He held her gaze a moment longer, then stepped away. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
He walked to the end of the hall, hesitated, looked back, and then he was gone, and Sydney closed her eyes, stood there for several seconds, not moving, thinking about that ring he wore. Was that what had compelled her to paint a red jewel on her canvas?
She looked up at the ceiling, wondering what would have happened if she’d just ignored the envelope McKnight had sent, let Scotty take it, not started this. And not cared about finding answers to things she had no control over. If she’d ignored it all, she could have remembered her father as she always had. A good man… Sinking to the bed, she grabbed her purse, felt the weight of the gun within it, admitted weariness, as though she’d been running for hours. If someone were to come in right then, she wasn’t sure she’d have enough energy to lift up the gun and fire.
Finally she forced herself up, threw some clothes that were washable into a duffel bag. Tonight, though, it was jeans and a sweatshirt, and she packed her holster, then tucked her gun into her waistband. She walked out, but because she was feeling particularly vulnerable, turned back around, opened her gun safe, pulled out a small. 22 semi and ankle holster, and tucked that into her purse.
She left her room, walked down the hall, emerged into the living room, pausing at the kitchen, the mess, wondering how long it would take to fix it, and if she could remain here while the work was being done…
Because she realized she didn’t want to leave the city. She’d fight that transfer. She was staying here, she thought, stepping out onto the porch, eyeing Rainie’s door below her, where her half sister was safely ensconced.
And then there was Scotty. Sydney couldn’t deny the attraction to him, even though they had broken up, believed it was over. Maybe it was simply the stress of her world, the need to desperately recapture a time in her life she thought was happier. But now there was this chasm of distrust between them.
She wasn’t sure why that thought came to her just then. She wanted to trust him, but something struck her as she walked out of her apartment. Something that made her go back in.
Stop. Look at the coffee table. The photo she’d left there. Gone. The photo of her father, taken the night he left on that black ops mission. The photo that McKnight mailed to her.
She looked around. Couldn’t find it anywhere.
She supposed it could’ve gotten lost in the fire.
But she could’ve sworn she’d seen it… Yes. She’d noticed the rings, looked up at the painting.
She tore apart the couch, got on her hands and knees, felt beneath the furniture.
Nowhere.
Everything else in her living room seemed intact, considering.
She went back in the bedroom, to see if she’d taken it there. Then returned to the kitchen, certain a clean photo would’ve stood out, assuming the photo had blown into the kitchen after the fire. It was entirely possible that the photo had been left in the kitchen, burned, and was now nothing but soggy ash.
She was fairly certain that was not where she’d left it.
And then Sydney wondered if perhaps she’d left it down at Rainie’s. She grabbed her keys, then ran down the steps. Scotty called out to her.
She turned her gaze on him, feeling pretty damned safe with the half-dozen firefighters milling about, never mind the couple dozen neighbors and strangers across the street who didn’t have the sense to get in out of the cold. “You haven’t seen that photo, have you?”
“Why?” He didn’t even pretend not to know what she was talking about, but then neither did he deny taking it.
“It’s missing. I find it strange that we have a conversation about it earlier tonight, you just happened to be driving by later, see a fire, happen to rescue me just in time, all when this photo turns up missing. What’s so damned special about it? What did it reveal that I wasn’t seeing?”
He slipped the photo from his jacket pocket, handing it to her. “I see you made a copy. I found it on the ground outside, after the fire was put out. Maybe it blew outside, with all the firemen rushing in, or when we ran out.” She looked down at the photo, saw a footprint across the face of it, some water marks, figured it could have fallen before all this started. And who would notice it, racing from the fire? “Maybe it’s not as important as we thought,” he said, as a couple of cars pulled up. One was Jake’s. The other Sydney couldn’t tell, but definitely an unmarked cop car. “Your father was involved in something that we may never know the complete truth about. Gnoble, McKnight, Wheeler’s father, Orozco. That’s what the government does, Sydney,” he said, keeping his voice down low. “The good citizens of this country don’t care that there are things going on in this world that might not be perfectly black and white or stand up to intense scrutiny, as long as their world as they know it continues to be. So, yes, sometimes things happen that the rest of us in government must look the other way about. Secrets with foreign governments. Bank accounts in corrupt banks. Arms sold to factions that you don’t want to look at too closely. That’s the way government works.” He stepped closer, took her hand in his. “But all that aside, Sydney, sometimes things are just what they seem. No tricks. No mirrors. No government conspiracies involved. Like your father’s murder. It was just that. Wheeler broke in. Robbed him, killed him, and left.”
Carillo was in the unmarked car, and Sydney saw him walk up, shake Jake’s hand, then the two of them walked toward her. Jake, however, continued on to Rainie’s, not saying anything to Sydney, which told her he was doing his level best to keep his temper in check. Sydney wasn’t having such luck, and told Scotty, “I don’t believe it.”
“I told you there were pictures, Syd.”
“Which prove what?”
Though Carillo stood a polite distance away, he was listening to the conversation, because he walked toward her and said, “The photos, Fitz. The enhancements. They came back. They prove that Wheeler was there that night, before and after the fire was set. It’s a clean case, Fitz. I looked into it just like you asked. And like you, I had my doubts, until Schermer brought me the enhanced photos from the surveillance cameras, that proved Wheeler returned to steal the money from the restaurant.”
“When did he show them to you?”
“Right before we went out on Operation Barfly… You mean you haven’t seen them?” He looked at Scotty. “Jesus. You didn’t show them to her?”
“Why would Scotty have them?” she demanded.
“I was rushing out, Fitz,” Carillo said. “He was with me when Schermer brought them in. And with what they contained, I thought someone ought to sit down with you. Not just throw them at you and leave.”
Scotty said, “I brought them to the restaurant to show you, but we were interrupted. By a purse snatcher. And then a fire.”
“ Yo u have the photos?” Sydney asked.
Scotty pulled several photographs from his jacket pocket. “ This is why I came by here tonight,” he said, handing the first to her. “I knew this was important to you.”
“The photos from the surveillance camera?”
“Yes.”
She shoved away the hurt she felt that Carillo would have given them to Scotty, but then reconciled that with the knowledge that he was busy, and he had tried to get them to her. With trepidation, she eyed the photo, recognized the back of the strip mall where her father’s restaurant used to be. Someone climbing through a window. Too grainy to use. The person climbing in was wearing dark clothing, nothing identifiable.
And then Scotty showed her a second photo. “This one was digitally enhanced,” he said. “From the original.”
It was a close-up of what was undoubtedly a very young Johnnie Wheeler, looking toward the camera. The same scar ran down his cheek, and Sydney remembered the feeling when she’d drawn Tara’s rapist, the scar she thought she saw… Was that why she’d had such a strange feeling when she’d drawn it?