Текст книги "The Bricklayer "

Автор книги: Noah Boyd

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 8 страниц]

SEVEN

VAIL SAT AT THE DESK IN HIS D.C. HOTEL ROOM READING FROM THE from the Rubaco Pentad case, including crime-scene photos, lab reports, and surveillance logs, had been downloaded into it. For such a clandestine operation, an incredible amount of material had been reduced to writing. As he took another bite of the cold room-service hamburger, there was a knock at the door.

It was Kate. Although holding a briefcase with both hands in front of her, indicating her visit was official, she had changed clothes and was wearing a dress and heels. “Hi,” she said, and walked in, looking around. “How’s the room?”

“You’ve seen my apartment, how good does it have to be?”

“Good, good,” she said distractedly. “Is there anything else you need?”

“What are you offering?” he said in a playful voice.

“Equipment, bricklayer, equipment. Like an agent’s handbook or a pair of brass knuckles.”

“I’m not the kind of person who thinks about his obituary, but I’d hate for it to read, ‘He died because he brought a laptop to a gunfight.’”

“Okay, I’ll get you a weapon,” she said. “We’ll need to get you to a firearms range to qualify.”

“Do you really think there’s time for that?”

“It’s pretty much an unbreakable rule. You know, lawsuits.”

“Isn’t it my job to break rules?”

After a moment, she said, “Okay, I’ll have it for you tomorrow. I’ve ordered up a Bureau plane. I assume we’ll be flying to Las Vegas to try to pick up Bertok’s trail.”

“I was thinking more like L.A.”

“Why L.A.?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Call it a hunch. And don’t think that the Cubs having three games with the Dodgers this week has anything to do with it.”

Kate studied Vail’s face and found the same unreadable expression he presented when asked about anything he didn’t want to answer. She was sure of one thing: his decision to start in Los Angeles had nothing to do with baseball or intuition. He had found some way to track Bertok that no one else had thought of. “You know this is going to be a lot easier if we don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Cosmo says that a little mystery can keep a relationship from getting stale.”

“There are only a few things in life that are unquestionable. That you’ve never read Cosmopolitan magazine is one of the most certain. Why L.A.?”

“First of all, it’s about as far away from your boss as we can get. I know his type and I know my type. We’ve all seen how that movie ends.”

“And second of all?”

“Simple math. How many times have each of the following locations come up in the case: New Hampshire, Pittsburgh, Utah, Arizona, and Las Vegas?”

“Once each.”

“And Los Angeles?”

“I don’t know, a half dozen?”

“Everything from the first victim to the postmarks on both demand letters to Bertok. Besides, I want to search his apartment again.”

“Why?”

“The biggest mistake agents make is believing that because something was done once, it was done right.” Kate nodded in agreement. “Now, what do we know about Stanley Bertok’s personal life?” he asked.

“We’ve interviewed his supervisor. He described him as suffering from what he calls ‘the dysfunctional twos.’”

“What’s that?”

“Too much booze, too little money, and two ex-wives. He thinks Bertok may have seen an opportunity to downsize his problems and taken it.”

“And psychologically?”

“Intelligent but brooding. No friends and not the world’s most dedicated agent.”

“But nothing to explain why our little band of terrorists picked him to make the drop. If they knew him well enough to ask for him, wouldn’t they have to assume he was a risk to take off with the money?”

“Which leads us right back to him and the Pentad being one and the same, or at least being in it together.”

“For something so well planned, this has some conspicuously dangling loose ends.”

“Haven’t you heard, there’s no such thing as a perfect crime.”

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t have to be perfect to get away with it.”

EXPLAINING TO KATE that he had been up the entire night reading the contents of the Rubaco Pentad file, Vail slept during the entire flight to Los Angeles. After they landed at one of the secure runways used by government planes coming into LAX, Kate had to wake him. As Vail stepped off the plane and into the blinding white light of the Southern California sun, he couldn’t help but stretch himself against its silky warmth. The sky was a different blue than that of Chicago or even Washington. A thin band of gray-orange haze at the horizon separated it from the earth.

Parked a hundred feet away was a dark green sedan. A seemingly stoic man in his thirties wearing a tailored summer-weight suit was walking toward their plane. He had the practiced expression of someone whose first priority was that of confident congeniality, suggesting he was part of the office management team. He came up to Kate and offered his hand. “Allen Sabine,” he said. Kate took his hand and introduced him to Vail. The two men shook hands. Sabine’s dark hair had been carefully cut, and he stood with a practiced slouch that angled his face away to mask a long, sharp nose. He tried to take her bag, but she smiled graciously and said she needed the exercise. Sabine pointed at the sedan. “This is the vehicle we rented for you while you’re here. It has the GPS navigational system you requested. We also put in a complete set of maps for most of Southern California. The SAC is available to meet with you anytime this morning.”

