Noah Boyd - The Bricklayer

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 by-product 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 tumblers 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.