The Bricklayer (7 page)

T
YE DELSON OFFERED KATE AND VAIL A SEAT IN HER CRAMPED
Although there were overhead lights, the only illumination came from a small brass lamp on her desk. The assistant United States attorney was slender and wore a long midcalf black dress that failed to reveal a single curve. Her hair was dark brown and cut short, framing her face symmetrically. Her skin could have been described as flawless if it hadn’t been for its ghostly lack of color. Her lipstick was a waxy brown-red, which Vail thought an unflattering choice. She wore glasses and was one of those rare women who were more attractive because of them. Her eyes were overly made up, which, coupled with the magnification of the glasses, made them appear to be oversized, like one of those Keane paintings of innocent but somehow damaged children. And they had a quick intelligence about them that was almost lost because of a vague nervousness that flickered
through them. Her voice, however, was perfectly confident, allaying any fear that she might not be up to the rigors of hacking her way through the legal mazes necessary to put men or women in federal prison.

Vail noticed a framed quote by Martin Luther on her wall:
Each lie must have seven lies if it is to resemble the truth and adopt truth’s aura.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”

Tye said, “This is a business of lies. The police lie to suspects to get them to confess, and defense attorneys lie to juries to…well, because that’s what they get paid to do.”

“And prosecutors?”

“We’re the biggest liars of all. We tell ourselves that we’re making a difference,” she said. “Sorry. I know how cynical that sounds. That’s a big part of the reason I’m leaving the United States attorney’s office. I’m thinking about practicing real estate law, where lying is not only assumed, it’s profitable.”

Instead of seating herself behind the desk, she spun her chair around and sat on the windowsill, using the seat for her feet. Vail could see it was a technique that had been used before, and he appreciated that someone who had attained the lofty position of assistant United States attorney had developed the courtesy of not “holding court” across her desk with those who had come for her help. She pulled the window up a couple of inches and lit an unfiltered cigarette, inhaling deeply, the paper pulling at her thin lips with a surprising sensuality.

“I know, I know, all federal buildings are smoke-free. Forgive me my one vice. Well, my one admitted vice.” She
grinned a little self-consciously. “So you want another warrant for Stan Bertok’s apartment. Can I assume the search for him isn’t going well?”

“You can,” Kate said. “And we want to go in after midnight.”

“It’ll take a little more probable cause, but it seems like a prudent approach. I’ve got the basics from the other warrants. What exactly do I list as the object of your search?”

“Two million in cash,” Vail said.

Tye laughed with an erotic huskiness, apparently the byproduct of her “one vice.” “Wouldn’t that be nice. Something tells me that even Stan Bertok would be a little more discreet than that.”

“So you know him,” Vail said.

“We’ve had a couple of cases together.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I don’t know how accurate any of my judgments might be in hindsight.”

“No one’s keeping score. We’re just trying to find him,” Vail said.

“Fair enough. Well, he was a guy who seemed to be mailing it in, you know, as if his mind was someplace a lot darker. He was always wired—no, that’s the wrong word. It was more like he was ready to explode. Maybe a closet depressive. He’d go off in a corner at parties and pound down the liquor. If someone tried to keep him from driving home, he’d want to fight them. He got the reputation of being a mean drunk, but I think it went deeper than that.”

The use of the noun “depressive” struck Vail as an overly clinical choice of words and caused him to wonder what
made her so familiar with psychological problems. “Were you surprised when he disappeared with the money?”

“To tell you the truth, I was more surprised he accepted the assignment without protest. After all, the last agent was shot to death, right? Stan was not a team guy. And he certainly wasn’t looking for any medals.”

“So you weren’t surprised he vanished with the money?”

“Are you sure he did?”

“Is that the old ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

“That’s the old ‘as soon as you give me some proof I’ll be glad to hang him,’ but in the meantime…”

“Is he a smart guy?”

“Do you mean, to stay one step ahead of you, or was he smart enough to put this extortion together?”

“Both.”

She stared into Vail’s eyes and let her voice drop a half octave. “Actually, I don’t know how hard you are to stay ahead of, but measuring him against everybody else around here, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”

When Vail smiled in response, Kate interrupted. “And the extortion?”

“The one thing I’ve learned on this job is never to underestimate a man’s capacity for evil. Even a
good
man’s.”

