeans and a hot-pink, low-cut, seen-betterdays cashmere sweater walked up and struck a pose, arms crossed, hips cocked. She eyed Carillo as if he were her next meal. “Damn,” she finally said. “They’re making cops betterlooking all the time.” He merely looked at her as she moved even closer, so that her face was mere inches from his, then whispered, “Don’t get me wrong. I like what I see. But next time, do something a little more. Look the part.”

Their gazes held for a couple seconds, and Sydney admitted to being fascinated with the byplay. She’d never seen Carillo in action. Not like this. Apparently she hadn’t seen anything yet, because he caressed the woman’s cheek with the side of his beer bottle and said, “And if you were me, what would you do to… look the part?”

To the observer who wasn’t privy to their conversation, it would seem like a typical seduction. A damned good seduction, Sydney thought, even with her standing next to him. In truth, it even put the woman off balance, because it took her a moment to answer. “You’re both too squeaky clean. Like you were supposed to be dropped off in Union Square, and took a wrong turn.”