The Bricklayer. Noah Boyd

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.’