“Actually, I did see a guy with a gray sweatshirt,” he said. “Kept looking over his shoulder. But we’ve just had a bunch of people leaving, so he might not even still be here.”
She peered inside at the crowd. It was too big a building to search alone. “Thanks. I’ll get my partner, and we’ll come in and check the place, if that’s okay.”
“Feel free. We’re between shows anyway, so I can turn on all the lights.”
“Any chance he could’ve gone out a back way?” she asked, stepping aside for several more people who were exiting.
“Not without sounding the alarm.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She weaved her way through cross-dressers, transvestites, and just plain old heterosexuals out for an entertaining evening. Some milled about, lighting up cigarettes, others walked to the street corner. Carillo called her on the radio. “Think I… a gray hood… the corner, where… those… are… your way.”
She could only copy about half of what he was saying and moved to the corner to get a better view.
Carillo’s voice crackled with static. “Right-”
She looked up. Could just make out the top of Carillo’s head as he raced down the sidewalk. And then she caught a glimpse of a gray hood as a man barreled through the crowd, shouldering pedestrians right and left. Before she could move, he shoved her in the street. Knocked the air from her lungs. She heard the squealing of brakes. Her head hit something solid. And the world turned into a mosaic of black and white specks.
32
Richard Blackwell shoved his hands into his coat pockets, tucked his head down low, and walked toward the corner, trying not to be seen by the multitude of people gravitating through the area after the fiasco on the corner. He wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed, but either that idiot Prescott had jumped the gun-again-or the serial killer he’d promised to set up as the patsy had unwittingly slammed right into Sydney Fitzpatrick.
And wouldn’t that just be rich.
Jobs like this weren’t supposed to be rocket science. They were supposed to be neat. Clean. He’d set the whole damned thing up so it couldn’t fail, and yet every time he turned around, something was going wrong.
Maybe what he needed to do was put a bullet through Prescott’s head. Make all their lives easier.
That happy vision faded at the sight of the charcoal-gray Crown Victoria that pulled up on the street corner, then sped off in the direction the attacker fled. A moment later, some transvestite was helping Sydney Fitzpatrick up from the ground. Before he had a chance to clear the area, it was flooded with cops and agents, and he stepped into the doorway of a restaurant, pretended to read the menu posted in the window as he pulled out his cell phone and hit send. “We have a problem,” he said when the call was answered. “It might be bigger than we think.”
When Sydney was able to focus, she became aware that there were at least a dozen sets of eyes looking at her, mostly men, and the absurd thought that, clearly, the majority seemed more skilled at applying makeup than she had ever been, swept its way into her consciousness. And she was conscious. A good thing. She could now breathe. Also a good thing. Apparently the car whose hood she had landed on had thankfully been slowing to turn the corner. Sydney tried to stand, felt her knees give way, and was grateful when someone grabbed her and helped her back to the sidewalk.
The driver got out, frantic. “What happened? Why’d you jump in front of my car?”
Jump? Hardly, she thought as Carillo came running up.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” Sydney said. “Lost my radio.”
Carillo took over for the well-manicured transvestite who had been assisting, putting his arm around her until she was certain she could stand. “You need an ambulance?”
Sydney took stock of her body parts, figured the weakness in her knees was more from the rush of adrenaline than from any injuries. There was a slight lump on her temple, but other than that, she felt okay. “No.”
“What happened?”
“Someone pushed me.”
“Sweatshirt guy?”
“If I had to guess. You said you saw him here?”
“Pretty sure that’s who I was chasing. I was halfway up the block
…” Carillo assisted her to the curb, eyeing the crowd who’d gathered. “Anyone see what happened?”
There was a lot of looking around, shoulder shrugging, comments that ranged from “She jumped out” to “She tripped and fell.”
“I didn’t trip, I didn’t jump,” Sydney said, between gritted teeth.
Carillo drew her away from the others. “Just checking. Don’t get so testy.”
Like he wouldn’t be if someone had pushed him into the street. But Sydney didn’t respond, because the burly-armed bouncer from the Purple Moon walked up. “You still looking for that guy? Gray hood?”
“Yeah,” Sydney said.
“He ran that way,” he said, pointing in the direction they’d come from originally. “Least I think it was him. Saw him take off from about here right after I heard the screech of brakes.”
“You’re sure it was the guy in the gray sweatshirt?”
“Pretty sure. Ripped his sweatshirt off as he ran. Tucked it under one arm, which is what makes me think it was the same guy. Then again, it ain’t like gray sweatshirts are all that unusual.”
Unfortunately he was right. Sydney counted three in their general area, though their physical description was off from the first person they saw-a man whose face they didn’t see clearly enough to ID.
Across the street a man stood staring, and when she looked at him, he turned, strode off in the opposite direction.
Recognition hit her. “He’s the guy from the elevator. The… guy.”
“What guy?” Carillo asked, looking where she was pointing.
Too late, he was gone. Lost in the crowd, and her head throbbed as she tried to remember, tried to determine what was so odd about his presence. “He was watching me in court during my robbery case, and followed me up to the cafe.”
“In the federal building?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Definitely. Cute Guy from the elevator.”
“I don’t care if he’s Ugly Guy from the basement. What’s he doing here, watching you, then? Because the way I see it, if he was a cop, he’d be hauling his ass this way, find out what’s up, not hightailing it the opposite way. You see him around again, you call for help.”
She reached up, touched the tender spot on her temple, trying to ignore the increasing headache. If a guy like that wasn’t a cop, and he had access to the federal building… She didn’t even want to think about it. “I need to find my radio.”
“Wait here with the bouncer,” Carillo said. “I’ll find it.”
Carillo left her beneath the awning at the Purple Moon’s entrance, then walked to the street corner. A black-and-white had pulled up and was taking the driver’s information, but then the officer rushed to his vehicle, saying something to Carillo just before he got in and raced off. Suddenly they were there by themselves, as though SFPD had abandoned them.
“Shots fired,” Carillo called out to her, pulling a three-byfive card from his back pocket to start copying witnesses’ names. “Takes precedence over lowly agents being pushed into traffic.”
The bouncer shook his head. “I gotta get a new job. Shooting here last night, too. Some woman shot her boyfriend.”
Carillo went back to interviewing the witnesses, and Sydney asked the bouncer, “Did you see the guy walk out of here?”
“Guy with the sweatshirt?” He crossed his massive arms. “Sorry. He coulda come in here, left with the crowd, but I was busy making sure they weren’t walking out with drinks. Didn’t notice him until I heard the car skid, and then the cop car sped after him.”