The Bricklayer

TWENTY

ARE WE GOING TO COMPLETELY PROCESS THIS CAR?” KATE ASKED AS she continued to drive, her eyes lazily following the towed vehicle in front of them.
“At this point, we’re just looking for leads to find Radek, so we’ll give it a quickie and then have Inglewood store it. There’s no immediate need to be concerned about trace evidence. At some point we’ll want ERT to give it a good going-over in case it was used to transport Bertok. But I’d be surprised if someone like Radek would be driving a car that had that kind of evidence in it.”
“So this little reconnaissance, it’s supposed to never have happened.”
In a soothing voice, Vail said, “You’re getting drowsy. Your eyelids are heavy.”
They pulled around behind the Inglewood Police Department, and the tow truck driver waved them into a parking space marked Visitor. Then he backed his truck into a large garage before unhooking the Honda. Vail took the Halligan bar out of his trunk, and he and Kate walked inside the building. The truck driver came up to them. “Do you need anything else?”
“Can you slim-jim the door for us?” Vail held up the pry bar. “I don’t want to use this unless I have to.”
“These newer models are a little more resistant, but I’ll get it open. The department mechanic’s off today, but he made this tool specially for these push-button door releases.”
Kate said, “If he gets the door open, you won’t need the Halligan. There’s a trunk release alongside the driver’s seat.”
The driver went to a workbench and came back with a thin steel rod that had a series of severe angles welded together smoothly. He inserted it between the door glass and the frame and then manipulated it while feeding more of it inside, making the tip change direction until it hovered over the door lock button. He carefully pulled it toward him a fraction of an inch, and the electric lock inside the door thumped open.
Vail pulled on a pair of evidence gloves. Carefully he leaned inside the vehicle, opening the console compartment without sitting in the driver’s seat. He could smell the vague odor of air freshener masking an odor of gasoline. “Do you smell gas?”
“We’re in a garage.”
“No, it’s definitely inside the car.”
“Is it important?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, I guess so. Do you want me to start dusting the outside?” Kate asked.
“Ah, no. Why don’t you hold off for a minute?”
“Something wrong?”
“In a minute.” Walking around to the other side of the car, he opened the passenger’s door. Across the carpeted mat on the floor he could see lines of recent vacuuming. The mats in the back were also freshly vacuumed. “This car is cleaner than when it was new.”
“Is that unusual? I thought a lot of ex-cons were neat freaks because of living in such a small space.”
Vail didn’t say anything but walked back around the car and leaned into the driver’s seat area again. Using a flashlight to check several locations where fingerprints couldn’t help but be left, he said, “There are no prints. Neat freak or not, this car has been dry-cleaned.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he was expecting it to be found,” Vail said.
“So what if he was? There’d be nothing to lead back to him or the murders.”
“That makes sense except that he parked it directly in front of his house.”
“Enough. We’ve got the car. Search it, and if there’s nothing in it we’ll move on. Pop the trunk,” she said, and then looked down at her hands. “I tore my gloves. I’ll go get another pair.” Vail reached down and pulled up the release, and the quiet click of the trunk opening came from the back of the vehicle.
Something didn’t make sense about the car. Everything throughout the case had been carefully planned and executed. Why leave a stolen vehicle in front of his house, especially after Vail had seen it?
Kate walked back in and came up to Vail, pulling on a fresh set of gloves. “Helloooh, can you open the trunk?”
Absentmindedly he said, “I did.”
She looked back at it and then reached around him and pulled the lever again. When she didn’t hear it release, she examined it again. “This one doesn’t pop open nearly as high as mine.” She started back toward the trunk.
Kate took hold of the trunk lid. “Hold it!” he yelled. She ripped her hand away as if the metal had been white-hot. She had never heard that much urgency in his voice before. He took her by the arm and pulled her back from the car.
“What’s the matter?”
“How high does that lid usually come up?”
“I don’t know, six to eight inches.”
“Stand here.” Vail stepped to the side of the trunk. Kneeling down, he shined his flashlight in the one-inch opening between the lid and the car’s body. “I can’t see in.”
“What’s the matter?” she repeated.
“Maybe nothing.”
“Yes, there is.”
“I just don’t want to take anything for granted with these guys.”
“You think the trunk could be rigged?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the lid not coming up is just a malfunction.”
“I’ve got that LAPD bomb squad sergeant’s card, the one I met after the tunnel drop. I could give him a call.”
