The Bricklayer - Boyd Noah (читать хорошую книгу полностью .txt) 📗
THIRTY-FOUR
THE INGLEWOOD ADDRESS TURNED OUT TO BE A MODEST RANCH IN A neighborhood of similarly unpretentious homes. Other than the residence’s grass being a little more brown than green, the lawn and the few shrubs edging it were recently and precisely trimmed. It had an attached one-car garage. After using the door opener, Vail drove into the uncluttered garage, pushing the button again to close it.
He got out and opened the trunk. Inside were two large suitcases that looked new. He opened one and found it was empty. He took it out and placed it on the floor. As soon as he hefted the second bag he knew it was also empty. The only other items in the trunk were the spare and a pair of jumper cables. “That would have been a little too easy, wouldn’t it, Vic?” he said out loud. He took a closer look at the suitcases and estimated that they were large enough to carry the entire five million dollars. Vail tossed the bags back into the trunk and closed it.
Of the remaining four keys only one appeared to be a house key. It opened the door leading from the garage. The kitchen was clean and the sink free of dishes. There was a small living room and no dining room. The first bedroom was apparently where Radek slept. The bed was made and everything was put away. In the closet, the little clothing that he had was hung in an orderly row. The bathroom had a tub shower. Vail searched the medicine cabinet for multiple residents. There was only enough inside to indicate a single male occupant.
The other bedroom had been turned into an office. A secondhand metal desk sat beneath a small shaded window. The top right-hand drawer of the desk was locked. There were two keys on Radek’s ring that were not house or car keys. The first one he tried opened the drawer. The only thing inside was a round plastic object that appeared to be an old distributor cap. It had been wiped down but engine grease and grime were still embedded in its recesses. He searched the rest of the drawers and, other than some cheap pens and a pad of paper, found nothing.
He turned on the desk light and held the plastic cap up against it, turning it slowly. It looked clunky, old clunky, made when things were built to last. Inside was a series of numbers stamped into it. He set it down on the desk and stared at it. Did it have any significance, or was it simply a new level of Radek’s red herrings? After all, he had already used a key to mislead the FBI. Was he taking it one step further by adding some mundane object and locking it away as though it were an extortionist’s Rosetta stone?
On the ring there were still two unidentified keys. One was cut on a generic blank and from its length and shape was most probably for a car. The other was short with a cylindrical hole in the head that fit over a pin in the center of a lock. If the long one was for a car, maybe it was the same vehicle that the distributor cap fit. There couldn’t be any more than a million cars in the Greater Los Angeles area. That sounded like a typical piece of Radek misdirection, so why not? But why a distributor cap? The car key was certainly enough. Vail ordered himself to complete the search of the house before wasting any more time with pointless theories.
When he had driven up to the house, he noticed that the roof was so flat that any space between the roof and the first-floor ceiling would be too small to allow someone to crawl through. That left the basement. Back in the kitchen he found a door leading downstairs. He flipped on the light switch and walked down.
At one end was a furnace and hot water heater partitioned off. At the opposite end was a fairly elaborate collection of weight-lifting equipment: dumbbells, bars, plates, and a bench similar to the ones at the steam cleaners where Radek had stored the two million dollars. The walls were painted concrete, eliminating the possibility of false compartments. The ceiling was unfinished, exposing the joists supporting the first floor. Unlike the cleaners, there was nothing covering the concrete floor where the weights were sitting.
Returning to the bedroom, Vail picked up the distributor cap and again considered its possible significance. He also had an unidentified car key. At this point he had no choice but to assume that the two items were connected to the money. He went to the kitchen and called the FBI office, asking for Tom Demick.
“Steve, I was sorry to hear about what happened. Nobody around here can believe they let you go.”
“Tom, I need one last favor.”
“Just promise me it’ll make Kaulcrick look like an idiot.”
“I don’t think you can improve on perfection,” Vail said. “Can you get the radio room to run a Terry A. Frost for all vehicles?”
“Hold on.” Vail heard him get up and go to another phone. Hopefully there would be more than the Chevrolet registered to Radek under his alias. If so, it might reveal the make and model of the car that the key and distributor cap fit. Demick came back on the line. “Just one car, Steve. A Chevy Caprice. Do you want the plate and VIN?”
“No, Tom, that’s not the one I’m looking for. Thanks for the help. All your help.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
In the cabinet over the phone, Vail found the Yellow Pages and looked up auto parts stores. There were several, so he decided to take the book. The closest one was less than half a mile away. It was a national chain and the counterman was young. He looked at the distributor cap briefly before asking, “What kind of car is it for?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. There are some numbers stamped on the inside.”
The door opened and another customer came in. “Sorry, I got no way to look them up on something that old,” the employee said, and then to the man behind Vail asked, “Can I help you?”
The next store, another national chain, met with almost identical results. Vail scanned the Yellow Pages looking for a smaller store. He found one that was about a forty-five-minute drive away, which advertised “in business for four decades.” When he walked in, the counterman, in his mid-sixties, was reading a newspaper. His greeting was an unhurried “hi.”
Vail said, “Are you the owner?”
“For thirty-seven glorious years.” “Glorious” was meant to be sarcastic, but Vail could see the pride in his eyes. He was already eyeing the cap in Vail’s hand, so Vail placed it on the counter. The owner picked it up, holding it appraisingly as if it were a rare gemstone. “That’s older than my store.”
“Any idea what it belongs on?”
He looked at Vail curiously, now knowing he wasn’t there to buy anything. “Usually people who come in here know what kind of car they drive.”
Although he had no identification, Vail thought he’d try to invoke the magic three letters one last time. “This is part of an FBI investigation.”
“Not the one that’s been in the paper where they’ve been having those shootings?”
“Actually, yes.”
“I’ve got to admit you look like an FBI agent, but I’ve had enough dealings with cops to know the first thing they do is show a badge. You didn’t.”
“I was fired today.”
“Was that you in the shooting?”
“It was.”
“Fired for what?” the owner asked in a way that told Vail if he answered the question correctly, they would be on the same side.
“Not letting management in on things they would screw up.”
The owner laughed. “Now you know why I started my own business thirty-seven years ago. Bill Burton.” He held out his hand. “Besides, business has been slow, so I’ll do anything short of extremely illegal to keep from going nuts.”
They shook hands. “Steve Vail. That’s more or less how I got here.”
Burton turned the cap upside down. “There’s some numbers stamped inside. I can’t read them.” He handed it to Vail. “Can you make them out?” Vail read them and the owner wrote them down. “Come on in the back. I never throw anything away. I think I’ve got every parts catalog all the way back to the stagecoaches.”
