The Bricklayer (12 page)

Kate looked as straight forward as possible. “Okay, the west side has one window at the back with bars. The front, one barred door and a barred window on either side of it. The east side has a window toward the front but no bars.”

“That just leaves the back,” Vail said. “We’d better get surveillance out here.” They were a block and a half past the house and Vail was looking for someplace to turn around when he spotted a green Camry coming at them. “Okay, here we go. Don’t look at the car.” With his peripheral vision, Vail could feel the driver scrutinizing him. He leaned over and placed his palm on Kate’s face. Snarling, he pushed her head away roughly. Before she could react he said, “Sorry, he was eyeballing us.”

In the rearview mirror, Vail tracked the Toyota as it pulled up in front of the house. He turned into a driveway and parked so his car was difficult to see. They watched the driver get out. Kate said, “That’s him!”

“You recognize his face?”

“No, he’s too far away, but that’s the same Unabomber getup the woman at the Laundromat saw.”

Vail watched him go into the house. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Let’s go? Don’t you think this is a job for SWAT?”

“See that gate on the front door?”

“What?”

“It’s not closed all the way.”

“So?”

Vail put the car in reverse and backed out into the street. “Chances are he didn’t lock it because he’s leaving right away. We don’t have a choice.” Vail was now driving toward the house. “When I pull in, go along the east side of the house. Be careful going past the window.” He was close enough to see the property in detail now. “There’s a Dumpster in the back for cover, and it’s off to the side. You can watch both the back and the east side of the house from there. I’ll go in the front.”

“What about the window on the west side?”

“It has bars on it, remember? He can’t get out that way.”

“Okay. I guess.”

“It’ll be fine. Just make sure you get some cover. Take your cell phone. As soon as you set up, call in the infantry.”

Kate drew her automatic and pulled the slide back far enough to make sure there was a round already in the chamber. Vail turned quickly into the driveway and was out of the car before her. Keeping low, she sprinted around the side of the house to the Dumpster, then straightened up behind it. There was only a single door in the back of the house and it was covered with another iron gate.

Giving her a few seconds to get into position, Vail now swung open the front door. It was dark inside, and he knew he would be silhouetted if the Camry’s driver was in position to shoot. He drew his Glock and dove through the opening. As he did, an explosion lit up the room. Vail heard two
rounds thud into the wall behind him. In the flash of light, Vail saw a dark figure standing in an interior doorway.

Now it was dark again. The door was slammed and some sort of heavy lock was thrown. Hugging the wall, Vail worked his way over to the door. A board creaked under his feet. A burst of three rounds ripped through the solid wooden door. Without standing completely in front of it, Vail kicked at the edge of the door just above the knob. It didn’t give at all. He had kicked in enough doors to know that this one was heavily barricaded and it was going to take more than foot-pounds to open. Moving back along the walls, he exited the front of the house. “Kate!” he yelled.

“Yeah,” she called back.

“You all right?”

“Fine. You okay?”

“He’s barricaded himself.”

“LAPD and our people are on the way.”

“Just hold your ground. He can’t get out.”

Vail could already hear sirens in the distance. As they grew louder, he heard a single gunshot, this time muffled. He knew what that meant.

A
N LAPD CAR SWERVED INTO THE DRIVEWAY, AND VAIL WAVED THE
and took out a shotgun, jacking a round into the chamber as he trotted to Vail’s position. Vail asked him, “Can you go and cover the back? There’s a female agent there with a handgun, but I’d feel better if it were covered with a long gun. Go along the east side of the house. There’s a window, but he’s barricaded in a room on the opposite side.” The officer didn’t hesitate, taking off in a low trot.

Within seconds, Kate joined Vail. “Did he shoot at you?”

“Yeah, but that last round wasn’t fired through the door.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Suicide?”

“If I were a betting man…”

An hour later both LAPD and FBI SWAT teams were in the small parking lot of the abandoned auto salvage yard that crowded up against the west side of the house. After a
short disagreement as to how to broach the room that the gunman had barricaded himself in, the PD team agreed to take the perimeter while the Bureau made entry. First, bullhorn pleas were made for him to surrender. The only response was silence. Vail told the team leader that he didn’t think the standard battering ram or pry bar was going to be enough to open the inner door. “Well, let’s give it a try and see what happens,” the agent said.

