Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

Carillo wandered in right about then, handing her a can of soda. “Oh good. You’re done.”

“Oh good. Warm soda.”

“The call took longer than I thought. I see the bump didn’t change your lovely personality any.”

She held out the orders. “Three days until released for duty.”

Carillo glanced at Scotty. “Guess that should make it easier on everyone all the way around, eh?”

“I know Sydney’s not happy about it, but I am,” Scotty said. “Get her off the street with no one thinking twice.”

“I am so seeing my own doctor tomorrow. I am not going to be pulled from the street.”

Scotty took the scrip from Sydney’s hand, saying, “Where do you want to get this filled?”

“I don’t need it filled. It’s Motrin. I have a bottle full of it at home.”

“But it’s eight hundred milligrams.”

“Which equals four little pills. Somehow I think I’ll manage.”

A nurse came in with a wheelchair, and when Scotty left to get the car, Carillo said, “You’re a little upset.”

She looked away. “Upset? I am so pissed right now, I could scream.”

“Well, don’t do it, or you’ll end up in the psych ward, and probably for longer than three days. By the way, I found your phone. On the front seat of Scotty’s car.”

“Is that it?”

“That is what you wanted me to go out there and get, right?”

“You didn’t see the file box you had to climb over to get into his car?”

He grinned, and she realized he was playing her. “I was trying to figure out a way to get back in there myself. You beat me to it. Copied a couple notes while I was there. Let me look into it tomorrow, see if it pans out. And I can bring you your sketch stuff for that age progression.”

And though she was dying to know what he’d dug up, Scotty walked in, and she had to content herself with the knowledge that Carillo was going to look into things himself. It was not, however, enough to lessen her anxiety over being removed from active duty for three days, and the more she thought about that, the angrier she got.

Scotty drove to her place. As he rounded the corner, his radio crackled with static, no doubt his team keying their mikes, letting him know they had seen him drive up. He pulled into the driveway, turned to Carillo in the backseat. “You want to take her up, get her settled? I need to call the guys, let them know what’s going on.”

“Sure.”

She wanted to snap that she could get herself upstairs on her own just fine. Instead she exited the car, slammed the door shut.

Carillo followed her. About midway up the steps, he said, “I figured after the good news, you’d be calmed down by now.”

She stopped, turned, looked him right in the eye. “Calmed down? Scotty’s gotta be high-fiving his guys right now. I’m out of commission.”

“With very good reason,” he said, glancing back at the car, where Scotty was talking on the phone. Carillo ushered her up the stairs. “You work on the age progression on your unknown in that photo, and I’ll work on the names I dug up in his files. Orozco was in there. Scotty’s gotta be working the BICTT thing. Which means that whatever is going on in Gnoble’s office, getting someone all antsy to take you out, it has to do with McKnight sending you that photo, or something close to the timing of it. You didn’t receive anything else in the mail right then, did you?”

“Yeah. The card from my aunt commemorating the death of my father. And unless she’s hidden a code in it, something I highly doubt, I’d have to say she’s not involved.”

“Regardless, between the two of us, we might be able to put something together. So in the meantime, play nice with Scotty so you don’t get yanked into some protective custody situation.”

“Fine. I’ll be nice.” She unlocked the door. The moment she opened it, Topper’s large white head emerged. “Hello, Toppie!”

“Didn’t know you had a sheep,” Carillo said.

“Topper is not a sheep. He’s a poodle.”

“A poodle, huh? That’s why they give them the foo-foo haircuts? So you can tell they’re dogs and not livestock?”

“He’s named after a very lovable character in the movie of the same name. He belongs to my neighbor.”

“What’s he doing at your place?”

“I sort of forgot I agreed to watch him tonight. In exchange for Arturo lending me his motorcycle.” He petted Topper while Sydney opened a cupboard to get him a snack. When Carillo walked into her kitchen, he stopped before the painting on her easel. “What is that?”

“I have no idea. Sometimes I just paint and see where it takes me.”

He cocked his head, trying to look at it from a different angle. “Don’t think you want to go where this one’s taking you.”

“Why not?”

“Flames in hell.”

She gave Topper his dog biscuit, then walked to the easel to look at the painting, thinking it did look like flames. “I started it right after my visit with Wheeler.”

“Maybe you subconsciously wanted him to burn in hell for what he did.”

The thought she had painted flames bothered her, especially considering that a fire had been set to cover her father’s murder. She moved away from it, shook out another biscuit for Topper.

Carillo looked at a few of her other paintings stacked against the wall in her kitchen. “Abstracts?”

“A kick I’m on.”

He nodded, then glanced around the kitchen, at the brushes, the cans of turpentine, and other art supplies. “Hope you don’t cook in here. This place would go up in a hot second.”

“That’s why God made microwaves and neighbors who can cook.”

“You definitely need to get that neighbor something for Christmas. What’s his name?”

“Arturo.”

He walked to the door, looked out the window. “So you think these guys bugged your apartment, too?”

“Better not have.”

“But you don’t know.”

“No.” Topper finished his biscuit, then sat by the door. “Oh, sorry, Top. You want to go out.” She didn’t have the energy, but picked up his leash anyway.

“You want me to take him around the block? I gotta wait anyway, until Schermer can swing by, pick me up.”

“Would you?”

“Or will he walk me?”

“Topper’s good on a leash.”

Carillo clapped his hands. “C’mere, boy.” Topper clambered over. “You want to go for a walk?” His words sent Topper into a spin before he sat, waited for the leash. Carillo walked him out, no problem, and Sydney locked the door, then dropped onto the couch, deciding she wasn’t getting up for anything. Even to let him back in. Well, maybe to let him back in. But that was it.

Her stomach had other plans, and when it started rumbling, she tried to remember when it was she last ate. Cheesecake. There was definitely some of Arturo’s cheesecake still in the fridge, and she got up, cut herself a generous slice, and started eating, not even bothering to sit. She glanced over at her painting, thinking about what Carillo said, and it struck her that here she was, eating a slice of heaven, looking at a painting of hell. The irony of it all, she thought, wondering if it had truly been flames her subconscious had painted. Logical, certainly, considering she’d started it after her visit with Wheeler, the man convicted of her father’s murder and the arson of the pizza parlor.

She had seen flames that night.

A painting of hell…

She stared at the canvas and for some reason was compelled to add some paint, and she set down her plate, squeezed some red onto the palette. Deep dark red. Not all over, just a spot near the top left. But something was off, and she took a darker color, dabbed a small diagonal line through the red spot of paint.