“Okay,” Kate said, “let’s get it over with.” She said to Vail, “The SAC is Mark Hildebrand. Ever run into him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He seems okay, a little territorial on the phone when I told him we were coming out.”

“Territorial’s not all bad. Maybe he actually cares about what happens in his division.”

“You’re irritatingly positive after your nap.”

“Sorry. Give me a few minutes with him, and I’m sure I’ll be as good as new.”

They got in the car, Kate in the front and Vail in the back. She handed him a Glock model 22 encased in a holster, with two extra clips. Then with just enough ceremony to be sarcastic, she handed him an operation manual for the weapon. “I thought you should at least know how to load it.”

“You could have given me this before we took off.”

“You were asleep. Plus, I was curious whether you’d ask for it, and since you haven’t been checked out, I didn’t want you practicing your quick draw on the plane and accidentally shooting me or the pilot.”

“I would have been careful not to shoot you. I can imagine the paperwork involved.” She handed him a credit card and then a cell phone. “Speaking of paperwork, don’t I need to sign for all this?”

She lowered her voice. “After your little speech to the director about it being just a matter of time until you ran amok, I thought it would be better if none of these items were traceable to you, or more important, us.”

“Sometimes you scare me.”

“If only that were true.”

They were now proceeding north on the 405. The traffic was heavy, so they moved in and out of bottlenecks. When an opening presented itself, everyone drove as fast as possible. Vail couldn’t help but notice that the cars were in remarkable condition. The vast majority of them had no fading of paint, no rust, not even dirt. It was a different world; even the highway was clean and perfectly landscaped. The few pedestrians he had seen from the freeway were jogging or biking, wearing the minimum of clothing. Like everything else in Southern California, there seemed to be a subliminal theme of eternal youth, or at least its quest.

Sabine said, “I guess the reason I was sent to pick you up is that I’m Stan Bertok’s supervisor. At least I was. So fire away.”

Before Kate could say anything, Vail said, “Was?”

“Well, I guess technically I still am, but I seriously doubt he’s just going to walk in one of these mornings, sit down at his desk, and go to work.”

“I suppose not,” Vail said.

She said, “Tell us about him.”

“He wasn’t—isn’t—much of an agent, at least from my standpoint. Everything he did I had to keep a close eye on. He was a pretty heavy drinker. I got a call one night from the LAPD; they had stopped him driving drunk. I had to go down and drive him home. And he has some financial problems. A couple of ex-wives will do that, I guess. And I get a call occasionally from bill collectors.”

“Do you think he took off with the money?” Vail asked.

“I don’t want to convict the guy in absentia, but if he didn’t, where is he?”

“So if he took the money, you wouldn’t be shocked?” Kate said.

“I suppose not.”

“Where do you think the Pentad got his name?”

“I have no idea.”

When they got to the office, Sabine led them to the special agent in charge’s office. “Boss, this is Deputy Assistant Director Kate Bannon and…I’m sorry.”

“Steve Vail,” Kate said before Vail could answer.

The SAC was tall and trim with a dark tan. His thick blond hair peaked low across his forehead, and he was wearing a medium-blue shirt with a contrasting white collar. The cuffs, also white, were set off by large gold cuff links.

He shook Kate’s hand first. “Mark Hildebrand. We spoke on the phone.” He repeated his name when he shook hands with Vail. “Please, have a seat.” He instructed Sabine to shut the door as he left.

Kate watched Vail examining Hildebrand before saying anything. “Mark, we appreciate your letting us come in here and run this operation. The director has all the confidence in the world in you and your division; it’s just that this case is running from coast to coast, and he feels it’s best if we chase it, you know, for continuity.”

“What exactly is it that I can do for you, Kate?”

Vail said, “We need to search Stan Bertok’s apartment discreetly.”

Hildebrand was surprised at the presumptive authority in Vail’s voice. He looked at Kate, but she exhibited no interest in asserting herself. “I’m sorry, Steve, you didn’t say where you worked. Are you with OPR?”

“A man can only dream. No, I’m just the deputy’s gun bearer on this.”

Hildebrand stared at Vail, trying to get a better read on him. Kate broke the silence. “Is there a problem, Mark?”

“No, it’s just that we’ve already searched the apartment—with a warrant. With all that’s going on, we’re being overly judicious. I don’t see what searching it again will accomplish.”

