Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

Sydney Fitzpatrick eyed the bottle of scotch, watched the bartender pour the amber liquid into her glass, and wondered how much of it shed have to drink to forget it had been twenty years since her father had been killed.

Leave the bottle, she told the bartender.

Dont think so.

Youre only going to have to come back.

Maybe, he said, returning the whiskey to its place among the other bottles, all backlit, shining, each advertising its own brand of panacea.

All false advertising, she thought, finishing her second shot. She wouldve ordered a third-except her cell phone started vibrating an alert.

Only one sort of call comes in at one in the morning, never mind that Sydney recognized the number: her boss, Dave Dixon. Fitzpatrick, she announced into the phone. And Im supposed to have the day off.

Day being the operative word. Its dark out, which makes it night, which you didnt request off.

And Ive been drinking.

Since when do you drink?

Since an hour ago, she said, and let him wonder.

Apparently he didnt wonder long. We need you down here. A Seven matter, he said, giving the Bureau program designator for initiating a kidnap investigation.

Her stomach knotted. She did not need this. Not tonight.

Did you hear me, Fitzpatrick? Got a kidnap-rape.

You assigning me the case?

No. Just a sketch.

Sydney eyed the bottle of whiskey that seemed to beckon, thinking that even on a good day it was hard enough to interview victims for drawings, hard to get past the mental exhaustion of being inside her victims heads, knowing the pain and terror they felt

Maybe she should tell Dixon no, but that would require an explanation, and she wasnt sure she wanted to go into that. It wasnt that Dixon didnt know her history. Theyd worked together in D.C., used to be friends, at least up until he was promoted and all friendships were checked at the door. The last thing Sydney wanted was for him to worry about her. Im just a few blocks away. Ill be right there.

She took some money out of her wallet, paid for her drinks, then walked to the door and opened it. What had been a light sprinkle when shed left her car at home that October night to drink herself into oblivion, had now turned into a heavy downpour that hammered the sidewalk with a deafening blast. And lucky her, not a cab in sight.

With no umbrella, shed be soaked, and she was tempted to see if the rain might slow. But then she thought of the waiting that her victim had already endured. In the grand scheme of things, getting wet was the least of her worries, and she stepped out into the driving rain. She hadnt walked more than half a block when the odd feeling of being watched came over her. She stopped, turned, eyed the street up and down, saw nothing but a few parked cars, seemingly unoccupied. Across the street, a couple of women huddled beneath an overhang, smoking a cigarette. Other than that, the streets seemed deserted.

Hearing nothing but the rain, the water sluicing down the gutters into the storm drains, she pulled her coat tighter against the autumn chill. But the farther she walked, the stronger the feeling came that she was being followed. Its only your imagination, she told herself. Even so, she quickened her pace and pressed her right elbow into her hip, wanting to feel the reassuring presence of her holstered Glock-then remembered shed left it in her desk drawer.

She normally carried the damned thing night and day, but shed intended to spend the night drinking in a vain attempt to erase not only the anniversary of her fathers murder, but also the bitter fight shed had with her mother over her plans for the upcoming day. It was the same fight theyd had last year and the two years before that. At thirty-three years old, a girl should be able to make up her own damned mind on how she spent her day. Her mother had nothing to do with this, she thought, as a movement caught her eye. Definitely someone back there. She doubled her pace, didnt get far, when a man stepped out in front of her, blocked her path.

She jumped back, her pulse slamming in her veins. The man towered a good eight inches over her, his craggy face barely visible beneath his knit cap and a scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth. A sharp smell of body odor, unwashed clothes, wet, stale, and sour, assaulted her nose.

Got some change? he asked, opening his hand, palm up. His other was shoved in the pocket of an army coat, ragged, buttons dangling, held closed with another scarf tied around his waist.

Recognition hit her. Private Cooper was a regular on this block, chased off by the cops on a continual basis, only to return the moment they left. Right now she was grateful for his presence. Yeah, she said, digging into her purse. She handed him a few bills, then looked back, saw a figure darting into the shadows. Someone was following her, no doubt. The federal building was only two blocks away, and she crossed to the other side of the street, where the building facades were more modern, better lit. If whoever it was thought she was going to be an easy mark, hed have to come out and get her.

A few minutes later, she waved her access identification across the pad, punched in her code, and with one last look behind her, entered the door of the San Francisco FBI field office. A purse snatcher had been hitting women in the area for a couple of weeks now, and she wondered if that was whod been tailing her. Not that she could offer any description, she thought, walking down the hall to her office.

Supervisory Special Agent Dave Dixon was talking on the phone when she reached her desk. He was a good supervisor, one who spoke his mind, whether it was politically correct or not. Like the time he told her that dumping her fiance, also an FBI agent, was the smartest thing shed done all year, and that transferring from Washington, D.C., to the San Francisco office was her next smartest move. The fiance thing, Sydney was sure about; the move to the city, she wasnt so sure. Too many memories.

Dixon was still talking, and Sydney shrugged out of her sopping overcoat, then stopped to listen to her voice mail while she waited for him. The first message happened to be from her thank-God-hes-her ex -fiance, Scotty Ryan. Hey, Syd. I know. I promised. But this isnt about us this time. Its important. Call me. No matter the hour. Shed get right on that. Not. Erasing it, she listened to the next. This is Officer Kim Glynnis, Hill City PD. I was, uh, hoping to come by and talk to you about a case. A possible sketch on a Jane Doe. I work midnights, so if I dont answer, leave a message. Hill City PD was a small department in the South Bay, and Sydney jotted down the number, just as Dixon walked out of his office.

You look like a drowned rat, he said, eyeing her.

Yeah, well, I was shooting for the drunk-drowned-rat look, but I answered my cell phone. Whats going on?

We were notified by SFPD about a kidnapping. Said they took it as far as they could and wanted us to take it from here. According to preliminary reports, our victim, Tara Brown, was kidnapped out of Reno, raped numerous times on the Nevada side, driven to California and raped again. Shes pretty banged up. Stabbed, then dumped at Golden Gate Park. Smart kid, though. Pretended she was dead, and Im thinking thats what saved her. Shes out at General right now.

Sydney went to her desk, unlocked it, and picked up her leather case with her credentials, better known as creds in Bureau-speak. Just her luck, Dixon glanced over, saw her gun in the drawer. He gave her a hard glare. Why arent you armed?

I was out drinking.

God granted you the power to carry. Do it.

Actually it was J. Edgar Hoover.

Same thing. Put it on. Dixon didnt believe in unarmed agents. But hed always been a Bureau man. Shed started off as a cop, and cops werent supposed to drink and wear firearms, though Sydney was probably the only cop who thought so. But that was one of her quirks; she followed rules. After her scare tonight, she was going to have to rethink the whole unarmed-while-drinking thing, she thought, as she strapped on her pistol, picked up her gold shield, and tucked her creds securely inside her back pocket. She grabbed the briefcase next to her desk, the one that contained her traveling art studio used for forensic drawings and suspect sketches. San Francisco PD had their own police artist, but this case was no longer theirs. It belonged to the Bureau now, and Sydney was the resident artist.