The Bricklayer. Noah Boyd

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       FOUR

      Newly promoted deputy assistant director Kate Bannon had never been in the FBI director’s office before. While she and her boss waited for Bob Lasker’s return, she took the opportunity to survey the room more closely. The lack of pretension in the decor was surprising. She didn’t know what she had expected, but the offices of upper management she had seen usually looked more like small museums, lined with trophies, plaques, and photographs. Instead there were piles of documents littering the room, on tables and shelves, some of the taller ones leaning haphazardly. A few were starting to show a coat of dust, causing a dull mustiness that scratched at her nostrils. Only one photograph hung on the wall. It had apparently been taken during Lasker’s Senate confirmation hearing. Shot from behind the soon-to-be director, it focused on the face of a bald senator whose scalp glistened with sweat and who for some reason was shaking an angry finger at the nominee. She smiled, suspecting that it had been placed directly behind the director’s desk to remind everyone that whatever business had brought them there, he or she should remember that ultimately Lasker had to answer for what his agency did or failed to do.

      The door opened and the director walked in. ‘You guys been waiting long?’ He fell unceremoniously into the chair behind his desk, grinding his eyes with the heels of his hands until he felt the tiny optic shocks that told him that was enough. He had gotten little sleep since the murders started, and the command performance at the White House had taken out of him what little was left.

      Assistant Director Don Kaulcrick was sitting next to Kate. At fifty-three, he was the FBI’s senior assistant director. He was tall with a disjointed thinness to his limbs. His hair had not started to turn gray yet and would have made his face look younger if it weren’t for its being slightly lopsided, the right side of the jaw just noticeably larger than the left. It gave the appearance of a permanent sneer of skepticism, one that continually left subordinates trying to convince him of their sincerity, an advantage he had learned to exploit early in his career. But Kaulcrick noticed that Kate Bannon seemed immune to it, probably because very little intimidated her. So he did the only thing he could to combat her lack of regard for the privileges of rank; he handpicked her to be his assistant. That way he could personally rein in that freewheeling style that had caused her to rise through the ranks so quickly. ‘Not long, sir,’ he answered for both of them. ‘How’d it go?’

      ‘Don, I was summoned to the White House,’ Lasker said. ‘That’s like asking Marie Antoinette if the blade was nice and sharp. Kate, how are you?’

      ‘Just fine, sir.’

      ‘They’re not happy with us at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I was told to stop screwing around and just go ahead and solve this thing. Thank God they’ve taken the gloves off – now we can start the real investigation. What a mess.’ Kaulcrick and Kate glanced at each other furtively, trying to determine if he thought they were considered responsible. ‘Someone please give me some good news.’

      After a few seconds, Kate said, ‘At the first three murder scenes, the killer or killers took the time to police up the casings. All we had were the slugs to identify the gun, but they got sloppy with this one last night. A forty-caliber cartridge was found near the body.’

      ‘That’s it. That’s the extent of the good news?’ Lasker said. ‘I know I’m not as up on this stuff as you are, but why would you pick up the casing when the slug in the body can identify the gun?’ the director asked.

      ‘Maybe they were hoping that the slug would be damaged enough that it couldn’t be identified. They used hollow points, which tend to deform a great deal more as they pass through the human body,’ Kaulcrick offered.

      ‘I suppose,’ Lasker said. ‘What else?’

      Kate said, ‘I’m not sure this is good news.’ She hesitated. Lasker gave her an unenthusiastic wave of the hand to continue. ‘So far, the people I sent to Las Vegas haven’t been able to find any sign of Bertok having taken a flight out of there.’

      Lasker looked at the woman that he had heard male agents refer to as ‘too good-looking to be a female agent.’ She was tall with a figure that was both athletic and feminine. Her face would have had a blond, girl-next-door innocence to it if it weren’t for the soft two-inch scar across her left cheekbone, a broken line that suggested a willingness for combat. In the past, he had noticed a nonchalance to the way she handled herself in a room in which she was the only woman. СКАЧАТЬ