by Kirk Russell
Sean pulled a handgun from his waistband, slowly brought it level to Dalz’s head, then pulled the trigger. Dalz heard a bullet hum past him. Sean moved the gun slightly, and the next bullet nicked his right ear. Dalz felt a sharp sting then blood running down his neck as Sean gripped the gun with two hands and aimed at Dalz’s chest.
“It will be the end of your career,” Dalz said quietly.
Sean stepped close and swung his arm with the gun.
When Dalz regained consciousness, he was lying on his side on the floor. There was pooled blood and a wrinkled tear in his scalp. He rose slowly to his feet then moved to a chair.
His head ached but not terribly. He looked out and saw Sean’s car was gone. Everything would be fine, and later, much later, even if it was five or ten years from then, he would find Sean. It would take time, but someday. Dalz touched his ear and looked at the blood on his fingers and knew he would wait as long as it took.
48
August 14th
The next day Jace and I stood in the lobby of the Las Vegas fusion center, a nondescript building near the airport where multiple federal, state, and local law enforcement agents and staff work together to keep the city safe. “Better to work from our cars,” I said to Jace. “The fusion center will become the Confusion Center with everyone scrambling for a space to work from.”
“Well, we at least need a desk here. Come on, let’s look around,” Jace said.
“Yeah, let’s do it, and let’s find food and coffee. There’s also a tip I want to check out, some defunct bowling alley on the southern edge of Vegas. The owner called it in. I listened to his message, mostly a vandalism report, but he also described three tables with plywood tops screwed down to the bowling alley floor.”
“Sounds like pop-up drug manufacturing.”
“It does, and most likely is, but I’ll stop by. The owner’s meeting me there. It’s just off I-15 and won’t take long.”
“That place with the big rusted sign?”
“Hey, you’re learning your way around. I’ll check it out then call you.”
Not long ago, Jo and I had driven past that same bowling alley. She’d looked over at the sun-scorched building and suggested the alley be reborn as a beer garden. Seemed like a good idea; I could see it working. I remembered the bowling alley having a restaurant with tall doors that folded open and a long bar with bad wine and cheap beer.
When I arrived, I walked in through a door left ajar for me. It had three sturdy locks on it. Inside, the owner, Ed Ducatti, was waiting. The air was stifling, and Ducatti looked agitated. He was midseventies and wiry, all sinew and tendons, and wearing lime-colored sneakers with neatly pressed khaki slacks.
“My wife and I are retired,” he said. “Rental property is the cornerstone of our retirement. I manage our properties.”
They owned five, and he told me about all of them. He’d flown in from Phoenix but lived in Scottsdale. Once a month he checked on their properties and collected rent. He walked through the metrics of investing in Las Vegas while I studied the long four-foot-wide plywood tables.
“They built those contraptions and screwed and nailed them down into old-growth maple,” Ducatti said with gruff sadness. “Wood of this quality can’t be had anymore. It’s like defiling a church.”
The contraptions, as he called them, were why he’d called the FBI hotline, responding to our outreach trolling for viable tips on any changes noticed, anything deviating from the expected use of a leased or rented property. Ducatti called over the damage done, but I wasn’t sure he really understood the purpose of the tip line. He suggested wording for me to use in a report that could bolster the insurance claim he intended to make.
I studied what looked like wooden cradles of different sizes spaced every two feet and screwed down into each of the three plywood platforms. The cradles were shaped to hold something that was of a generally cylindrical shape. The platforms had wooden legs cross-braced with metal clips.
“They rented the building to make a documentary film on the revival of bowling. Bowling is catching fire. It’s making a huge comeback all across the country.”
“Is that right?”
“Absolutely. Do you bowl? My wife and I bowl twice a week.”
“I don’t get much time to bowl.”
“But you would if you could, am I right?”
I didn’t answer that but asked if the film crew had promised to protect the alley while shooting the movie.
“They did, and it’s in the lease.”
The platforms were waist high. The alley gutters and lane dividers were covered with plywood so the boom lift parked in a corner could drive across them without bouncing. I saw various shoeprints and could visualize the shape of what had rested in the wooden cradles. That they left it all here and walked away made me question my conclusions, but the more I looked, the more I saw that these were very likely assembly tables, possibly missile assembly.
A long shot, but it was possible. Beneath the tables and on the floor surrounding them were metal filings. I knelt and picked up several shavings. Final adjustments for tighter fits? Tire tracks marked the plywood pathway with dust from outside, so whatever was built in here got carried out by the boom lift. I studied a sling attached to the boom then turned to Ducatti.
“Ed, I need everything you’ve got on the people you rented to. Who did you call when you needed to get ahold of them?”
“The movie producer, but the number he gave me is an out-of-service recording. He’s the only one I’ve had contact with. That’s another reason I contacted the FBI.”
“Wait here,” I said. “I’ve got to call this in. Then I want to talk more with you. The people you leased to may not be who you thought they were. After I call to my office, we need to go over every interaction you had with them.”