“First I’d like to be sure.”
“The backseat folds down. You can see into the trunk that way. Just pull on the top of the seat.”
Vail took hold of both her arms firmly. “I know you’re going to want to give me a hard time about this, but I need you to go wait outside the building.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find out what’s in the trunk.”
“Don’t. Let me call that sergeant.”
“If there’s the slightest chance someone will get hurt, their protocol is to blow everything in place.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Normally nothing, but any evidence that might be in that trunk will be gone, and frankly, I’m out of ideas. Now, please go.”
“Steve, there’s nothing I want more right now than to turn around and sprint out of here, but if you’re going to do this, I’m staying.” He still had ahold of her arms and searched her eyes for resolve. “I am staying.”
“You know I’m the one paid to do stupid things.”
She laughed nervously. “Considering the size of your paycheck, that’s only fair.”
“An irrefutable argument.” With her standing outside the rear door he carefully climbed in and knelt on the rear seat. “Ready?”
“Fire in the hole,” she whispered.
Vail frowned at her and then ran his hands along the seam where the top of the seat met the rear ledge. When he couldn’t feel anything that shouldn’t be there, he pulled evenly and the seat back came down smoothly. Carefully he shined the light into the trunk’s interior.
“Anything?” Kate asked. He backed out of the car slowly and took her by the arm, leading her out of the garage. “What’s in there?”
“A lot of gasoline and some other stuff I’m not sure of. It’s set to do something. You’d better call that sergeant.”
They got in their car, and after Kate finished her call she asked, “How did you know about the trunk?”
“It just didn’t make any sense. Why leave a stolen car at his known address, and at the same time clean it of all evidence? Suddenly it occurred to me that Radek was using it as a warning device. If we got onto him, his driver’s license address would be the first place we’d look. But he wouldn’t know unless something newsworthy happened like an explosion or fire or whatever those things in the trunk are supposed to cause. Then when the lid didn’t come all the way up, it seemed like too big a coincidence.”
Vail turned on the Bureau radio. The traffic slowly volleyed back and forth between the various units executing the Pendaran search warrants. It sounded as though the assistant director and the SAC were both at Pendaran’s apartment. And judging by the casual, amused voices of the agents, it was going well. Then the SAC’s voice burst loudly across the air. “Central, call the United States attorney and let him know that we have located a gym bag filled with banded hundred-dollar bills. And they have punctures in them. We’re checking the numbers now. Tell him we’d like authorization to arrest the subject.”
Kate checked Vail for a reaction. There was none. “Could Pendaran be involved?”
“Funny how only the punctured money keeps showing up. I don’t know how much there is, but I know you can’t get two million dollars in a gym bag.”
“I guess that’s my reward for hanging around with you. They get the money, and we get the bomb,” Kate said.
Vail smiled at her. “Am I a good time or what?”


SERGEANT MIKE HENNING of the Los Angeles police bomb squad lifted off his helmet, wiping his hand across his sweating forehead. Like so many people in L.A., he seemed almost too attractive for his job, as if he were an actor shooting a movie. With his dark, waxy hair combed straight back and his thin, sculpted mustache, he could have been a figure in an art deco poster from the thirties. “It’s shut down,” he said to Kate and Vail.
“Then it was a bomb,” she said.
He peeled back the Velcro straps that fastened his protective suit. “Well, it’s a device. But there’s no explosive. It’s more of a flamethrower than a bomb. I’ve never seen anything like it. Whoever built it wanted somebody dead, and in a fashion that would have made a very loud statement. If you had yanked the trunk open—barring a malfunction—you’d have been incinerated. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The trunk lid was now fully open. Henning wiped his forehead again. “A flamethrower is made up of a fuel supply, a compressed-gas source, and a striker, all contained in a delivery system.” He pointed into the trunk. “This is absolutely deadly. Not just regular deadly, agonizing deadly. Somebody doesn’t like law enforcement.” Henning looked at Vail. “I assume this was done by your friends from the tunnel.”
“Because of similar construction?”
“Because of its deadliness. Whoever put it together had his heart set on killing human beings, but not until they’d suffered a great deal of pain. I’d love to set this off to show you just how serious these people are, but that would make a mess.” He leaned over the trunk. “What makes it so ingenious is that the trunk is the delivery system. And it’s completely disposable. One use only. As a side benefit it destroys all trace evidence at the same time it’s inflicting casualties.”
