Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

he’ll never get approved. The moment that happened, the investigation was ripped from our hands faster than you could say CYA.”

“Then how is it you’re still on it?”

“Quite simply I pointed out that they needed me. With our history together, I was the only one who could get close to you without any questions from Gnoble or anyone else.”

“Great.”

“No different from you using me to get what you wanted, Syd. A chance to stay on the case.”

“Okay, so we’re both lowlifes,” she said, just as Schermer’s voice came on the radio, announcing he’d found a white van with a missing taillight and a woman’s purse on the front floorboard. Several agents called in that they were heading that way, and she turned her attention back to Scotty. “So why is the CIA so interested in Gnoble to begin with?”

“Because a lot of the stuff Gnoble’s involved in has to do with national security. Always has, even before he was elected to the Senate.”

“Starting with when he was the U.S. Army’s liaison to the Senate? Back when my father worked for him?”

“Yes. And as a result, every scrap of info we get in our investigation has to be vetted through the CIA first. There are aspects to this case that you or I will never be allowed to know about, including some of what involved your father. You can choose to dig for the truth, Sydney, but I’m here to tell you that some things are best left buried, and sometimes it’s better the devil you know, than the one you don’t.”

The devil you know… Something about the phrasing struck her, reminded her of something, something important, but before she could figure out what, the radio squawked to life, and Carillo was calling out that he needed help.

“Your food!”

They ignored the waitress. Ran from the restaurant to the car. Got in. Scotty started it. Stabbed the gas pedal, pulled out of the lot. Carillo’s voice came across the radio, in that breathy jolting way it did when someone was running, trying to talk at the same time. “We’re

… chasing… him… down… Mission. Same… direction.”

“Same guy?” Sydney heard someone ask.

“Hooker… think… so.”

Scotty flicked the emergency switch, and the rearview mirror lowered into a flashing red light, as he gunned it toward the Purple Moon.

Within two minutes, they were there. Scotty parked on the same corner where Sydney was hit. They got out, saw Carillo and Ren running toward them, chasing a man, midtwenties, their direction.

“FBI!” Sydney called out.

He hesitated, glanced behind him, then darted to one side. His hands were empty. Suddenly there were twenty other agents and officers. The guy was surrounded. Scotty and

Sydney must have looked like the path of least resistance. He ran straight for them. They both grabbed an arm. His shirt started ripping. They were going to lose him. And then Carillo and Ren came flying at him. All three went tumbling to the ground.

For a moment no one moved, and then Carillo reached around the guy, grabbed his hand, brought it back. “Cuffs,” he said. Ren produced a pair, and Carillo slapped one cuff over the man’s wrist, brought his other hand around, cuffed it, and then he turned the guy over. “We.. . got him,” he said to Sydney between breaths.

If he was the guy she’d drawn, she didn’t recognize him at all. His nose was broken, bloody, his lips cut from landing on the sidewalk. More importantly, he was now missing several teeth. “ This is our Jane Doe killer?”

“Purse snatcher,” Carillo said.

“What?”

“Stole Ren’s purse. That’s who we were chasing.” Sydney got down, looked in the guy’s eyes. “You push me into a moving car the other night?”

Their UnSub didn’t answer, probably too busy spitting out blood and teeth onto the ground. Carillo lifted the guy to his feet.

“Where’s the purse?” Sydney asked.

Ren held it up. “He tossed it when we started chasing him.” One of the bystanders looked around, saw all the manpower. “You sure bring out the big guns for just a purse.” Which is when Carillo stopped, looked around. There were dozens of law enforcement officers standing around, never mind the half-dozen undercover cars parked helter-skelter at the curb, emergency lights flashing. Carillo’s gaze moved from the agents to all the citizens watching the goings-on with interest, realizing in that moment just what had happened to their operation.

“This is clearly an oh-shit moment,” he said.

“On the bright side,” Sydney said, “maybe you all get off earlier.”

He looked down at the teeth the guy had spit out, then at Ren Pham-Peck.

Ren shook her head. “I don’t think so. You knocked ’em out, you pick ’em up. If he’s lucky, they can put ’em back in, well, except for the broken ones.”

Back at the office Dixon was not pleased by this turn of events-though Sydney thought he did an admirable job of not chewing out Carillo’s and Ren’s butts in front of the assisting outside agencies who had given up their night for the task force operation. “We’ll contact everyone tomorrow afternoon,” Dixon said. “Once we assess our next plan of action.”

And, cops being cops, those from the outside agencies decided to hit the local cop bar in their newfound off-duty status-a bar in an area far from their operation. Scotty walked up to her as they were discussing where they were all going drinking. “You are not going out for a drink.”

“Fitzpatrick!” Dixon’s voice carried down the hall.

“What’d you do?” she asked. “Snitch me off before I even get a chance to try for one?”

Scotty held her gaze for a second too long. “I just want to keep you safe.”

“Or keep your surveillance team from being jealous?”

He actually smiled. “That, too.”

She smiled back, then started toward Dixon’s office, thinking about what Scotty had told her in the restaurant, and ignoring the tiny bit of suspicion as to just why it was he was being so helpful, so forthcoming. Especially considering he’d done nothing but hide things from her from day one.

She glanced back, saw him watching her, and she wondered if things had been different, would they still be together? But then, if things had been different, her father would still be alive, Scotty would be in Washington, D.C., making political career moves, and Sydney might never have gone into the FBI.

She put him from her mind and walked into Dixon’s office. Carillo was seated next to Ren-which pretty much told her they were in for an ass chewing.

“A purse snatcher?” Dixon said. “Was it beyond anyone’s ability to differentiate between what class of felony we were investigating?”

Ren said, “The hooker thought it was the same suspect as the other night.”

“And did anyone check to see if that suspect was the right suspect?”

Carillo shrugged. “The other night?” he said. “Like I was supposed to stop and ask him? I got two hookers pointing him out, saying, That’s the guy. So I took off after him.”

“And did we check with those hookers later?”

“Them? No. I was busy scraping Fitzpatrick off the street corner if you recall. But if it’s any consolation, Fitz did ask this guy if he pushed her into the street the other night.”

“He didn’t get a chance to answer. He was a bit indisposed,” Sydney added helpfully.

Dixon opened his drawer, reached for his bottle of Tums. “ That makes me feel a whole lot better.” He shook several into his mouth, chewed, and they wisely remained silent. When he finished, he said, “Fitzpatrick, go home. You two, get your asses to the jail, book that son of a bitch, and get in a car and find me our killer.”