“And a woman’s?” Vail asked.

Her mouth shifted to one side artfully. “Men are mere amateurs by comparison.”

“What about him being a murderer?” Kate asked. “Did he have enough evil in him for that?”

“I know the press is trying to intimate that agents may be involved in these murders, but that’s just today’s journalism.
I would find it hard to believe that any agent could do that. But then every time a serial killer is caught, invariably the next-door neighbor is on the news saying what a nice guy he was. That’s not why you want this search warrant, is it? For murder evidence?”

“We wouldn’t want to exclude any possibility. If we did and missed something, we’d be crucified later,” Kate said. “Especially with this ‘Enemies of the FBI’ thing gaining momentum.”

“If you’re going to gather evidence that could be used in a murder trial, the probable cause for your search warrant has to be one hundred percent accurate. This is the first legal step to that end, and as such has to be carefully vetted. The fruit of the poisonous tree falls from this point forward. Keeping that in mind, what evidence do you have indicating that Agent Bertok is involved in these murders?”

Vail said, “Disregarding supposition, the only link is that he was issued the same make and model of gun that was used in the murders, as were thousands of other agents.”

“So nothing,” Tye said.

Vail said, “We were told that ‘nothing’ is usually not a problem for you.”

She took a last drag on her cigarette and flipped it out the window. She stood up and closed it. “Let’s simplify everything. We won’t accuse him of anything. I assume he has certain items in his possession—credentials, gun, handcuffs—which were issued to him. Since he has abandoned his job, and his whereabouts are unknown, the government needs to recover its property. Possibly he has returned to his apartment since his disappearance and left them behind.”

“Impressive. Nothing up your sleeve and—poof—a search warrant. It’s nice having a legal magician on our side for a change,” Vail said.

“Only for a month or so, so abuse away. But both of you remember, there is no magic, just illusion, and with that goes the magician’s oath.”

“Which is?”

“Never reveal how it’s done.”

“Believe me, there’s no one more qualified to keep illusions secret than an FBI agent,” Kate said.

“Good,” Tye said. “So now anything found incidental to the search of the missing agent’s apartment will be admissible in court, provided you don’t overstep the limits of the warrant.”

“Such as?” Kate asked.

“If you’re looking for an automobile, you can’t go looking in dresser drawers.”

“Credentials could fit almost anywhere,” Kate said.

“Nice how that works out, isn’t it?” Tye said.

“Then we’re all set?” Vail said.

“There’s one small problem. Because the purpose of the search warrant is so routine, and his apartment is apparently abandoned, there’s no justification for a nighttime entry. But a suggestion—sunrise is a little after five thirty, which is a time when most of his fellow apartment dwellers will be deep in REM sleep.”

THE ONLY SOUND
in the dimly lit hallway was the metallic scratching of Tom Demick’s lock picks as he raked the tum
blers of Stanley Bertok’s door lock. Vail had been surprised by the technical agent’s appearance when he had been introduced to him. His hair and full beard were pure white and made him look much older than his fifty-one years. He was stocky with a belly that hung amply over his belt. Vail supposed that because he didn’t look like anyone’s preconceived notion of a clandestine-operations agent, it gave him the perfect cover should he be interrupted. Demick’s hands, especially his fingers, were thick and stubby, like those of a second- or third-generation fisherman or some other occupation that required digital strength and leverage rather than quick dexterity. However, they worked precisely with no wasted motion. It took less than three minutes before Demick straightened up and carefully rotated the lock cylinder open. He looked at Kate to see if she needed anything else. She gave him a silent salute of thanks, and he lumbered off toward the rear parking lot.

Vail opened the door and stepped in quickly. Kate followed him, and while he locked the dead bolt, she placed a copy of the search warrant on the rickety kitchen table. There was still a copy of the first one executed by Los Angeles agents almost a week and a half earlier.

The one-bedroom apartment was sparsely furnished, and although its occupant hadn’t been there for a while, the acrid stink of cigarette smoke was still in the air. On a table next to a threadbare sofa was an answering machine; alongside it sat an ashtray with half a dozen butts in it. Kate handed Vail a pair of evidence gloves.

