Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

The moment she finished it, stepped back, looked at it, she was disturbed. More than disturbed. Her gaze caught between the flames and the black depths she’d painted. And then it was drawn to that red spot, the last thing she saw in her mind. Like a devil’s eye, she thought. Staring at her.

She ignored the beating of her heart, and felt she should recognize what it was she’d painted. Really, it was nothing more than being stressed from the accident. The blow to her head, never mind the whole shooting in Baja.

And of course she was tired. Who wouldn’t be after the past couple of days? She had no idea what she was looking at, or even if it meant anything. No doubt some psychiatrist could put a name on it, transference of something or other, especially after Carillo had mentioned that she’d painted hell.

She was entitled to be upset, she thought, and decided she’d had enough of painting for the night.

She put the brush in some cleaner, set her empty plate in the sink.

Topper barked outside, and she looked out the window, saw Schermer pull up to the front of the house. Carillo stood in the driveway with the dog, talking to Scotty. He waved at Schermer, then followed Scotty up the steps. She unlocked the door, let them in, and Scotty said, “Should you be up?”

“No. But how else were you going to get in?”

He walked into the kitchen, looked over at her painting, shook his head, and said, “You should take some Motrin and go to bed.”

“And what were you planning on doing?”

“I get to relieve one of the guys parked up the street for a few hours. But when I’m done, maybe I could sleep on your couch instead of driving back to my hotel?”

“You need a key to get in, or did your spooks already pick my lock and make a copy?”

“A key would be nice.”

“Yeah,” Carillo said, handing her Topper’s leash. “That way he can make a copy and get it back to you.”

“Don’t you have to go out and look for serial killers?” she asked, the night taking its toll on her patience.

“As a matter of fact, my ride’s out front now. Call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks for pulling me out of the gutter.” She smiled, hoped he understood her short temper. “See you.”

He left, and Scotty looked over at her. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Until then, I’ll be right up the road if you need me.”

“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She gave him her key, and when he took it, his hand touched hers, sending a slight shock through her.

He took one step toward her, reached up, brushing the hair away from her temple. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

All she could do was nod, because he looked right at her, and he was standing so close, and she wanted him to move closer. And when he held her gaze, she thought he might say something. But then he tucked her hair behind her ear, allowed his finger to linger a moment, then with one last look, turned away. And all she could do was watch him walk down the steps, feeling the warmth of his touch on her skin long after she locked the door behind him.

When she turned around, saw her empty apartment, she reminded herself of the many lonely nights she’d spent without him, waiting for him to come home.

Apparently she was still waiting, and she wondered if she’d ever stop.

Get over him. There was no hope for the future. None.

The truth was, she actually felt better knowing he was there, outside, watching her. And in a few hours, he’d be sleeping on her couch. She was safe for the night. Her throbbing temple reminded her of the investigation that she’d just left, her run-in with the possible rapist. Maybe in a way that was a good thing. Had she not been injured, she’d be working side by side with Carillo on it, with no time to look into her father’s case, determine the guilt or innocence of Johnnie Wheeler, or what McKnight’s photo and suicide note meant.

Maybe she was looking at this injury leave all wrong. Stop seeing it as three days unable to work, until she had the doctor’s medical release.

Because that pertained only to on -duty activity. And looking into her father’s case was off -duty fare. Under-the-table, not-sanctioned-by-the-FBI fare.

She’d already broken a number of rules just looking into it as far as she had, and she wondered just how many more rules she might break in the next three days.

And if she’d still have a job when she was done.

“What do you think, Topper? So they fire me. What’s the worst that can happen? Move back in with my mom?”

He cocked his head, his tail wagging.

“You’re right. Definitely not a good idea. Let’s go to bed. Sleep on it.”

He followed her, waited in the middle of the hallway while she undressed, then brushed her teeth. When she came out to double check the lock on the door, she couldn’t help but look at the canvas. She quickly turned away, walked to the bathroom, flicked the light on, and wondered just how many other adults slept with night lights in hopes of avoiding past memories that sometimes swirled through their dreams. Sydney suspected there were a few of them who, like her, didn’t admit to such a weakness, and she was grateful that Topper was with her that night. So grateful that when he was about to curl up on the floor, Sydney patted the bed. He jumped up, plopped down next to her, and within moments, she could feel the heat of his furry solid form through the covers. “Good night, Topper.”

His tail thumped on the bed, and she couldn’t help but smile.

Prescott loved the campaign offices at this hour, be- fore the sun rose. Quiet. No keyboards clacking, no copy machines humming, no poll takers citing their litany. And best of all, no phones ringing. The very sound startled him lately. His nerves were frayed over this entire affair. Perhaps he should have ended it, but the very thought left him cold. He knew things. Knew things about Donovan Gnoble that no one else knew. Mr. Clean wasn’t near as squeaky as everyone believed, and it was his, Prescott’s, job to make sure Gnoble’s reputation wasn’t tarnished-if for no other reason than to ensure that Prescott’s future was secured.

Don’t kill the Golden Goose.

Don’t get killed trying to protect it, either.

Sort of the golden rule in this business, and why he came armed to this meeting. Richard Blackwell was becoming a liability, a loose cannon. Blackwell wanted things done his way, or no way, even if opportunity reared its head. In hindsight, Prescott never should’ve hired him, but he came highly recommended. Though, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t as if he could go around and check the guy’s references with the others who’d used him: I hear you used Blackwell to assassinate the political thorn in your side. Any issues?

He heard the office door open, a cold draft sweeping into the room as Blackwell let himself in from the street. Prescott glanced up, saw it was 6:10, twenty minutes before Blackwell had said he’d be there.

Half the time Prescott never even knew he was around. He just appeared.

But he knew this time, because Prescott had made sure he was here early.

No surprises, no getting caught as he walked the empty streets, leaving him vulnerable, he thought, reaching into his coat pocket, making sure the small-caliber semiauto was there. Just in case.

Blackwell strode into the room, his gaze dark, empty, the gaze of a killer. He looked around, took in the deserted offices, always searching. The man trusted no one. Not even Prescott, who deposited the money into his account. Blackwell’s services did not come cheap. And that didn’t even count what he’d be paid after the hit. The perfect crime was not quick. Apparently it was costly. Costly, but necessary.