Vail and Kate waited outside while the team leader gave the go-ahead. They could hear the battering ram thudding against the door. After almost a minute, there was a metal clang as the ram was dropped on the floor. One of the SWAT team members came out and got an explosive kit and took it inside. Within a couple of minutes the team backed out of the house, the leader holding the detonator attached to wires that ran back inside. “Everyone stand clear of the windows and doors,” he yelled. He waited a few seconds for all movement to cease and then yelled, “Fire in the hole.” He pressed a button. An explosion erupted and the team ran back inside.

Vail followed them in. A heavy metal rod ran from the floor two feet inside the bedroom door to just below its knob, anchoring into heavy metal plates at both ends. The door was twisted and hanging from one hinge. Vail stepped into the room.

In the corner lay Stanley Bertok, a nine-millimeter hole neatly torn through his right temple, a single trickle of blood less than two inches long now dry against his skin, his face recognizable in the sunlight that was coming through the barred window. Vail studied the body for a while before carefully touching the blood from the wound. It had already
crystallized. Bertok’s mouth was open slightly, and without anyone noticing, Vail bent over to smell his breath. In Bertok’s curled hand lay the most sought-after gun in recent FBI history, his Glock model 22.

VAIL WATCHED
as the evidence agent, using a cordless saw, carefully cut out a small section of wall that contained one of the bullets fired at him. It was the fourth one the team had recovered in addition to the five ejected shell casings. The fifth bullet, they decided, had been fired out the open front door and would probably never be found. It didn’t really matter; one was all that would be needed to match the gun taken from Bertok’s hand. The day’s events had left little doubt in anyone’s mind that it would match the four slugs extracted from the Pentad’s murder victims.

Assistant Director Don Kaulcrick and the SAC came through the door. “Everybody okay?” Kaulcrick asked.

“Not counting Bertok, everyone’s fine,” Vail said.

The assistant director looked down at the body. “At least he did the right thing.”

“Maybe.” Vail’s voice was a little more displaced than usual, encrypted.

“I would have thought that you of all people would be happy. Your assignment was to find him. You did it and did it well. I would have preferred you cut us in on it before the fact, but…”

“When we got the call about the Laundromat, it sounded like a dead end, so we thought we would waste only two agents’ time.”

Kaulcrick nodded in agreement but his look seemed questioning. “That’s fine, Steve. The important thing is we got Bertok. Any sign of the money?”

Kate, listening from the kitchen area, walked in. “We didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene, so we’ve just given the house a cursory search. So far, nothing.”

Kaulcrick walked over to the evidence agent. “How much longer are you going to be?”

The agent pulled out the section of the wall he had been working on and placed it in a cardboard box. “We’re pretty much done. The only thing left is the car.”

Kaulcrick went over to the SAC and put his hand on his shoulder. “Mark, I want someone reliable to immediately carry all this ballistics material back to the lab. Take your Bureau plane. I want it in the examiner’s hands before sundown, eastern time. I’ll call ahead and have someone waiting to go to work on it.”

“What about the slug from the body?”

“There’s no hurry on that. As soon as the M.E. can get it out, we’ll send it back. The thing we need to know right now is whether Bertok’s gun is the one used in the murders. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, he’s left little doubt.”

Kate held up a clear plastic envelope sealed with red evidence tape. Inside was a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. “These were in Bertok’s wallet.”

Kaulcrick took the envelope from her and examined the bills. “What are these holes?”

Vail said, “From the punji boards when I dropped the bag in the tunnel.”

“So these bills are part of the three million.”

“We haven’t checked the serial numbers yet, but they should match,” Kate said.

Kaulcrick took out a three-by-five card and made a note. “So it was all Bertok. Let’s tear this place apart.”

“There’s really not much to search,” Kate said. “The house is small, no attic, basement, or crawl space. No furniture. I’ve been through the rooms a half-dozen times looking for hidden boards and compartments—nothing.”

“When ERT finishes, let’s get some fresh eyes in here, Mark,” Kaulcrick said to the SAC. “Have them check the walls, floors, and ceiling. Let’s go take a look at the car. If the money isn’t in here, it’s the next best bet.”

