They both turned toward Becky Lynn, who gripped the door, and clearly looked like she would’ve shut it on them if she could have somehow dislodged Sydney’s foot. “Whatever my husband was involved in, I have no idea. And if that’s why he killed himself, then so be it. Between him and his business ventures, they nearly bankrupted me.”
Sydney gave a pointed look to the house. “Seems you recovered quite nicely. But thanks for your time,” she said, as she followed Carillo down the steps. And Becky Lynn looked vastly relieved, until Sydney added, “You’ve been more of a help than you realize.”
They continued their way down the sidewalk, hearing the door shut firmly behind them. When they walked past the Lexus, Sydney looked down the long driveway that led to the back of the house, a deep and narrow lot, like many Bay Area properties. “You think she looked a little rattled when we left?”
“Rattled? Why, Pollyanna. You’re not thinking anything untoward, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m simply concerned enough to make sure she doesn’t faint, maybe need medical attention when she calls whoever she calls?”
Carillo smiled. “I’m starting to like you more and more. Let’s just hope your damned shadows don’t get all antsy.”
Sydney glanced down the street, gave a cheery wave to the men, hoping they’d stay put in the car, just before she and Carillo casually walked down the drive, until they were out of sight. She noticed the blinds were still closed, then moved up alongside the house, wedging herself between a camellia bush and the brick porch, just beneath the window on the side yard. Carillo went farther down, standing beneath another window. Their efforts paid off, because Sydney could just make out her voice, shrill enough to be overheard through the closed window, which, on this older house, was not double-paned. Apparently they had more than rattled her cage. Sydney could hear her pacing on the subflooring, since she was standing beside a vent, but caught only parts, as Becky Lynn wouldn’t stand still. “… Do you know who…” Then, “Yes. Here. And she had your…”
Your what? Sydney wanted to shout. Apparently she was on her cell phone, because suddenly Sydney heard the back door unlocking. Sydney glanced at Carillo, who was on the other side of the porch. They ducked. The camellia branches scraped her neck and face on one side as she went down, wedged herself between the bush and the much rougher brick siding on the porch. She only hoped Becky Lynn was so involved in her conversation that she wasn’t looking around her. The back door swung open. “Goddamn, Robert. She was here. And I will not- Damn it, my keys.”
She turned, retraced her steps, leaving the back door open. Sydney hunkered down farther, tried to become one with the bush. A moment later she heard Becky Lynn’s returning footsteps, just before she stepped out onto the porch. Slammed her back door shut. “No, you shut up and listen,” she said, hurrying down the three porch steps. “I’m not sitting in some goddamned jail cell because your head is too far up your ass to see what’s going on, you bastard. You told me you had it all under control. I’ve got a life here and I want to keep it.”
She walked past Sydney, cell phone to her ear, purse over her arm, and keys and remote in her other hand. She strode up the driveway to the Lexus, and Sydney heard the sound of the car door unlocking by remote. “… All I can say is you better deal with it. And now.”
Even after she got in her car and drove off, Sydney and Carillo didn’t move until they were absolutely certain she wasn’t returning for something else forgotten in her haste to get out of there. Finally they emerged from either side of the porch, Sydney brushing the cobwebs and dust from her clothes. “You get the feeling that we’re overlooking something really, really obvious?”
“Yeah. She looked ready to puke when you brought up your father’s boat. And then a second later, she knew we didn’t know whatever the hell it was we were supposed to know about it.”
They walked to their car, waved at Scotty’s men parked farther down the street. And Sydney said, “Do you think she was talking to Robert or about Robert?”
“Could’ve been either. But whoever it was, she wasn’t happy. Time to head back to the city, hit that Taco Bell before we visit Wheeler’s aunt, so I can at least say I went to lunch.”
39
Without the San Francisco hills, the momentarily perfect weather, and the light breeze tinged with salt from the bay, the clinic where Jazmine Wheeler worked could be lifted up and dropped into any large and depressed area of any metropolitan city. The buildings were old and in disrepair, wrought-iron bars covered nearly every window or door on the ground floor, and graffiti caught the eye wherever one glanced.
Bayview-Hunters Point was not the San Francisco pictured in the tourist books. This was the San Francisco of the downtrodden, the drug-addicted, the homeless, and the dealers who preyed on them. As Carillo turned the unmarked vehicle onto the street, slowed to check the address on the building, Sydney saw a group of men, some black, some white, watching them, their collective gazes filled with suspicion, no doubt making the pair for cops. This was one of those areas that most law enforcement types didn’t drive into unless they had their hands on their guns and the holsters unsnapped. A glance in the side mirror told her their tail was still on them, and she figured having an extra car with two armed agents behind them came in mighty handy. They found the clinic, as well as a parking spot in a loading zone that was remarkably empty and in sight of the windows of the building they were about to enter, a plus when hoping to keep the car intact while conducting business in such a neighborhood. The two got out of the car just as Jared Dunning pulled up, opened his door. “What the hell are we doing here?”
“Just need to stop by and have a chat with someone about renewing a prescription,” Sydney said.
“Birth control pills,” Carillo added.
Jared looked up at the sign. “It’s a methadone clinic.”
“Damn, Carillo. We are so not sleeping together tonight.”
“Way to go,” Carillo told Dunning as they walked past him, toward the door. “I was this close.”
She waved at the two agents, then entered the building, as Jared Dunning pulled out his cell phone.
The clinic was busy, and while Sydney walked up to the front desk, Carillo stood watch at the door, crossing his arms, taking a don’t-fuck-with-me-or-mine stance, something totally wasted on the receptionist, who sat reading a tabloid magazine while sipping a soda, her half-eaten hamburger sitting on the wrapper next to the phone.
“Yeah,” she said, barely sparing them a glance.
Sydney held out her credentials. “I’m here to see Jazmine Wheeler.”
By rote, the woman reached for a stack of clipboards with patient information forms clipped on them, handed Sydney one, never removing her gaze from the magazine’s pages. “Fill this out, take a seat.”
Sydney slipped her credentials on top of the magazine so there was no doubt the woman would see them and the badge. “You mind checking to see if she’s in?”
“You’re not here for methadone?”
“We tend to avoid that sort of thing in the FBI.”
R. Ashton, according to her name tag, gave a clueless shrug, picked up the phone, and made a call. “FBI here to see you…” She hung up, then, “Jazz’ll be out in a minute.”
“Thank you.”
Sydney stood back, eyeing the gaunt-faced patients who were now eyeing her with even more distrust as they stood in line, waiting for their doses. She kept her back to the wall, her expression neutral, and waited. Five minutes later, a short, trim woman stepped into the waiting room. She was dressed in dark brown slacks, a tan cable knit sweater, a white lab coat, and a beaded necklace of amber. Her flawless skin was the color of dark chocolate, and despite the gray peppered in her close-cropped hair, she looked much younger than the fifty-some-odd years Sydney had figured as her age.