The Bricklayer

by Noah Boyd

  Vail drove at a leisurely pace, slowing down for lights so they wouldn’t lose him. The drive back took about a half hour. Reholstering his weapon, he got out and went to the trunk. Slipping the monocular into his suit pocket, he lifted the evidence kit out of the car along with the Halligan bar. He set the evidence kit on the front porch and pushed open the door. Hiding in the shadows of the front room, he used the monocular to look out the window. Half a block away, the Dodge had pulled to the curb. He assumed the Honda was hanging farther back.

  Going out on the porch, Vail took several items out of the evidence kit. Pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, he walked back to the Dumpster and started dusting, occasionally ripping off a piece of clear tape and apparently lifting a print, which he then attached to an index card. He repeated the process two more times before returning to the house.

  The driver of the Dodge lit a cigarette. His gray eyes narrowed as he tracked Vail’s movements. “Vic, he’s back inside the house,” he said into his cell phone.

  VICTOR RADEK SAT in his Honda almost a hundred yards farther away. He wondered if all his planning was going to be ruined by the man’s voice he was listening to. Had he made the mistake that was going to enable the FBI to identify Radek or the other members of his gang? “I don’t like this. This is the guy from the tunnel, so he’s no fool. Are you sure you wiped down that Dumpster, Lee?”

  “I’m sure. Whatever prints he found aren’t ours. They could be anybody’s, probably the cops or FBI.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “And inside the house, you’re also positive?”

  “I wiped everything down before I went out the window.”

  The first time Radek saw Lee Salton in prison, he immediately recognized his usefulness. Always boiling just below the surface was a brutal, hair-trigger violence, which was common in a place like Marion. But Radek also detected an unusual weakness that rarely accompanied homicidal ability, something that made Salton exploitable. Salton needed someone else to be in charge, which in turn allowed him to rationalize not being responsible for his actions. Salton, as deadly as he was, was not a psychopath. When acting on his own, he invariably suffered self-recrimination afterward. When directed to violence by someone else, he suffered no such guilt. One night they got very drunk on prison hooch, and Salton told him that his mother had been a Bible-thumping lunatic, while his father was an alcoholic over-the-road trucker who, when returning home, would invariably remark his territory by beating the hell out of both of them.

  Salton had been the ideal instrument to carry out the Pentad murders. He was efficient, dependable, and, as he proved in setting up the Bertok suicide, fearless, and he could follow the most complicated instructions. Best of all, he kept Radek from having to get his own hands dirty. And, most important, Radek knew that Salton was incapable of ratting him, or anyone else, out.

  The agent in the house had become a threat. First surviving the tunnel, then the shoot-out the day before. Now he had crossed paths with Radek again. He couldn’t know what they were doing there, but there he was. Why did he keep going back to the house? Radek feared it was only a matter of time until he discovered the trick bars on the bedroom window. If he did, the FBI would again be trying to figure out who was responsible for the murders instead of just chasing their tails looking for the money. There was only one thing to do.

  “Is he still in the house?”

  “Yeah,” Salton answered.

  “What’s he doing in there? They did all their crime-scene stuff yesterday.”

  “You don’t think he can figure out that trick window, do you?”

  There was something uncertain in Salton’s voice. “Why, Lee? What if he does? Didn’t you wipe the plate down before you closed it up?”

  “I’m almost positive I did.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “He was trying to kick the door in and shoot me, remember?”

  “If he finds any one of our prints, we’re through.”

  “What do you want me to do, Vic?”

  “Think you can take him out?”

  Salton leaned across the front seat and picked up a Heckler & Koch submachine gun from the passenger-side floor. “As much trouble as this guy has been, try and stop me.” He chambered a round.

  “Once you put him down, we’ve got to destroy the evidence he’s collected. Just torch the house so we don’t have to worry about it again.”

  Salton put the car in gear. “My pleasure.” He pulled up a little past the house, closer to the salvage yard than to the one-story structure, and got out, leaving the engine running. Cutting across the lawn on an angle so he couldn’t be seen as easily, he pulled himself up on the front porch silently and flattened against the wall. He could now hear Vail moving around inside. Counting to three, he spun himself in front of the door with the MP5 positioned on his hip ready to fire. Vail was in the bedroom doorway, putting the door back up over the opening. As soon as he saw Salton, he pushed it closed.

  Salton took three quick strides toward the bedroom and opened up, firing full automatic, low through the door in case Vail had hit the floor. And if he was still standing, the raking burst would take his legs out from under him. After firing all thirty rounds in the magazine, he slammed in a second clip and moved to the door. Raising the weapon to his shoulder, he kicked open the door. The room was empty and the bars on the window had been swung open.

  Behind him, Salton heard Vail’s voice. “You would think that if there was one person who wouldn’t fall for that it would be you.”

  Vail watched Salton’s neck muscles tighten with decision and knew what was coming next. Salton started to turn, firing before he could see Vail, hoping that the spraying rounds would cause the agent to take cover.

  Vail stood his ground and fired one shot, hitting Salton in the side of the head just above the ear. The machine gun went silent and Salton’s lifeless body hit the floor. Vail moved to the wall next to the front window and peered out carefully, looking for the Honda. He could see it now. It had moved up to where the Dodge had been sitting.

