by Steve Gannon
“Okay, how about this?” Nate snapped, his mood abruptly shifting. “I heard from Ali that you’re thinking about going back to work for the police department. Is that right?”
“Yes, Nate, it is. I had a talk with the chief today. He wants me to act as an LAPD liaison with the FBI on a case that just came up.”
“The Bel Air murder story that Ali’s covering?”
I nodded. “I won’t be investigating—just relaying Bureau requests and keeping the departmental wheels greased. I said yes.”
“So now you’re going to be working on another big investigation, just like your sniper case.”
I saw where Nate was going. “I’ll only be peripherally involved, Nate. The FBI will be handling the case. My work won’t endanger our family in any way.”
Nate stopped walking. “How can you know that?” he demanded.
I hesitated. “Nate, I—”
“How can you know that?” Nate repeated angrily. “How do you know that your job won’t make something happen again, like . . .”
“. . . like what happened to Mom?” I finished.
“That’s right,” Nate shot back, tears starting in his eyes. “Like what happened to Mom.”
I knew that on some level Nate held me responsible for Catheryn’s death, but until then I hadn’t heard him voice it so openly. Not that I blamed him. I held myself responsible, too. “I’m sorry, Nate,” I said. “I . . . I should have talked with you and Ali and Trav before accepting the job. I’m sorry.”
“So now you’re going back to work like nothing happened,” Nate continued as if he hadn’t heard. Furiously palming his eyes, he started again down the beach.
I caught up in two quick steps, stung by my son’s bitterness. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I gently turned him, searching his eyes with mine. “Nate, I know you’re angry, but I swear I would never do anything to put our family in danger again. If that means quitting the force, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I mean it. I’ll find another way to pay the bills. In the meantime, this liaison position will give me time to make some decisions. And because I’ll be on the sidelines—”
“Sure you will.”
“Nate, nothing bad is going to happen.”
Nate started to say something, then stopped, his anger suddenly seeming to deflate. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, once more heading toward the house.
I caught up again, adjusting my pace to walk beside him. “It doesn’t matter? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . I miss Mom.”
As the youngest in the Kane clan, Nate had always been the one to see the brighter side of life. Given a Christmas present of road apples, he’d start looking for the pony. That had changed. Once again I wished Catheryn were present. She would have known what to do.
“I miss her, too,” I said. “More than I can say.”
By then we had nearly made it back to the house. Emerging like sentinels in the fog, I could make out the thick stands of palm and beach cane flanking our home, seeming to anchor it to the sand. Placing an arm around Nate’s shoulders, I headed toward the glow of the windows above our upper deck. In one of them I noticed Dorothy peering out. Spotting us, she waved. I waved back.
With a sigh, I decided there would be time enough to think about things later. Until then, a hot meal might help put things in perspective. I tightened my grip around Nate’s shoulders. The temperature had dropped even more, and beneath his thin jacket I could feel him shivering.
“C’mon, kid,” I said. “Let’s go eat.”
Chapter 14
The following morning, if I’d had any expectation of receiving a warm, fuzzy reception at my initial FBI briefing, that misconception was quickly dispelled. As soon as I entered the Bureau’s Command and Tactical Operations Center, I saw how things were going to be. Although my welcome there was both respectful and polite, it was immediately clear to me that I would be treated as an outsider . . . not that I much cared.
I had checked with Chief Ingram’s office and placed a call to Deluca on the drive from Malibu to West L.A., arriving early at the Federal Building for the FBI briefing. As directed, I had then made my way to the FBI’s Command and Tactical Operations Center on the sixteenth floor.
CTOC turned out to be a windowless, brightly lit suite of interconnected rooms that included two command centers, a control room, and a large conference area. The command centers, marked OPS1 and OPS2, both contained long, curving banks of computer workstations, most of which were already manned. Past the control room, the CTOC conference area was filled with unsmiling men and somber women. From the number of agents already present, it looked like everyone else had arrived early as well.
As I stepped inside, Special Agent in Charge Gibbs, whom I had met the previous afternoon, pushed through a throng of agents to greet me. “Good morning, Kane. Good to see you again,” he said, shaking my hand. Once more his grip felt firm, and his eyes never left mine. Again, I thought military.
