She waved at the receptionist who buzzed her into the Bureau offices. Just down the hall to the left, she stopped at a wall-mounted counter, pulled her time card from the slot above it, and signed in. Hard not to see the blank space from yesterday, a day that was supposed to be spent in quiet introspection, remembering her father as he was supposed to be remembered.
She didn’t necessarily trust Gnoble to do what needed to be done. Not because he wasn’t a good politician, but precisely because he was a good politician. He’d always put his political interests first. That was the name of the game. And what of McKnight? she wondered, as she shoved her time card back in the slot. Could she trust that Gnoble would look into that, tell her what he found, even if it conflicted or cast doubt on his political ideals? After all, McKnight committed suicide while being looked at for a political appointment, and his name was connected to Gnoble’s.
And wasn’t that the point? Damned good one at that. She took out her cell phone, called Scotty as she walked to her desk.
“What are the chances you can get a copy of McKnight’s suicide note from Houston PD?” she asked.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Can you?”
“Figuring you’d want to see it, I’ve already tried. It’s not going to be easy. Hatcher’s already back in D.C., and Rick Reynolds, the agent who was looking into it after Hatcher left, says he’s not touching it with a ten-foot pole. There’s some political voodoo on the case, according to him, and he’s this close to being transferred to an outhouse in the wilds of some state with a population less than a thousand.”
“What do you mean political voodoo?”
“The note’s off-limits, which, I suppose, is good news, because if there is anything about your father in it, it’s not coming out in the papers. Gotta go. Another call coming in.”
“Scotty-” He disconnected, and before she could try calling him back, Lettie walked by, saw her, and said, “Dixon told me the moment you get back from court, he wants to see you.”
The first thing anyone noticed upon walking into Dixon’s office was the brochure for Tahiti on the wall, and below that a calendar marking off how many days until his retirement, which Dixon could cite not only to the day, but to the minute, maybe even the second. The calendar’s placement, as well as the Tahiti brochure, were there as a not-so-subtle reminder that if his subordinate agents knew what was good for them, they had better not do anything to screw up and keep him from the long-anticipated trip he intended to take once he reached the magic age of fifty. According to the calendar, he’d hit that in about four years.
Those in the know used that calendar as a gauge for his moods. If he was staring at it, be careful. At the moment Sydney walked in, he was buried in paperwork, a good sign, or so she thought, and she knocked on the open door.
Being a supervisor, he had his own agenda, because the first thing he said was “Thought you might like to discuss what happened the other night with the drawing.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t.”
“ Pretend you would.”
“I had my mind on something else at the time?” “Like what?”
The million-dollar question, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to throw it out there now. “The usual, wondering if SFPD had any leads, was Reno PD doing the follow-up?”
“No, they haven’t. And Reno PD doesn’t have anything, either.”
“Which means whoever you assign is going to have a lot to do on the case,” she said, trying to deflect his attention.
“It’s not like you to feed me bullshit, Fitzpatrick. What the hell is going on?”
If a lie would get her out of this, and she was any good at it, she would have concocted one on the spot. And the truth sure as hell wasn’t going to work. Then again, maybe part of the truth… “Don’t suppose you caught the article in the Chronicle. The one on the death penalty?”
“I scanned it briefly. Why?”
“One of the cases they detailed is the guy convicted of killing my father.” Dixon put down his pen, gave her his full attention. “He’s due to be executed, but claims he’s innocent. It was twenty years yesterday, so it got to me. The anniversary.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s why you asked for leave.”
That and the hangover she’d been anticipating. “In a nutshell.”
“You going to be okay? Or you need more time off?”
His more-time-off question was double-edged, something Sydney knew from experience, and she decided right then and there that she wasn’t about to reveal her visit to San Quentin and definitely not Scotty’s news, either. Not yet. Dixon didn’t want to hear that any agent working for him was having issues, was emotionally involved in anything that would take time from real work. Bottom line, he had to make reports to HQ in Washington, and her caseload was part of his stats. She gave a casual shrug. “I’ll be fine.”
He stared at her for several seconds, perhaps to ensure that she really would be okay, then, finally, “You talk to that officer from Hill City who drove up here about a sketch?”
“Case is a couple weeks old. Partly decomposed body, no available ID, though the officer thought it might be related to our case we picked up last night.”
“I agree with her.”
“Since it’s cold-”
“I don’t like coincidences. I’d like you to go down today, see what can be done.”
“Today?”
“You have something else that’s more important?”
“The Harrington report.” That particular report was due on his desk last week, and his expression told her she’d just given the wrong answer. She quickly added, “But it’s almost done.”
“Get to the point where the ‘almost’ part is eliminated from the ‘done’ part when you come back tomorrow. I’d like that guy sitting in a jail cell.”
“First thing in the morning,” Sydney said, hightailing it out of there. She wanted the time to contact Houston PD, find out about that suicide. But between the sketch and the Harrington report, she wondered when she’d have the time. The Harrington report was left over from her last assignment working white-collar crimes, an insurance fraud operation that was about to result in the arrest of more than ten individuals, including a prominent doctor, George Harrington, who had masterminded the ring that had netted his medical practice several million dollars.
Unfortunately for George Harrington, he was caught when his office billed an insurance company for a procedure his patient didn’t need. An appendectomy. The insurance company brought it to the Bureau’s attention, pointing out that said patient had already had his appendix removed several years before.
If Sydney wanted any peace in looking into the matters involving her father, she’d need to get on that sketch and get the Harrington report turned in. Lucky for her, the case was virtually done, which meant she could devote her full attention to turning in a sketch on the Hill City victim. Well, devote as much attention as her swirling thoughts would allow.
Hill City, located just north of San Mateo, was a quaint town of middle-class homes that were probably worth a small fortune, thanks to their proximity to San Francisco. The police department was located in an antiquated building in the center of town, where a large sign posted out front depicted the new building forthcoming once a bond was passed.
Sydney walked up to the glass double doors, pushed one open, then stepped into a small lobby. To the left was a door that led to the police department, where Sydney was greeted by a woman at the front counter.
Credentials in hand, Sydney said, “I’m Special Agent Fitzpatrick. Is the detective who is handling the Jane Doe working here?”
“Jane Doe?”