  After a few seconds, the silence was interrupted by a cell phone ringing. Vail patted down Salton’s body and found the phone. He answered “Yeah” as anonymously as possible.

  “Did you get him?”

  Vail was surprised by the matter-of-factness of the voice. “Yeah,” Vail answered, trying to keep the single syllable unrecognizable.

  There was a hesitation and then the voice ordered, “Say something else.”

  Vail knew he had been discovered. “Looks like you’re going to need new business cards. I’m thinking something like the Quartet Rubaco, or the Rubaco Tetrad has a nice ring to it, you know, for continuity, since the Pentad has been reduced by one member. Personally—”

  The line went dead. Vail moved back to the window and watched as the Honda turned around in a driveway and disappeared from sight. He dialed the office on Salton’s phone and looked down at the body. “Don’t worry, it’s a local call.”

  When Kate answered, he told her what had happened. She started to ask a question, but he cut her off, telling her there was at least one more member of the gang in the area, and then hung up.

  He turned back to the man he had just killed. Rolling him over, he searched his pockets. He didn’t have a wallet, but he did have a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills in one of his front pants pockets. He was wearing a black turtleneck, not a logical garment for such a hot L.A. day. Vail pulled down the neck, revealing a tattoo that was hidden just beneath the collar. The faded letters said at your own risk. Tiny drops of blood in red ink dripped from the letters. The quality, Vail knew, was jailhouse. He pushed up one of the sleeves, revealing more tattoos of institutional inferiority. He was about the right height and weight of the individual who had fired at him the day before. Even though he was dead, there was still something about him, some kind of potential for violence. It was the eyes, Vail decided. They were sti
ll open and full of hate.

  Vail walked out to the car, which was still idling. The front and back seats were empty. He reached in and turned off the ignition, taking the keys. Watching the street in case the Honda returned, he opened the trunk. A heavy cardboard box was the only thing inside. It was bigger than a large suitcase, tightly sealed with nylon filament tape. Vail took out his lock-back knife and slit along the seams. Packed in heavy-gauge plastic and wrapped with the same tape were neat stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills.

  EIGHTEEN

  KAULCRICK AND KATE ARRIVED IN THE SAME CAR. VAIL WAS HALF sitting, half leaning against the Dodge’s trunk. “You okay, Steve?” she asked before she was all the way out of the vehicle.

  “I’m good.” Kaulcrick didn’t say anything but just looked at him. Vail pointed down, indicating that the assistant director should look in the trunk.

  Once he did, he said, “Do you know how much is in there?”

  “From its weight, I’d say roughly three million.”

  Kate said, “What happened?”

  Vail explained how he thought he was being followed when he dropped her off at the federal building. He didn’t mention that he had first noticed the sedan when they had left Spring Street. He explained how the confrontation between him and the dead man inside had happened.

  After closing the trunk, Vail led the three of them into the house. Kaulcrick squatted over the body. “Any idea who he is?”

  “I gave him a quick pat; I couldn’t find anything. He isn’t a domestic terrorist. Check his neck and arms. That’s institutional ink.”

  Other FBI cars along with LAPD started arriving, shutting down their sirens as they got out. Kaulcrick said, “Kate explained about Stan Bertok, which I was having a hard time believing until you called with this. So all of this was a straight-up extortion.”

  “A lot of colored smoke and strobing lights, but that would be my guess. And this guy is about the right size for Bertok’s stand-in yesterday.”

  “Was he acting alone?” Kaulcrick asked.

  “I don’t think so. There was a second car following me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “We had a brief telephone conversation when he thought he was talking to his co-worker here. Sounded like he was the guy giving orders.”

  “Well, we know it wasn’t Pendaran. Surveillance just found him coming out of the same massage parlor. Which doesn’t mean that he isn’t part of this.”

  “There’s still two million dollars missing,” Vail said. “Somebody’s got it. And unfortunately, it isn’t us.”

  “We’ll get this man fingerprinted and find out then who he and his friends are. Kate, take Steve back to the office so he can give his statement regarding the shooting. Give her your gun, Steve.” Vail handed it over and knew it would be gone until the investigation of the killing was completed.

  When they went out to the car, Kate insisted on driving, which Vail took as not being a good sign. Once they were on the freeway, she said, “So, you first noticed we were being followed when?” Her tone indicated she knew the answer.

  “I thought—possibly—we were being tailed when we left the house.”

  “So you’re back to not trusting me.”

  “What exactly is it that you think you missed out on?”

  “I’m sure I would have been scared to death. Maybe that’s what I missed out on.”

  “This case isn’t some little hothouse laboratory to see where your limits are. These animals have murdered five people so far, two of which were FBI agents. They just tried to make it three. And I’ve got a feeling they’re not done yet.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “You probably can, but I don’t want to be there if you can’t. You told me I do this because I can, because I’m built for it.”

  “Am I that big a liability?”

  “For me, everyone’s a liability. Do you think if you were in that bank with me, I would have done what I did? Instead of throwing caution to the wind, I’d be worried about you getting hurt. I can’t handle that kind of responsibility. No faces, remember?”

