Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

“Not something I want to discuss over the phone,” said Rhytag.

“I see.”

“The man’s in the Brigantine right now, the restaurant out in front of your office. He’s African American, he’ll be wearing a dark blue suit and a maroon-striped club tie. His name is Agent Sanders. If you go now you can catch him.” Before Harry could say another word, the line went dead.

Harry got out from behind his desk and headed out of the office, through the plaza and into the side door of the Brigantine. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, so the restaurant was mostly empty. He saw the FBI agent seated at a table by himself out near the front windows. He had his hands folded on top of a large manila envelope resting on the table in front of him.

Harry walked up and introduced himself then sat down.

“You wanted information on one John Waters,” said the agent.

“You found something?” said Harry.

“We found six bank accounts in that name all in the greater San Diego area. But only one of them was newly opened under a fresh taxpayer ID number and shows activity in the amount that you described-a near six-figure deposit just after the time Emerson Pike was murdered. Of course, there is no way to know if this is your man, but there was one other thing.”

“What’s that?” said Harry.

“The depositor, this Mr. Waters, also rented a safe-deposit box at the same bank on the date that he opened the account.”

“What’s in the box?” said Harry.

“We have no idea.”

“What do you mean? Now that you know it’s there, you can move on the account, freeze it, and get an order to open the safe-deposit box.”

“We have no legal basis,” said the agent. “You asked us for information, we got it for you.” He slid the envelope across the table to Harry. “The account number, everything you need is in there. Of course, it could be just a coincidence, a perfectly innocent deposit with nothing in the box but a home deed or an insurance policy.”

“Great,” says Harry.

“Let me make a suggestion,” said the agent. “And if you tell anyone where this came from, we’ll deny it. You could put together a declaration claiming the account constitutes the proceeds from the sale of the coin in question, and the box contains physical evidence from the crime scene.”

“Based on what?” says Harry. “My good looks?”

“Think about it. Who’s going to complain? You issue a subpoena based on the declaration seeking to tie up the account and obtain a court order to freeze the assets in the box, pending a hearing before the court. Why would the prosecution complain? They don’t own the box or the account. The only interested party is the deposit holder.”

“Your boss Rhytag is insidious,” said Harry.

“That’s how he became the boss,” said the agent. “When the depositor receives notice through the bank that the assets are frozen, he can come forward and object at the time of the hearing. If he does you can be sure he’s not involved in Pike’s death.”

“What if he doesn’t show up? What if he just sends counsel to object?” says Harry.

“Then the court may want to know who the client is and what’s in the box. And if he doesn’t show up at all, well…”

Rhytag was using the criminal defense team to smoke out John Waters while the feds hid in the shadows and bugged the lawyers’ offices. Harry hated it. If the whole thing blew up and Mr. Waters filed a civil claim for damages because his funds were cut off, the FBI and Rhytag would be nowhere in sight. Still, it was the only avenue available, and it might work.

The black SUV was parked at the curb around the corner, twenty feet up the side street from the Sportsmens Lodge in San José. One of the deadheading airline employees sat behind the wheel with a pair of binoculars as he watched the two men disappear with their luggage through the gate into the entrance of the hotel. Less than a minute later, two other figures emerged from the shadows between some bushes at the opposite corner of the hotel grounds. They walked quickly toward the car. One of them was carrying a small duffel bag.

A few seconds later, the second FBI agent opened the passenger door and got in. His Costa Rican compatriot climbed into the backseat and closed the door.

“Did you get it done?” asked the driver.

“Both rooms, wired snug as a bug, and the phone’s tapped,” said the passenger.

“Now if we could only have gotten the cell phone,” said the driver.

“If customs didn’t find it, where is it?”

“He handed it off to his friend,” said the driver. “That’s why they split up. Sucker knows we’re onto him.”

“If he leaves it in the room, we can get it tomorrow. In two seconds I can fry some of the circuitry and he’ll think it just quit.”

“And what if they take it with them?”

“Perhaps it will be stolen,” said the man in the backseat. “Tourists are always being held up at gunpoint and robbed in San José.”

“We’ll have to talk about that one,” said the driver. “ Washington may draw the line at shooting a lawyer, even in Costa Rica.”

“Turn on the receiver,” said the other agent. “Let’s see what we get.”

“Give it a minute. They haven’t had time to get to the rooms yet,” said the driver.

Herman and I finish our beers, pay up, and leave the empty bottles on the bar. As we were drinking, I noticed one of the employees carrying a full case of beer up a set of stairs in the bar area on the other side. I know this isn’t the way to the exercise area. From what the girl told me at the front desk, those stairs are farther back in the building, through the glass door in the residence area on the way to our rooms.

After making sure the bartender and the waitress are busy with customers, I gesture for Herman to follow me and quickly head from the patio into the formal bar area.

But instead of going through the bar toward the glass door leading to the guest rooms at the back of the building, we quickly veer to the right and slip down the steps into the basement.

They lead to a service and storage area under the bar upstairs. But at the foot of the steps is a solid wooden door with a heavy metal latch. I turn the latch and open the door. It leads to a small lane, a dogleg in the road that runs behind the lodge. Across the street is a chain-link fence covered in heavy foliage and bounded by old eucalyptus trees. On the other side of the fence is dense jungle undergrowth, where if the images on Google Earth were accurate, a steep incline leads down to the old San José zoo in the canyon below.

For the moment I am more interested in the paved lane and where it leads. If the maps and satellite photographs were accurate, Herman and I should be able to follow the lane past the next intersection. A few hundred feet farther on, we would come to another small street on the right. On the left-hand side of that street, less than two hundred yards from the intersection, is the house that Katia lived in with her mother, and if we are blessed by the gods, the camera with the photographs from Colombia.

“Tonight when it gets dark, we check out the house,” I tell Herman. “If her mother’s still gone, the place should be dark. Bring your lock picks.”

He nods and I close the door. We head back up, and hold it at the top of the steps until the barmaid turns her back to wait on a customer. Herman and I quickly step up and wander casually through the bar toward the glass door and our rooms.

The lodge is a labyrinth of connected buildings and stairways. The front section where the entrance is located is part of an old mansion. It contains twenty-odd rooms on two levels plus a two-room penthouse on a third level.