Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

They’d made that trip the summer before he was killed, went to visit his friend, Bob the Boat Guy. Funny how the name popped up, because her father’s friend was the least memorable thing about that trip, one she was sure she’d never forget. There were times just looking at the photo when Sydney could almost hear the water lapping against the boat, smell the salt in the air, feel the heat of the sun on her back, and taste the radishes in the fish tacos she and her father ate for lunch that afternoon.

But not tonight. Though Sydney willed herself to remember the fragrant memory, nothing came, and she reached out, touched the picture, the glass cool beneath her fingertips.

She closed her eyes, but sleep would not come, and her thoughts drifted to the article, the date, the fact that Johnnie Wheeler’s case was being looked at by new attorneys. She realized then what bothered her most about the little she’d read in that article. Somewhere it should have read how twenty years today she would have lived without her father in her life. Not once did it mention the family left behind. Not once did it address what this day of days meant to her or her mother.

And suddenly one thought filled her mind: making sure that the man responsible for her father’s murder didn’t forget what day it was.

How, though?

The very idea of being in the same room as Johnnie Wheeler chilled her to the bone. She hadn’t even been able to look at a damned news photo of the guy. How the hell was she going to stand there and force herself to look into his eyes, look into his face, the face of a killer?

Nicholas Prescott, personal aide to Senator Donovan Gnoble, glanced at his watch, saw it was a little after ten, then looked out the Town Car’s backseat window as they sped southbound on the 101. “You know the senator can’t abide being late. Can’t you step it up?”

The driver, Eddie, a burly, dark-haired man with a nose as crooked as Lombard Street, eyed Prescott in his rearview mirror. “Next time order a helicopter.”

Prescott ignored his sarcasm. Good drivers who were discreet and would take orders from an aide without question, no matter what the request, were hard to come by. With no choice, Prescott sat back in his seat, waiting, knowing Senator Gnoble wouldn’t be pleased. So be it. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up to the curb at SFO, where Donovan Gnoble, tall, round-faced, with thick snowy hair and his trademark goatee, stood by his suitcase, clearly trying to keep the impatience from his face as he waited for his car. The man hated airports, and San Francisco’s was at the top of his list. Oakland was only slightly better, and Prescott had tried to book that flight instead, to no avail. The driver parked, got out, and walked around to the curb, opening the rear door for the senator.

“Sir.”

Gnoble managed a smile before sliding in. The moment the car door closed on him, shielding him behind the dark glass, he looked at Prescott sitting at the opposite window. “What the hell took you so long?”

“Traffic and a few loose ends, now dealt with.” He handed Gnoble a printed sheet. “These are your stops this morning. Boys and Girls Club of Oakland, then the Association of-”

“I can read, thank you.”

“Bad flight, or something else?” he asked, watching as

Gnoble read through the list, then handed back the sheet. “The flight was fine. It was the call I received the moment

I stepped off the plane that disturbed me.”

“What call was that?”

“About Wheeler’s case. That damned article in the Chronicle. Makes me look like the worst sort of politician. Kevin

Fitzpatrick was my friend, for God’s sake. I might as well be standing over his tombstone, waving a ‘Vote for Me’ sign.” “Not a bad idea.”

“ Not funny. I can’t imagine what his daughter must think.

Especially after her mother asked me to intervene on this whole damned prison visit issue. I hope for her sake she isn’t really going to go through with this.”

“I thought this was par for the course.”

“Maybe I can talk to her tonight at the rally, assuming she can even look me in the face,” he said, staring out the window, his gaze distant. Several seconds of silence passed, then, “You heard who’s picking up Wheeler’s case?” “I heard last night.”

“And you didn’t think it important enough to call?” “There was little anyone could do at that late hour, and

I figured you had bigger problems.” Like the background and security clearance on McKnight. The very thought gave

Prescott a headache.

“We should never have suggested McKnight’s name for that appointment,” Gnoble said, his gaze fixed on something unseen out the window.

“I didn’t think you had a choice.”

“No. I didn’t.” The car lurched forward, then came to a sudden stop, and Gnoble eyed the gridlock in front of them.

“How far behind are we?”

“Maybe ten-fifteen minutes. Don’t worry. I’ve already called and alerted our next stop,” Prescott replied, sorting through the papers on his lap. He pulled out several, handed them to Gnoble, then gave him a pen. “Signature on the bottom of each… I heard McKnight left a note before he killed himself?”

“He did. And it’s exactly the sort of note I expected you to have anticipated and handled before it came to light.” “Had I been informed about everything before you submitted his name, I might have.”

“Well, now you know.” Gnoble eyed the top document, signed it. “I can only hope no one makes sense out of what he was rambling on about before he did the world a favor. If anyone does figure it out, getting reelected will be the least of my concerns.”

“Not to worry, sir.” He handed over the next set of documents. “That’s what spin doctors are all about.”

And the best didn’t always use conventional methods.

Two things came to mind when Sydney opened her front door that afternoon to a sky threatening rain, and saw Scotty walking up the driveway toward her stairs. First, that she should’ve skipped her run and left for San Quentin much, much earlier. Her second thought was that she wished she had a back door, because he hadn’t yet seen her. If she could just step back in, not bring any attention to herself-unfortunately he glanced up just then, and she was stuck.

He waved at her as he walked up the driveway, then stopped at the row of three mailboxes. Hers looked like it was bursting at the seams, and he called out, “I’ll bring this up to you?”

Before she could utter a word, he grabbed the mail, started up the steps, looking every inch the G-man. Blond hair in a slightly-longer-than-military cut, the requisite dark suit, white shirt, and navy tie; he had it down pat. The shoulder holster tended to accentuate this look, but even without it, he’d be pegged as a cop, at least in her opinion. It was in his walk, and in his sharp blue gaze that seemed to miss nothing. He had presence, and frankly, after her months of abstinence, an acute sense of what she’d left behind hit her.

She missed him.

The thought came out of left field, and she berated herself for even thinking it. He’d never been home when they’d lived together, and she’d missed him then, too. So what was the difference?

“How are you doing?” he said, before kissing her cheek.

“Fine.” She held out her hand for the mail. When he hesitated to hand it to her, she took it from him. “What’s so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stood, looked around her small living room, then into the kitchen, his gaze falling on the canvas with its black wash. “I thought you were painting something blue?”