Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

That happy vision faded at the sight of the charcoal-gray Crown Victoria that pulled up on the street corner, then sped off in the direction the attacker fled. A moment later, some transvestite was helping Sydney Fitzpatrick up from the ground. Before he had a chance to clear the area, it was flooded with cops and agents, and he stepped into the doorway of a restaurant, pretended to read the menu posted in the window as he pulled out his cell phone and hit send. “We have a problem,” he said when the call was answered. “It might be bigger than we think.”

When Sydney was able to focus, she became aware that there were at least a dozen sets of eyes looking at her, mostly men, and the absurd thought that, clearly, the majority seemed more skilled at applying makeup than she had ever been, swept its way into her consciousness. And she was conscious. A good thing. She could now breathe. Also a good thing. Apparently the car whose hood she had landed on had thankfully been slowing to turn the corner. Sydney tried to stand, felt her knees give way, and was grateful when someone grabbed her and helped her back to the sidewalk.

The driver got out, frantic. “What happened? Why’d you jump in front of my car?”

Jump? Hardly, she thought as Carillo came running up.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Sydney said. “Lost my radio.”

Carillo took over for the well-manicured transvestite who had been assisting, putting his arm around her until she was certain she could stand. “You need an ambulance?”

Sydney took stock of her body parts, figured the weakness in her knees was more from the rush of adrenaline than from any injuries. There was a slight lump on her temple, but other than that, she felt okay. “No.”

“What happened?”

“Someone pushed me.”

“Sweatshirt guy?”

“If I had to guess. You said you saw him here?”

“Pretty sure that’s who I was chasing. I was halfway up the block

…” Carillo assisted her to the curb, eyeing the crowd who’d gathered. “Anyone see what happened?”

There was a lot of looking around, shoulder shrugging, comments that ranged from “She jumped out” to “She tripped and fell.”

“I didn’t trip, I didn’t jump,” Sydney said, between gritted teeth.

Carillo drew her away from the others. “Just checking. Don’t get so testy.”

Like he wouldn’t be if someone had pushed him into the street. But Sydney didn’t respond, because the burly-armed bouncer from the Purple Moon walked up. “You still looking for that guy? Gray hood?”

“Yeah,” Sydney said.

“He ran that way,” he said, pointing in the direction they’d come from originally. “Least I think it was him. Saw him take off from about here right after I heard the screech of brakes.”

“You’re sure it was the guy in the gray sweatshirt?”

“Pretty sure. Ripped his sweatshirt off as he ran. Tucked it under one arm, which is what makes me think it was the same guy. Then again, it ain’t like gray sweatshirts are all that unusual.”

Unfortunately he was right. Sydney counted three in their general area, though their physical description was off from the first person they saw-a man whose face they didn’t see clearly enough to ID.

Across the street a man stood staring, and when she looked at him, he turned, strode off in the opposite direction.

Recognition hit her. “He’s the guy from the elevator. The… guy.”

“What guy?” Carillo asked, looking where she was pointing.

Too late, he was gone. Lost in the crowd, and her head throbbed as she tried to remember, tried to determine what was so odd about his presence. “He was watching me in court during my robbery case, and followed me up to the cafe.”

“In the federal building?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. Cute Guy from the elevator.”

“I don’t care if he’s Ugly Guy from the basement. What’s he doing here, watching you, then? Because the way I see it, if he was a cop, he’d be hauling his ass this way, find out what’s up, not hightailing it the opposite way. You see him around again, you call for help.”

She reached up, touched the tender spot on her temple, trying to ignore the increasing headache. If a guy like that wasn’t a cop, and he had access to the federal building… She didn’t even want to think about it. “I need to find my radio.”

“Wait here with the bouncer,” Carillo said. “I’ll find it.”

Carillo left her beneath the awning at the Purple Moon’s entrance, then walked to the street corner. A black-and-white had pulled up and was taking the driver’s information, but then the officer rushed to his vehicle, saying something to Carillo just before he got in and raced off. Suddenly they were there by themselves, as though SFPD had abandoned them.

“Shots fired,” Carillo called out to her, pulling a three-byfive card from his back pocket to start copying witnesses’ names. “Takes precedence over lowly agents being pushed into traffic.”

The bouncer shook his head. “I gotta get a new job. Shooting here last night, too. Some woman shot her boyfriend.”

Carillo went back to interviewing the witnesses, and Sydney asked the bouncer, “Did you see the guy walk out of here?”

“Guy with the sweatshirt?” He crossed his massive arms. “Sorry. He coulda come in here, left with the crowd, but I was busy making sure they weren’t walking out with drinks. Didn’t notice him until I heard the car skid, and then the cop car sped after him.”

“Black-and-white?” Sydney asked, wondering if SFPD had a patrol in the area by that time.

“Nah. One of those undercover rigs. Dark Crown Victoria.”

“Could you ID him?”

“The cop?”

“The guy in the gray sweatshirt.”

“Didn’t get that close a look. Only noticed the sweatshirt, ’cause you asked about it. Figured he probably took it off, you know, to disguise himself or something.”

Carillo returned a few minutes later. “Got everyone’s name who’s willing to give one.” He handed Sydney her radio, the hard plastic casing dented and scratched at the bottom from being dropped in the gutter.

She keyed it, heard the feedback on Carillo’s radio, and figured it was none the worse for wear. “Great,” she said, thinking that the entire operation was ruined for the night. “Now what?”

“Now you go home and we keep looking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You have a lump on your head, never mind that Elevator Guy is wandering around down here. Either that or you were hit harder than you think. You’re going home.”

A man pulled up in a dark gray Crown Victoria about two minutes later, and the bouncer said, “That’s the cop that took off after the guy.”

Sydney looked over to see who it was. She didn’t recognize him, figured he was an undercover SFPD. “And you are…?”

“Jared Dunning. One of your shadows.” He nodded to the man in the passenger seat. “Mel. One of your other shadows. We’re, uh, working with Scotty, and are under orders not to lose you this time.”

“You find our UnSub?” she asked. He seemed surprised by her query, and she said, “The bouncer said you took off after the guy.”

“So it was the same guy. I was looking for you, but saw him running. Thought he matched the description. Unfortunately I lost him a couple blocks from here. Medium height, carrying a gray sweatshirt. At least I think it was the guy. He didn’t stop to identify himself.”

“Go figure. Apparently in his haste to flee, he pushed me into traffic.” Sydney lifted her hair on her left temple and showed him the lump.

“Ouch. You okay?”

“Just a bump.” She looked down the street, then said, “There’s some other guy I saw here. I also saw him in the federal building.” She gave them the man’s description. “Any chance you saw him out and about while you’ve been following me?”