Final judgment

SEVENTY-THREE

Pete Samuelson was at Fish’s house when Mason arrived, accompanied by the technician who had set up the equipment for Fish’s phone call to Sylvia McBride. Samuelson and the technician were seated at the kitchen table, the technician tapping keys on a laptop computer and adjusting the sound on a pair of speakers. Fish was standing behind Samuelson, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen.

Samuelson looked up as Mason walked in. “You’re just in time,” he said. “We thought Mr. Fish might be able to help us with this. We’re tapped into the bank’s closed-circuit monitors and the transmitter and receiver Mickey is wearing.”

“You don’t call ahead for an appointment with my client anymore? You just show up. You forget that he has a lawyer?”

“We didn’t forget,” Samuelson said. “We don’t have to tell you and we don’t need your permission. It’s all in the deal Mr. Fish signed. He belongs to us. You’re welcome to stay, but don’t interfere.”

“It’s all right,” Fish said. “They haven’t asked me to confess to anything else and I have no secrets left anyway.”

Mason didn’t like it but knew that didn’t matter. It would be a problem for Fish’s next lawyer, something he would have to wait to explain to Fish.

“Who’s covering the bank?” Mason asked.

“Kelly Holt is inside the bank with two other agents. Dennis Brewer is in a van across the street,” Samuelson said. “Plus we’ve got backup in the parking lot. That money isn’t going anywhere except back in the vault.”

“That’s her,” Fish said. “That’s Sylvia.”

A small, slender woman wearing a winter coat and gloves appeared on the screen, the high angle of the camera distorting her image. She was in the lobby of the bank. Mason looked at his watch. It was 2:45 P. M.

“She’s early,” he said.

Fish smiled. “Like I told you-either early or late, but never exactly on time. Watch what she does. She’ll take a tour of the lobby.”

“What’s that she’s carrying?” Mason asked

Samuelson leaned into the screen. “Bring that up,” he told the technician, who enlarged the picture.

Sylvia was carrying a large shopping bag adorned with images of famous books. She set the bag on the floor next to a round countertop where customers could fill out deposit slips.

“Get me inside that bag,” Samuelson instructed the technician, who cycled through the bank’s cameras until he found the one that was directly over the countertop, zooming in until the contents of the bag were visible.

“Books,” Mason said. “It’s a bag of books.”

A man entered the picture, but the overhead camera didn’t capture his features. Sylvia picked up the bag and the two of them walked toward the desk nearest the vault holding the safety deposit boxes. The technician switched cameras again, this time getting a head-on view of Mickey and Sylvia.

“Where the hell is the volume?” Samuelson snapped. “Why can’t we hear what they’re saying?”

“I’m on it,” the technician said, his fingers racing across the keyboard. He put on a set of headphones and twirled the dials on the speakers. “Either the transmitter is dead or she’s jamming it.”

Samuelson picked up a two-way radio. “Brewer, Holt,” he said. “We’re calling it off. The audio isn’t working. We’ve got no ears.”

“I know,” Brewer said, his voice audible to all of them. “We’re not getting anything either. But you can’t call it off. She’ll know it was a setup and we’re finished. Besides, we’ve still got the cameras.”

“There are private viewing rooms inside the vault. No cameras in there,” the technician said. “We’ll be deaf, dumb, and blind if they use one of those.”

“The kid is with her,” Brewer said. “He’s our eyes and ears.”

They stared at the computer monitor. Mickey was signing the safety deposit box register.

“This is my call,” Samuelson said. “It’s off. Arrest her.”

“For what?” Kelly asked. “She hasn’t done anything. They’re in the vault now anyway. I’ll take the responsibility.”

Samuelson turned pale, his bald head beading with sweat. “Agent Holt, I’m ordering you to call this off.”

“I don’t take orders from you. Call your boss. Let him decide if he wants to blow up this investigation.”

Samuelson slammed the radio onto the kitchen table, whipped out his cell phone, and marched into the living room. Fish, Mason, and the technician watched the monitor, the camera trained on the inside of the vault. Mickey opened the safety deposit box, removed it, and carried it into a private room with Sylvia behind him.

Mason watched the timer at the bottom of the screen tick off five and half minutes until the door opened again. Mickey returned the safety deposit box and locked it. He went back to the private room and came out again carrying Sylvia’s bag. She followed, closing the door behind her. Samuelson returned just as they exited the vault, sporting a paler shade of pale with matching stooped shoulders.

“Did you reach the U.S. attorney?” Mason asked.

“He was in conference,” Samuelson said. “I told his secretary it was urgent. She said she’d mention that to him.”

Sylvia stopped at the countertop again, buttoning her coat and pulling on her gloves. Mickey stopped alongside her, setting the bag on the floor. Samuelson started to speak, but the technician cut him off.

“I got it,” he said, switching to the overhead camera, zooming in on the books.

“Thank God,” Samuelson said.

“God doesn’t play these games,” Fish said. “But He likes to watch.”