Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

She didn’t move until the car turned the corner up the block, and only then hurried to the back entrance of the federal building and up to her office, rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them.

Scotty, apparently, didn’t return to the building, not that she was expecting him to. But she didn’t have time to worry about it, because the moment she stepped into the Bureau offices, she was caught up in the preparation for the next Operation Barfly task force as the agents assigned to go out were gearing up. Doc Schermer saw her, handed her a stack of papers. “Since you’re stuck in the office, any chance I can get you to run a bunch of license plates for me? We’re about ready to head out, but these look promising-license numbers that were taken from older model white Dodge vans from the area our hookers saw the guy who looked like your sketch.”

“Not like I have anything better to do.”

“Thanks,” he said, then rushed off. Suddenly he stopped, turned, looked at her. “I heard about the transfer.”

“No big.”

“Yeah, it is. Carillo’s been moping around the last six months, ever since Sheila asked him for a divorce. I don’t know if it’s this Jane Doe case, or just being partnered up with you, but he’s like his old self again.”

She crossed her arms, couldn’t help but smile. “You saying that guy will miss me?”

“Carillo? No. I’ll miss you, because he’s almost pleasant to be around again.” He winked at her, walked off. “Let me know when you get those plates run.”

She took the papers to her desk, realized that in some ways Schermer was right. Carillo was definitely easier to be around, though she wasn’t sure that she had anything to do with it. Her case maybe. Not her.

A few minutes later, she saw Carillo walking to his desk. He looked up. “You’re back,” he said.

“Waiting for Scotty. We’re going to catch a bite, while I grill him about what he knows.”

“Good luck with that. Everything that comes out of his mouth these days is like a piece of disinformation, which makes me think the other government agency he’s working with? Gotta be CIA. By the way. We got a call from SFPD, who said that one of their undercovers talked to a couple hookers who said that the guy in your sketch was definitely hanging around the past couple nights. So, pretty good chance he’s the one who knocked you in front of the car.” He picked up a stack of folders on his desk, looked around for whatever else he needed. “Here’s to hoping we get him tonight.”

“Try not to have too much fun out there without me, okay?”

“Not a chance,” he said, grabbing his keys, then walking out. He paused at the door, looked back at her. “Maybe the transfer won’t go through.”

“Maybe,” she said, but with little faith. After he left, she stared at her computer screen, thought about her fate as the voices of the agents walking down the hall toward the conference room drifted back to her. There was one thing she could do to avoid a transfer, avoid being dragged to some outpost where she would no doubt be relegated to working paper crimes.

Resign.

She hoped it wouldn’t come to that… She loved her job-well, most aspects of it-but she had to be realistic. Right now she needed answers, and if necessary, she’d walk out of the Bureau, end her career, if that was what it took to get them.

She finished running the plates, printed them up, then carried them into the conference room, where the task force briefing was taking place. Doc Schermer and Jeff Timmons were introduced to everyone as the agents working relief. They’d make the rounds, taking the place of any agents or officers needing breaks. Ren Pham-Peck was assigned to replace Sydney’s position, working with Carillo as they barhopped. They were quite the combination, Carillo, the tall Italian, and Ren, a petite Vietnamese woman with dark hair and dark eyes, a big smile, and a vivacious personality. One would never guess by looking at her that she was an FBI agent, which made her perfect for the part.

Twenty minutes later, everyone was filing out the door of the briefing room, leaving Sydney alone, until Schermer and Timmons walked in with Scotty about an hour later.

“Not a lot going on out there,” Schermer was telling Scotty.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“For now. So, what are you two up to?”

“Just going to get a bite to eat.” Scotty looked at Sydney. “Where to?”

“Chinese.” She dropped her radio in her purse, then followed Scotty out.

As they walked down the hall, she heard Timmons say to Schermer, “Why is it the girls always get the free meals?”

“What? You want to be a girl now?” she heard just as they stepped out the door.

Scotty seemed lost in thought as they rode the elevator down, and Sydney wondered about the senator’s car, and just who Scotty had been talking to down there. “Something on your mind?” she asked.

“Everything,” he said.

Amen to that, Sydney thought, but figured she’d let it go for now, not sure it was the right time to go into specifics.

“Of course,” he continued, “I assume you want to know if I had anything to do with the transfer?”

So much for letting it go. “Did you?”

“The truth is that I suggested it up front when I informed them of our joint investigation. Apparently they changed their mind, until you asked to assist. This recent talk has nothing to do with me.”

“Joint investigation? As in OGA?” she said, referring to the other government agency. The one he wouldn’t name.

And sure enough, he looked over at her, didn’t answer.

She waited until they were in his car and he was pulling out of the garage. “Why is it that I sense a bit of discomfort in talking about who exactly is involved with this case?”

“There was a time when rules and regulations meant something to you.”

“They still do. I’ve just learned to interpret them a little differently than I used to.”

He glanced over at her, gave a tired sigh, then asked, “Which restaurant?”

She specifically chose one on the outer perimeter of the bars that Carillo and Ren were going to be walking through. Scotty drove around, found a parking spot just a few doors down from the restaurant-courtesy of the official FBI placard he placed on the dash, and the red curb signifying No Parking at the corner. The perks in this job were few and far between. Had to take them where they could. Inside, they ordered, then sat at an empty table, waiting for their food, keeping one ear trained on the radio, while Scotty occupied himself by reading a takeout menu.

After several minutes, Scotty reached over, touched her hand, and she nearly jumped. As it was, her pulse started racing, not in a good way, and she told herself this was out of character for him. He was usually so formal in public places, and it was with great effort that she managed to appear calm on the outside, as he said, “What do you want to know?”

As his gaze met hers, Sydney realized that in a way, she was afraid. Afraid that he might be holding back some very important information, information that could help her. “Who were you talking to when I saw you outside the building this afternoon? You seemed upset.”

He stiffened. “Upset? I don’t recall being upset with anyone.”

“Someone in Senator Gnoble’s car? I recognized his driver.”

When Scotty relaxed, leaned into his seat, she wondered if she’d somehow misread the situation. But then he said, “You know, his driver used to be a cop, up until a few years ago when he took the job with the senator.”

“You know him?” Scotty shrugged, glanced at the menu, and then it hit her. “ He’s your informant?”

“We should have ordered Mongolian beef.”