“Him.”
“Okay, got it, the producer.”
I took photos of the assembly tables and sent them to Jace and Mara then called and asked Mara for two evidence recovery teams.
“I think we’ve found them,” I told Mara. “I just sent you photos. It’s a maybe, but they sure look like assembly tables for portable missiles.”
“Just left there intact?”
“Yeah, as if they were done and simply walked away.”
“You think they’re gone?”
“They’re definitely gone, along with whatever got built here. They’re not coming back.”
When I got off the phone, I explained to Ducatti what the FBI interest was and retrieved booties and latex gloves from my car for us. Ducatti toured me through the rest of the building and showed me how the big folding doors worked.
“These doors are one of a kind because of the low humidity here. You couldn’t do this back east. The maple would move around on you.”
I listened to more talk about bowling and insurance, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I stepped away and called Mara again.
“We need an expert on missiles. Do you know of anyone?”
“No, but someone here will. Let’s take it a step at a time and confirm what we’re looking at first,” Mara said. Me, I was thinking, No, we need everything and everybody thrown at this.
When my phone rang again it was Steve Akaya, a missile expert, calling. He was staying in Vegas but working at Nellis Air Force Base.
“I can come out your way,” he said. “Give me an address. What can you tell me?”
“That they must have assembled with component parts light enough to carry. When you walk around the tables you’ll see metal filings, wire clippings, other debris on the floor that, to me, looks like they were assembled here then lifted in a soft sling and carried outside by a boom lift and loaded onto or into whatever they used to move them.”
“Liquid or solid fuel?” he asked.
“How would I be able to tell?”
“Do you smell kerosene?”
I sniffed a table. “It’s more of a sulfurous smell.”
“Then probably solid fuel. That’s what I would expect anyway. I’m walking to my car. See you soon.”
Jace arrived, and Mara wasn’t far behind, bringing eight agents with him. For the next few hours the building interior would belong to the evidence recovery teams. Steve Akaya arrived and worked around the agents. Jace and I stayed for an hour before leaving to do a quick check on another tip that came in two days ago, this one from a casino hotel not far from the bowling alley. It was close enough to check out then return before the evidence recovery teams finished. As it turned out, it was a lucky thing we did.
49
Both men had checked into the hotel August sixth. The older one, Samuel Stetts, was in a second-floor junior suite. The younger man, Richard Wu, was in a smaller room on the fourth floor. Both were due to check out the next morning, but Wu had just moved his checkout to tonight.
According to hotel staff, Wu was gone every day, all day, and spent nights in his room. He ordered meals from room service and kept to himself. He was polite, friendly, and likable. Nothing about him raised flags until casino security picked up on Wu’s interactions with Stetts. Every morning he and Stetts pulled up alongside each other’s car and talked just outside the range of casino security cameras.
A former Clark County detective, Don Schist, headed casino security. He wasn’t there that night but came in when he heard we were investigating. Jace and I sat with him. I’ve known him for years, and it was good to see him again. He could tell we were serious and didn’t waste time.
“You know how it is, Grale. We have to worry about all kinds of scams and whether they’re working some angle. I doubt they realized, but they stuck out with their meet-up every morning. They might be a pair of salesmen talking over territories or just having a coffee before heading out. But to us, it looked like they were careful to get outside our camera range.”
“Are you sure it was intentional?”
“I don’t know, but it sure feels that way or I wouldn’t have left the message for you. We’ve tracked both inside the casino, and they don’t interact at all. The kid never comes out of his room, not even to eat. He orders from room service and the older guy, Stetts, got an escort service to provide him a temporary girlfriend. Uh, I’d appreciate you going at this as discreetly as possible.” Jace and I both nodded.
“We’re definitely seeing something unusual with these two guys,” Schist said. “Sometimes I think my guys have watched Ocean’s Eleven too many times, but with this I agree with them. Something is off with this pair. One of my guys actually followed them one morning. They both exited at the same off-ramp near that wreck of an old bowling alley.”
“Interesting,” I said. “We’re inside that building tonight with two evidence recovery teams.”
Fourth-floor Wu was tall and thin and told staff he missed his wife. He’d never been away from her this long. Second-floor Stetts contacted the escort service the day he arrived. The same young woman, Gina, had been his companion since the first night. It turned out Gina was in the hotel tonight and had yet to go up to Stetts’s room, so we got a chance to talk to her first.
“I hear a lot of stories from men,” she said. “This one says he’s working a high-stress secret government project, but I doubt it. I’ve been around government types. They’re more knotted up. He’s different.”
“How so?” Jace asked.
“Hard to describe, but it’s like there’s someone else in there watching me all the time.”
“In the room?”
“No, in him, and that other person scares me.”
“Scares you how?” Jace asked.