Although the light wasn’t blinking, the display on the answering machine showed three messages that had been
heard previously but not erased. Vail hit the Play button and listened as one of Bertok’s ex-wives threatened him, in a routine voice, about his child-support payment being late again. The second message was the same woman not so patiently demanding an immediate call. The last one was someone who identified himself as Josh and asked for a call back. Kate said, “That’s probably his brother in Minnesota.”

Vail picked the handset out of the cradle and turned it over. A small screen on the back of it revealed an Incoming Calls button. He pushed it and scrolled through the numbers. “612 area code. That sound like Minnesota?”

“I think so,” Kate said. “He’s been interviewed, and we’re pulling his toll calls once a week just in case.”

Vail continued to scan the missed calls. He took out a small notebook and started writing the numbers down. “This is interesting. Do we know what time Bertok disappeared?”

“Not exactly. I don’t think anyone noted the exact minute that the car stopped moving. It was a little before three o’clock in the afternoon on the seventeenth.”

“There’s a bunch of incoming calls on the day of the drop, all from the same number. It looks like they were calling every fifteen minutes or so. The last one was at two thirty-eight p.m. Whoever it was never left a message.”

Kate walked over to Vail. “What’s the number?”

“It’s a 310 area code. Wait, I’ve seen this number.” He flipped through his notebook. “It’s the cell phone Bertok was given to take along on the drop and was left behind with the tracking devices. He was calling his own phone.”

“To check his messages.”

“I suppose it could have been routine, bored with the drive or nervous about what he was about to be put through.”

“Is calling every fifteen minutes routine?” She looked at Vail, who shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s assume for a minute that he had intended to steal the money. If he was calling that frequently, maybe it had something to do with his plans to get away.”

“Maybe.”

Kate went back to searching the drawers in the kitchen while Vail finished noting the calls. When Kate was finished, she said, “You done in here?”

“All set. Let’s search the bedroom. Nine out of ten times, that’s where the goods are found,” he said.

“That sounds very Freudian.”

“Who knew more about human beings hiding stuff than Freud?”

They went into the small bedroom, and while he looked under the mattress, Kate started searching the slim dresser. He said, “I’ve got the bathroom.” After pulling back the shower curtain, he checked the medicine cabinet. Other than shaving material, toothpaste, and aspirin, it was empty. The sink was set in a white vanity. He pulled open the single door and saw that it was empty. He started to leave when he noticed the side of the vanity. On the edge along the wall were faint gray smudges arranged in a pattern as if fingertips had left them. He forced his fingers into the crack between the cabinet and the wall, pulling it out about six inches. Wedged in an unfinished cavity of the wall was an accordion file with an elastic band around it. He took it into the bedroom and sat down to open it.

“What’s that?” Kate asked.

“The goods. Apparently Freud was wrong.” Inside were a dozen documents of differing sizes. Shuffling through them, he took out a metal document seal press and a writing tablet, both of which he handed to her. She flipped open the cover on the tablet. There was nothing written inside, but two-thirds of the top page was precisely torn off. And it was blue. “My God,” she said, staring at the tablet.

“What is it?”

She turned the torn, blank page toward Vail. “I guess you were right about doing things a second time.” The size, color, and texture of the blue writing paper were identical to those of the neatly torn pieces used for the Pentad notes. She looked back at Vail, who continued to go through the documents methodically. She had learned not to expect any type of reaction from him, but she was amazed that even this piece of evidence didn’t seem to excite him.

The top four sheets of paper Vail now had in his hands were blank applications for a U.S. passport. The next was a Florida birth certificate. The name at the top had been carefully whitened out, and the name “Ruben Aznar” had been typed over it. Under the document were three more full-size copies that, through the careful use of a copying machine, had eliminated any evidence of the Wite-Out. Vail felt the seal embossed into the bottom of the page and then held it up to the light to read the raised letters. He turned over one of the documents and pressed the metal seal into a blank space. Holding it up at an angle, he said, “That’s what I thought. It’s not the Florida state seal. It’s a notary public for the county of Los Angeles. Unless you
really look at it, you think it’s a certified original document.” There were a half-dozen copies of the birth certificate and an application for a Florida driver’s license with a Miami address. “How long did Bertok know about the drop before he flew to Phoenix?”