“Look at it this way,” Vail said, “when we don’t find anything, you can say ‘I told you so.’”

“Somehow I don’t think you believe that,” the SAC said, still trying to figure out the source of Vail’s authority.

Kate said, “Mark, we’ve been exposed to a completely different set of facts in this case than your agents. We’ll see it from a different angle. Or if you prefer, call it a lack of imagination. If you think we’re second-guessing you, I apologize, but we’re going to need to take another look.”

Kate could see that Hildebrand resented being told what to do in his own backyard, and liked it even less that he had no choice. Vail had been right about the resistance he would receive, especially with his seemingly intentional lack of tact. The SAC grinned artificially. “We can use the same AUSA, Tye Delson.”

Kate said, “Mark, I know I don’t have to say this, but the last thing we need right now is someone leaking this to the press. This Delson, we can trust him, right?”

“Her. And yes, you can. Unfortunately she’s leaving the United States attorney’s office soon. Too bad, too. You just can’t find prosecutors like her anymore. The agents here love her. She’s invited to more of our parties than I am. She’ll probably have your warrant in a couple of hours. She’s already got all the boilerplate from the first search, and she knows the right judge to get it signed in case the probable cause isn’t as clear-cut as they’d like.”

“We’ll want the affidavit sealed,” Kate said.

“That’s what she did before. Do you have time to go see her now?” Kate nodded and Hildebrand picked up the phone. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “She’s in her office. I told her you’re on the way.”

Vail asked, “Do you have a good lock man here?”

“Why?” the SAC asked, and Kate could tell by the intentional flatness in his voice that he intended to question anything Vail requested from now on.

“We still want to do this quietly, probably in the wee hours of the morning,” Vail said.

“We will get you in.”

Kate and Vail stood up, and she shook hands with the SAC. “We appreciate the help, Mark. I’ll let you know how we do.”

Once outside the SAC’s office, Kate said, “Boy, you and management, talk about a match made in heaven. How did you last three years?”

EIGHT

TYE 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 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.

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?”

Kate said, “I’m not sure, maybe two days. Would that have been enough time to get all this together?”

“I suppose if you know the right people. Most agents working criminal cases do.”

“If this is the blue paper used in the notes, the lab should be able to match it.” Still Vail showed no reaction. “Why do you think he chose Miami?”

“He’s got two million dollars in hundred-dollars bills and knows the serial numbers have been recorded. He needs to get it dry-cleaned. With Miami’s drug history, it’s not exactly a stranger to that type of transaction. Plus, it’s the gateway to the Caribbean. Cayman Islands, Panama, the Bahamas, Netherlands Antilles, and a half-dozen other governments specializing in laundering money and helping Americans evade taxes. Between the secrecy of the banking laws and the individual governments’ interests in keeping the United States out of their business, I’d say it’s a high-probability destination.”

“This looks like the break we’ve been looking for. You don’t seem very fired up about this.”

“We’ve found a few pieces of paper, nothing more.”

“Excuse me for getting excited, but if you had been on this from the beginning, this would look like the Second Coming of Christ,” she said. “Are we done here? I’ve got to get the Miami office on this.”

“Can you pack everything up while I take one last look around?” Vail asked. “I want to check all the nooks and crannies.”

Kate reached over on the bed and pulled the lone pillow out of its case and then started to fill it carefully with the cache of evidence. “Look who’s been promoted to gun bearer.”

He smiled. “The death of chauvinism has been greatly exaggerated.”

“And they say all the really great pickup lines have been used.”

“I assume you’ll get this hand-carried back to the lab.”

“I will. What’ll you be doing?”

“I’ll try to get the United States attorney’s office to authorize a pen register on this phone in case Bertok starts calling for messages again.”

Kate hadn’t considered using the device. It would list all the activity on Bertok’s line including incoming calls that might be traced back to him. “And if they won’t authorize it?” she asked.

“Then I’ll have to.”

“FIND ANY Bureau property?” Tye Delson asked.

“You know,” Vail said, “this would be a lot easier if we didn’t have to read between each other’s lines.”

“So you want to know if I’m a stand-up gal.”

“I guess that’s what I’m asking.”

“Do you know why lawyers follow the rules, Steve? It’s not that they believe in them—in fact their biggest weakness is probably that they feel rules don’t exactly apply to them. No, they follow the rules simply because they’ve seen too many people get caught who didn’t. I have this fairly well-researched idea that at some point in their life, every sociopath dreams of going to law school. Unfortunately, too many of them get through.”