“Exactly how was it supposed to work?” Kate asked.
“See the liquid bladder lying on the bed on the trunk? It looks like about a ten-gallon bag. Made of some sort of polymer. They’re commonly used as extra fuel cells, usually on boats. They’re durable, puncture-resistant, and fit anywhere. But see these?” Henning pointed to six evenly spaced plastic plugs along the back end of the bladder closest to the trunk opening. “Those were cut into the bag by your friends. They then epoxied those blowout plugs and their seatings into it. At the moment, there’s a minimum of pressure on them from the gasoline, so they will stay firmly in place, preventing the gasoline from escaping. Now take a look at the other side of the bladder. The hole with the metal plate reinforcing it, that’s how you fill the bag up with gasoline. Only, after filling it, they used the coupling to attach that compressed-air cylinder bolted down behind it. And as you can see, the cylinder has a quick-release nozzle and handle. The wire that connected the trunk lid to the quick-release handle was just long enough so when you got the lid half open, all the compressed air was released at once. It’s driven through the bladder, blowing out the six plugs and shooting the gasoline straight up into the trunk lid. The curve of the lid would channel it out through the back, deluging whoever was standing directly behind the car.”
Henning shook his head with admiration. “Now this is even more impressive. When the fuel hit the lid, it would jerk it up fully, causing the strikers on either side to spark, creating a delay effect.” Vail recognized the strikers. They were used by welders and looked like giant safety pins with a metal bottle cap at one end. “In other words, first you’re soaked with the fuel, and a split second later it’s ignited, ensuring the target is turned into charcoal in less than three seconds.” Henning pointed to the back of the bladder. “There was a little of the fuel spilled around the intake plate. That’s probably what you smelled, Steve. It isn’t just gasoline, it’s napalm. It’ll stick to you. I’ve never believed in evil genius, but this comes close.”
“Napalm? Can we trace something like that?” Kate asked.
“It’s probably homemade. You just dissolve common Styrofoam in gasoline. It’s been used since the sixties, but it’ll stick to you just like the expensive spread.”
“Is this safe for us to search now?” Vail asked.
“Just let me get some photos of it. Then I’ll cut back those trigger wires and it’ll be completely inert.” Henning pulled a camera from his case and started taking the photos.
When he finished, he used a small pair of wire cutters to trim the rest of the three wires hanging from the underside of the trunk lid that had been attached to the two welding strikers and the gas cylinder before he disarmed them.
For the next fifteen minutes, Kate and Vail searched the car while Henning watched. Vail suspected that Henning was watching Kate more than him. But then he was sure that’s why the cop had come out in the first place. Vail stole a glance at Kate as she moved from the front seat to the back, putting herself in awkward but candid positions. She straightened up quickly and caught Vail. Not knowing why he was watching her, she asked, “Did you find something?”
Vail pulled at his gloves, slightly embarrassed. “Not yet.”
“Where does this leave us?”
Vail bent down and picked up the compressed-air tank, turning it upside down. “There’s a serial-number plate on this. Manufacturer is in Minnesota.”
“I know the ASAC there. We were on the inspection staff together. Should be a one-phone-call lead. Are we done here?”
“I am. Why don’t you make that call, and I’ll talk to someone about storing the car.”
Kate walked over to Henning. “Thanks, Mike, you’ve saved the day.”
“Any time, Kate.”
“Come on, I’ll walk you to your van,” she said. “This doesn’t have to go into a report right away, does it?”
“Would it be better if there was no report?”
Vail watched her hook her arm through his as they started out of the garage. “That wouldn’t cause you any problems?”
Vail turned his attention back to the air tank. They had found no fingerprints, no hairs, fibers, or blood anywhere in the trunk. But a traceable serial number? Even if the deadly device had been ignited, the digits engraved in the metal plate would likely have survived. Were they trying to distract the Bureau again by pointing them in a new direction, one that could also be deadly? Even if they were, it didn’t matter; he and Kate had no choice but to follow it.
Kate came back and Vail looked at her, amused. “What?” she said. “He’s a nice guy.”
Vail smiled. “And very Maltese Falcon.”
“Is that bad?”
“Let’s see, at the end of the movie, the woman is arrested for killing one of the detectives. That gives me a fifty-fifty chance. I guess you can’t ask for better odds than that these days.” Vail wrote down the manufacturer and serial number off the tank and handed the slip of paper to her. “Please call your friend in Minneapolis.”