Outside, Kate took out another evidence envelope and shook out a set of keys with the rental tag attached. She slid one of them into the trunk lock and opened it. There was a collective “Yeah!” as everyone recognized the large canvas bag that, when last seen, had contained three million dollars. The head evidence agent stepped forward and, pulling on a fresh pair of plastic gloves, unzipped it. Inside were a few banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills, pierced with nail holes.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Kaulcrick asked. “How much is in there?”

The agent counted the stacks. “If there’s a hundred bills in each stack, we’ve got only fifty thousand dollars here.” Sticking out from under one of the bundles, he saw something shiny—a key. He pulled it out. The number 14 was stamped into it.

“What’s that for?” Kaulcrick asked.

“I don’t know,” the agent said.

Someone said, “Could be for some kind of storage facility.”

Kate looked over at Vail. His attention had once again drifted elsewhere.

Kaulcrick turned to the SAC. “Obviously, the money is wherever this key fits. How many men can you put on it?”

“I can deploy the entire office if you want.”

“We need two things. First, a couple dozen copies of the key. And then a list of storage facilities in the city. Have someone list them by proximity to this location. The closer, the higher the priority. What was the alias he was using for the car registration?”

“Alan Nefton,” Kate said.

“They can also check that name and the name from the Florida driver’s license….”

“Ruben Aznar,” Kate said.

Kaulcrick made another note on his three-by-five card. “Also, Mark, I want you to handle the media. Have a news conference and tell them only that, tragically, an agent has committed suicide. Nothing about the Pentad, nothing about any money, terrorism, or extortion. Don’t give them anything specific why he might have killed himself. ‘Ongoing investigation,’ et cetera. If someone does make the connection between Bertok’s death and the Pentad, deny it unequivocally.” Kaulcrick turned back to everyone there. “If there is any leak of this—any leak—there will be more Bureau polygraphers in this division than falsified time sheets. Now get going.”

As the group around the car started to disperse, the assistant director said, “Well, Steve, I guess you can head back to Chicago.”

“What are you talking about?” Kate asked.

“He was asked to find Bertok, and he’s done that. This is all drone stuff now: go to the rental places and show the key. It’s just a matter of time until someone stumbles across it. I think we can take it from here. I would think you’d find that boring, wouldn’t you, Steve?”

“Actually, the director asked me to find Bertok
and
the money. You wouldn’t mind if I hang around until you do find it, would you? I promise not to get in the way.”

“Does that mean you don’t think we will find it?”

“It means I’m curious, nothing more.”

“Sorry if I’m a little defensive. I’d like to think that the Bureau could solve at least part of this case.” There was something strained about Kaulcrick’s attempted humility.

“I’d just like to see how it turns out. I’ll keep my hands off,” Vail said.

Kaulcrick stared at him for a moment. “Are you sure that’s possible?”

Vail smiled. “Probably not.”

THAT NIGHT VAIL
watched the SAC on the early news. He stood at the lectern and read from a prepared statement. “Special Agent Stanley Bertok of this division, a twelve-year veteran with the FBI, committed suicide earlier today in this city. Agent Bertok had not reported to work for the last several days, and agents from this office had been searching for him. One of those teams finally located him and discovered that he had killed himself. This office is continuing to investigate
the matter. Once that investigation is completed, our findings will be made public.”

The statement, short by design, caused the reporters to start firing questions at Hildebrand. “Any idea why he killed himself? Was he depressed?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist, but I believe depression is involved in most suicides. If he was depressed, we had no indication of it prior to this.”

Another reporter asked, “How hard were you looking for him? Why wasn’t there a public plea for help in locating him?”

The only answer that occurred to Hildebrand he knew could open Pandora’s box. He looked back past the lights for some signal from Kaulcrick, who sat in his chair passively. “Like any organization, on rare occasions,” Hildebrand started, “we have employees who are out of pocket for short periods of time. And when they are located, the explanations are usually quite innocuous. We had no reason to believe this was any different.”

Then someone asked, “Was there any connection between the suicide and the unsolved murders committed by the Rubaco Pentad?”

Again the SAC looked at Kaulcrick, who gave no indication that he had even heard the question. “No, there was absolutely no connection,” Hildebrand said. “I’m sorry, I’m late for another meeting.”

The reporters, smelling blood in the water, fired their questions on top of each other as the SAC picked up his notes and hurried out of the room.