As usual, she painted by instinct, letting the brush do the work, trying not to think, telling herself that nothing mattered, not Wheeler, not Gnoble, not Scotty’s accusations about her father’s character or her mother’s vague comments regarding the same. None of it mattered. But the more she stared at the black background, the more she was struck by the thought that there was something missing from the canvas. What that might be, she had no idea, and when it became apparent that she’d lost all sense of creativity, she cleaned her brushes, put away her paints, and readied herself for bed. Just as she crossed from the bathroom to her bedroom, she glanced down the hall to the front of her apartment. Her gaze caught on the painting, lit by the porch light shining in from the kitchen window. It reminded her of something, and bothered her greatly. Teeth, she figured-long, sharp, pointed teeth-and she thought of the rape victim Tara and the bite mark she’d reported. But then Tara had been stabbed, and Sydney wondered if she’d been painting long sword blades or knife blades.
But she knew it was neither of these things. It was something more disturbing, something she didn’t want to face, couldn’t face, and though it would’ve been far easier to simply close her bedroom door so that she couldn’t see down the hall, she walked all the way into the kitchen and turned the easel so that she couldn’t see the painting.
Even that didn’t ease her thoughts. Topper curled on the floor beside the bed, and she was tempted to invite the dog to sleep on the mattress next to her, unsure if it was because in the back of her mind, she knew a simple painting shouldn’t evoke such emotions. Or perhaps it was a separate thought swirling in the forefront of her mind. One that told her that the car speeding down her street looked nothing like those driven by her juvenile delinquent neighbors.
9
Shortly after ten the next morning, fueled by more cups of coffee than Sydney cared to count, she was present in court, glad for the distraction of testifying, because for a few short minutes she might be able to forget that she’d ever spoken to Scotty about her father, or visited San Quentin yesterday.
What little enthusiasm she had for the court case waned along with her caffeine level, and soon she was wishing she’d had time to run an extra mile this morning to eliminate the fog in her brain. Since this was a bank robbery, the case was being tried in the federal court by an assistant U.S. attorney. Although AUSAs were simply the federal version of the deputy district attorneys she’d worked with as a cop, things tended to be handled more formally in the federal courts, and Sydney needed to mind her Ps and Qs.
She sat as directed, facing the AUSA, who asked her to identify herself and her occupation for the record.
“Sydney Fitzpatrick. Special agent, FBI.”
“Special Agent Fitzpatrick, how long have you worked for the FBI?”
“Four years.”
“And do you have prior law enforcement experience?” “I was a police officer for eight years in Sacramento.”
“Thank you. And on the day of February first, were you assigned to any special duties?”
“Yes, sir. I was part of a detail assigned to covertly follow Mr. Gerard Hagley.”
“Is he in the courtroom today?”
“At the defendant’s table.”
The judge, a gray-haired woman, said, “Let the record show that the witness has identified Mr. Hagley.”
The prosecutor stood and walked toward her, buttoning his gray suit coat. “Can you tell us, Agent Fitzpatrick, how it came that you were following Mr. Hagley?”
“Several weeks before, I had done a composite sketch from a witness description of the man who robbed the First Security Bank. We received an anonymous tip after the sketch appeared in the Chronicle, that our suspect was a Gerard Hagley, and that he was planning on robbing another bank near Union Square the following day. We staked out the banks in the area and waited until he showed up.”
“Is this the sketch?” he asked, holding up Sydney’s pencil drawing of a white male adult, short, curly brown hair and narrow, dark eyes. A damned good likeness to the defendant, Sydney thought, glancing over at the man who was trying his best to give her an intimidating glare.
“Yes.”
“What happened that afternoon?”
“I saw him walking into the Bay Trust Mutual. Our task force moved in, but he made us and took off running. Which is when I saw him drop something in the planter as he took off. He was arrested about a block away.”
“And where were you when this occurred?”
“In front of a store across the street.”
“What was it he dropped?”
“I recovered a note that read: Give me all the money. Now.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
The defense attorney stood, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, a crisp white shirt and red power tie beneath his navy suit coat, and a look that told Sydney she was pond scum. “Special Agent Fitzpatrick,” he said, checking his notes. “You say that you saw my client from across the street?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And approximately how far is that?”
“Fifty, seventy yards. I’m not sure.”
“Do you wear glasses?”
“Sometimes.” She had slight astigmatism, and really only wore the things if she was trying to do fine artwork, which lately in her abstract painting kick was a rarity.
“Were you wearing them that day?”
“No.”
She could swear he started salivating. He got up, walked toward the jury box, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought as he paced in front of the empty seats. Suddenly he stopped. “And yet…” He looked right at her, pausing for emphasis, before saying in a firm voice, “You say you saw my client from seventy yards away?”
“Yes.”
“And you saw a small scrap of paper being dropped. From seventy yards away?” He stressed each word as he eyed her. “That’s two hundred and ten feet.”
“I didn’t measure the exact distance.”
He started his pacing act again. “Just how far can you see without your glasses?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I can see the moon. How far is that?”
He stopped in his tracks. Opened his mouth, shut it again, then walked to the defendant’s table and sat. “Er, no further questions.”
She gained a smile from some sandy-haired man in a blue suit sitting behind the defense attorney-probably a cop, fairly good-looking one, too, but that seemed to be the extent of her cheering section. Judging from the expression on the AUSA’s face, Sydney scored zero points for her wit. Definitely not like her, but chalk it up to lack of sleep. She left the stand, then sat next to the fingerprint expert who was about to testify that the found note had not only the defendant’s prints on it, but also the prints of a teller from the last bank he’d robbed-a hazard of recycling his tools of the trade, or being too lazy to make up a new note. Either way, things weren’t looking good for Hagley, especially considering that when court was recessed for a break, his attorney was suggesting he change his plea before it was too late. Not that it mattered. What did were the fifteen other cases sitting on her desk, and the coffee she fully intended on getting when she walked out of the courtroom, dismissed for the day. She did not get far. About midway through the rather crowded federal courtroom lobby, she heard a woman calling her name.
“Agent Fitzpatrick!” The woman hurried in her direction.
Apparently she’d followed her from the courtroom. She was young, maybe early twenties, with long auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a tan blazer and matching slacks. Sydney figured DA fresh out of law school until she said, “I’m Officer Glynnis. Kim Glynnis. Hill City PD.” She held out her hand and Sydney shook it, feeling slightly guilty for not returning her call. “What can I do for you?” “You’re a forensic artist.”