“Okay, ahhh…”
“What?”
“Do you think it’s time to go to Kaulcrick and tell him what we’ve got? Get some manpower to start looking for Radek?”
“Again—our best shot at solving this case right now is if we have two investigations going at the same time: one in the direction Radek wants, and one in a direction that he doesn’t know about.”
“How sure are you about all this?” Kate asked.
“How sure do you need me to be?”
“To keep my sanity? Absolutely positive.”
“Then Agent Bannon, you are in serious trouble.”


“APPARENTLY YOU HAVEN’T HEARD, Don, but J. Edgar Hoover is dead. The FBI no longer calls the shots. Your agency is under the auspices of the Department of Justice, not the other way around.”
Del Underwood was the United States attorney in Los Angeles. He was in his midforties and was athletically trim, a noticeable anomaly among the notoriously sedentary population of lawyers. He also wore large wire-rimmed glasses that were popular in the seventies as though trying to recapture some past image of himself. He adjusted them as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk to send the message that he was ready for the fight that was apparently brewing across the assistant director’s face.
“This is not about who’s in charge,” Kaulcrick said. “This is a national case that has literally taken the FBI from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific. We’ve had two agents murdered, and we’re about to arrest another for being one of the people responsible. We have a great deal more invested in this than the United States attorney’s office does. And the director thinks if Pendaran’s arrest was released as national news in Washington, it would have much less of an impact on the Bureau’s image.”
“If you’re so worried about your image, maybe you should have fired someone like Pendaran when you had the choice.”
“What really worries me is when political appointees start examining everyone else’s ethics.”
“What does that mean?” Underwood said, his voice rising.
“It means that you’re the United States attorney simply because your party is in the White House. If that changes in the next election, you’ll be gone to some fat-salary law firm, and we’ll still be here dealing with your self-serving decisions.”
“Why, because we won’t let you hog the credit?”
“We solved the case.”
“And we have to take this into a courtroom and prosecute it, your mistakes and all.”
“Who do you think is closer to the attorney general, you or the director of the FBI?”
“The local United States attorney always makes the press releases concerning arrests in his or her jurisdiction. Let’s call the AG and let him decide.”
“Fine. While you’re calling him, I’ll call the director.”
Out of deference to the two men’s positions, Mark Hildebrand had not said anything, but now he decided it was time to interject himself. In a calm tone, he said, “If I may. Calling bosses will give them the wrong impression about your ability to handle your duties. A compromise will serve everyone much better. I can see both sides of this because I work for Don, but I work more regularly with you, Del. So how about this? We’ll have the news conference here in Del’s office. He can make the opening statement, a kind of ‘The Los Angeles United States attorney today announced the arrest of…’ Then Don, representing himself as someone out of Washington, can give all the details and make it more of a national release like they would have in Washington, telling how the entire FBI, coast to coast, has worked to uncover one of its own gone bad. That way it’s both local for the United States attorney’s office here and national for the FBI.”
Kaulcrick looked at the SAC, somewhat surprised at his diplomatic skills. Then he glanced at the United States attorney to see if he would agree. Underwood crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back in assumed contemplation. Finally the assistant director said, “I guess I can live with that.”
Underwood pondered it a few more seconds for effect and then said, “So can I. Exactly how much of the evidence are you going to reveal?”
“I know you’ve got to prosecute this, Del, so I don’t see a need to reveal any specifics.”
“I’ve gone over it with the lead prosecutor. He said while the gun barrel and birth certificate being traced back to Pendaran are great pieces of circumstantial evidence, he’ll need more to ensure a murder conviction.”
“We also found fifteen thousand dollars in his apartment. The serial numbers matched those from the three-million-dollar demand.”
“The prosecutor is aware of that. It’s still not the complete smoking gun he’d like. What’s the read on Pendaran? Think he’d make a deal to avoid the death penalty?”
“We’ve tried that. At first he was denying everything, even offered to take a polygraph. But when we started threatening him with the death penalty, the only word out of his mouth was ‘lawyer.’”
“Are you doing anything to find the money? It would certainly tie everything together. Then we wouldn’t need to bargain with him.”
“That’s all we’re doing. Mark’s got every available agent working on it, trying to trace Pendaran’s entire life. As soon as we know anything, you will, because we will still need search warrants.”
“Fair enough.”
Standing up to leave, Kaulcrick said, “I’ll see you this afternoon at the news conference.”