  “What do you want me to do, sign a waiver? I need to know that I can do this. Not like you, but that my career hasn’t been some illusion fueled by affirmative action or because men find me attractive.”

  Vail closed his eyes and leaned his head back onto the rest. After a few moments to let the immediacy of their emotions dissolve, he said, “Without looking at the mirrors, Kate, tell me if we’re being followed.” She looked over at him and, seeing his eyes closed, stole a glance at the rearview mirror, searching the highway behind them. Although he still hadn’t opened his eyes, she suspected that he knew she had looked. He said, “Are you still sure you want all the way in?”

  VAIL’S SHOOTING STATEMENT took over three hours. He was interviewed by the office legal agent, who made him repeat the story over and over to eliminate any inconsistencies before it was reduced to writing. “Usually shooting reviews can take up to three months before a decision can be made as to whether it was justified or not,” the agent said, his voice as flat as if he were reading him his rights.

  Vail laughed. He knew it was a good shooting and there were no witnesses, but what he found amusing was that by the time this decision had worked its way through the hallowed halls of the Hoover Building, he would be back laying bricks. When the agent asked him what was so funny, he waved apologetically and signed the statement without reading it.

  Vail was then led to another interview room, where two detectives from the LAPD were waiting. They were given a copy of the statement. After reading it, they interrogated him for two more hours. When they were done, he headed to see Kate. He was thinking about the ride back to the office. Not a word had been spoken after his asking about being surveilled. He decided that he had been too hard on her. Whatever her reason for being angry, she was a more than capable agent, and just as important, she had not once chosen her career over his reckless resistance to all things FBI. And as unaccustomed as he was to giving in to his feelings, he liked her, probably more than he wanted to admit.

  Her door was ajar and he knocked twice before walking in. She was on the phone and motioned him to come in and sit down. Behind her in the corner was a newly arrived steel safe, the kind that looked like a filing cabinet except it weighed six hundred pounds and the top drawer had a combination dial embedded in the center of it. The box containing the better part of three million dollars sat on the floor next to it.

  He took off his jacket, throwing it onto a chair. There was a newspaper there and he picked it up. The front-page article was about Bertok’s suicide. He started to read it out of habit, but then remembered that between the SAC’s press release and today’s discoveries, none of it was true. He put it down. Kate glanced at him and he pursed his lips deferentially as a peace offering. A thin smile lit her eyes. After another minute she hung up. “How did it go with LAPD?”

  “They didn’t say, but it didn’t seem like they were out to get anyone,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I was out of line with some of that stuff in the car.”

  “And some of it you weren’t. When you get to the DAD level you become spoiled and don’t think you should be denied anything. It’s just that ever since we sent you to that tunnel to make the drop, I’ve felt like a hypocrite. Giving orders, making things happen, but not really risking anything. You could have been killed, and I was sitting in the major-case room drinking coffee. You’ve got to understand, I don’t want to feel like a phony. And every time you do something like this it makes me feel that way.”

  “If there’s one thing I can spot, it’s a phony. Believe me, you’re woefully underqualified. And as far as these situations, when they come up, I never know what’s going to happen. I never have a plan or calculate the odds of surviving or anything else. It just works out. One day it probably won’t. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind being a bricklayer. A surprisingly small number of us get shot. At least not on the job.”
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br />   She smiled and took another Glock automatic out of her desk drawer, the same model as the one he had surrendered. She handed it to him. “I went down to the firearms vault and drew this for you.”

  “And I didn’t get you anything. How about I buy dinner?”

  “You’re on, but it’s probably going to have to be carryout. We got an ID on the guy who spent the last two days shooting at you—Lee Davis Salton. Recent graduate of the Marion Federal Correction Institution. Long list of bank robberies, plus a particularly nasty little kidnapping in which a man hired him to torture and maim his wife without killing her. Wanted her to suffer for a long time, I guess. I don’t know how these people find one another. Plus, just before Salton got out, they liked him for killing an inmate named Michael Vashon, but they couldn’t make the case. The prison is e-mailing photos of his social circle. Hopefully one of them will be your contestant number two.”

  “I wish I had gotten a look at him.”

  “The names will be a starting point anyway,” she said.

  “How’s Kaulcrick reacting to all this?”

  “I don’t think he’s had time to feel bad about it. On the one hand, he’s got three million dollars of the Bureau’s money back. On the other hand, it wasn’t him who recovered it. He can’t even claim he directed the operation. So I think he’s attempting to find some redemption in proving Pendaran is involved. They’ve completed a factory trace of that barrel found in Bertok’s Glock. It was part of a shipment that went to a gun shop in Lynwood, California, on April 21 this year. It was sold to an individual named Galvin Gawl.”

  Vail could tell by the sway of her speech that the surprise ending she was apparently building up to was going to point to someone known to them. “Who is?”

  “Don’t rush my big finish. We checked Bureau indices and there is a Galvin Gawl. Turns out it’s a former undercover identity for Vince Pendaran.” Vail didn’t have any apparent reaction. “Okay, what’s wrong now?”