“So, Mr. Stetts is a chemist, okay. I mean, big deal, who cares about a chemist, right, but a couple of nights ago I’m showering, and he’s on the phone. I left the bathroom door open, thinking maybe he could come in and have some fun. I got tired of waiting for him, left the shower running, and took a look. His back was turned, he didn’t know I was there, and he’s still on the phone. I overheard the word ‘fuel’ and the phrase ‘intense burn’ before going back to the shower. He finally came in, but then he got intense, asking why there were wet footprints on the carpet and what I’d heard.”
“Is he expecting you tonight?” Jace asked.
“Yeah. Like right now. He’s waiting for my call that I’m at the elevator ready to come up.”
She made the call, and we rode up the elevator with her. When she texted she was at his door, Stetts opened it wearing a robe and slippers. He’d let his robe fall to give Gina a preview. Only it was Jace and me waiting to see him. We introduced ourselves while he got dressed. Then he got indignant when it sank in: we really were taking him to our office.
“Not without telling me what this is about.”
“It’s about a terrorism investigation, and if everything goes well, we bring you back in a few hours,” I said.
Stetts turned to Gina. “You called the FBI?”
She shook her head, and I let him know she wasn’t how we found him. More agents arrived, and we knocked on Wu’s door. Wu was easy and seemed relieved when we said if everything went well, we’d have him back soon.
“I have a late flight tonight,” Wu said.
“We’ll do everything we can to help you make it in time,” I answered.
Thankfully the fusion center’s interview rooms were ready to go.
With Wu we went slow and easy. We let each question weigh on him.
“Talk to us but don’t lie,” I said. “The laws are different with a terror investigation. If you mislead us, you could end up with a life sentence. Do you understand me?”
“Terrorism? That’s crazy.”
“Are you certain you don’t want a lawyer?”
That provoked pushback. “I don’t need one.”
Jace took the lead with him. He told her he was working in Spain until recently and described where he’d lived in Barcelona. He gave an apartment address and street names nearby but stumbled on restaurant names or shops or any other places he frequented.
He said, “I just worked.”
His passport showed trips in and out of Spain, and he gave us a phone number for the Spanish aeronautics corporation that was getting into rockets.
“I do design work.”
Wu pivoted to his wife and two young children in Florida and teared up talking about them. He said he would be ashamed to have to tell his wife the FBI interviewed him.
After he’d dried his eyes, I took the lead and asked, “Have you met anybody or talked to anyone else staying at the hotel?”
“No, I stay in my room.”
“How long have you been staying at the casino hotel?”
“A week or so.”
“You don’t know exactly?”
“Does it matter? Aren’t you going to check with the hotel anyway?”
“Who’s the man you talk to every morning?”
“I don’t talk to anyone.”
“Where are you working?”
“I don’t want to get the employers involved. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
The back-and-forth went on awhile before we showed Wu photos a plainclothes security guard had taken of him talking with Stetts. At that point he owned up to it. After he did, I walked back to the interview room with Stetts in it.
Stetts’s earlier derision and outrage at being detained had passed, and he was calm and quiet as another agent and I sat down. From his chair Stetts could see through the empty glass-walled interview room next to us and into the one beyond it. The back of Wu’s head was visible, and across the table sat Jace and another agent.
Steve Akaya had finished at the bowling alley and was on his way. Twice, Stetts shrugged off his right to a lawyer, and his impatience retur
ned. He went out of his way to communicate to us that he was dealing with idiots.
“Okay, let’s go through this once more and get you out of here,” I said.
We went through everything again, that he was a chemist laid off by Dow fifteen years ago, now doing contract work. Then we went over the debts he was paying down and how he made it all work. Needed money, same as Wu, so another tie between the two. Or another storyline shared and rehearsed ahead of time.
“Is this your house?” I asked as I slid a photo of it across to him to make the point we were in his life.
“It is.”
“When was the last time you were home?”
“What do you care? And why is it any of your business? I have debts, and I work all the time and don’t get home often. That’s it!”
“You’re that busy?”
“I told you, I need the money.”
I paused then said, “We have two evidence recovery teams at the bowling alley where you’ve been working. They’ve gathered DNA and samples of chemical residue. We’re going to test clothing in your room. I also have to tell you that Gina overheard a conversation about fuel burn.”
“She didn’t hear anything! Look, I am working on rocket fuels, consulting for a Chinese billionaire who wants to seed clouds in Africa with silver iodide.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’ve never met him.”
“You’re working for him but don’t know his name?”
“One of his representatives hired me. He lives halfway across the world! How would I know him? They transferred a deposit into my bank account, and I went to work. If money is landing in my bank account, who cares what his name is?
“I signed a stack of nondisclosure papers this tall.” Stetts lifted his hand off the table in a dramatic gesture to illustrate the pile. “I was hired to rework existing chemical formulas with slightly different mixes to achieve the same altitude for the rockets used. They seed clouds all the time in China. He wants to do the same thing in the drought-ravaged areas of Africa where global warming is messing with their rainfall. If there’s a new patent involved, I’ll get royalties.”