“Likewise,” I said.
Gibbs glanced at his watch. “We should just have time for me to introduce you to the rest of the Command Group before we get started. Let’s head over there by the monitors,” he suggested, inclining his head toward the far side of the room.
I followed Gibbs to a wall covered with TV screens, a world map, and clocks displaying the time in various cities. On the way over I spotted Agent Taylor talking with her friend, Agent Duffy. Taylor nodded at me without smiling, then returned to her conversation. Duffy noticed her glance. Following her gaze, he spotted me and frowned.
Trailing Gibbs across the crowded room, I felt the eyes of many others upon me as well, most of them about as friendly as Duffy’s. It had been a long time since I’d been “the new guy.” But again, I didn’t much care.
A group assembled near the TV monitors looked up at our approach. “Detective Kane, this is Assistant Special Agent in Charge Mason Vaughn,” Gibbs said when we arrived, indicating a tall man with dark, slicked back hair. “ASAC Vaughn is currently coordinating our efforts with the LAPD under the umbrella of the FBI’s Los Angeles Joint Terrorism Task Force, or JTTF. Mason, Detective Kane.”
Vaughn nodded without offering his hand. I nodded back. Despite Vaughn’s whip-thin frame and aristocratic, almost feminine bearing, I sensed a glimmer of something as hard as steel behind his eyes.
“ASAC Vaughn will be your designated contact with the Bureau. He will keep you apprised of investigative areas best suited for the LAPD task force to pursue,” Gibbs continued. “Along with working with LAPD investigators, the JTTF will also bring to bear the expertise of forty-five local, state, and federal agencies currently investigating terrorist activities, as well as interfacing with other satellite Joint Terrorism Task Forces in Orange County, Long Beach, and the Inland Empire. Needless to say, JTTF will also be staying in close contact with the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia.”
“Needless to say,” I said, again thinking too many cooks.
“Special Agent Luis Garcia, Detective Kane,” Gibbs continued, indicating a thick-set Hispanic who had a hint of sweat glistening on his forehead, even though the room seemed cool to me. “Garcia heads up our Field Intelligence Group, which interfaces with the FBI’s multi-agency Joint Regional Intelligence Center, providing agent and analyst support to our law enforcement and intelligence partners in all of California.”
“Good to meet you,” said Garcia, wiping his palm on a pant leg before offering to shake.
“Likewise,” I said, taking his hand, which still felt damp.
“The Los Angeles Joint Terrorism Task Force headed by Vaughn also coordinates with Garcia’s Field Intelligence Group in a collaboration known as TITAN,” Gibbs went on. “TITAN is an intelligence initiative that collects and shares information on terrorist operations with law enforcement and critical asset partners nationwide. The Bureau is currently investigatin
g over 900 active cases in the United States involving Islamic State sympathizers and Muslim terrorist cells. Our present Los Angeles terrorist investigation will be linked with all open cases now being pursued by FBI field divisions across the country.”
“With that many agents working the case, you should have things wrapped up in no time,” I observed, mentally attempting to calculate the number of people involved. I decided that whatever that number was, it was huge. Nevertheless, as I had learned more than once, throwing men and money at a problem didn’t necessarily bring results.
Ignoring my comment, Gibbs turned to the final member of the Command Group, a muscular man with crew-cut hair and a noticeably flattened nose. “This is Special Agent Brody Young,” said Gibbs. “Young heads our Counterintelligence Domain Program, bringing together the FBI and our counterintelligence partners with members of private industry, academia, and other government agencies to protect the special interests of our country.”
“Special interests like not having someone cut off your head?” I noted, offering my hand to Young.
Brody Young was a large man, almost as big as I am, and I could tell from his expression that he didn’t like my previous comment. He also didn’t like looking up to meet someone’s gaze. “Exactly,” said Young, taking my hand and squeezing just a bit too hard, something men occasionally do when confronted by someone bigger than they are.
Two could play that game. I smiled and squeezed back, increasing the force of my handshake to match Young’s escalating effort. Seconds later Young’s enthusiasm for our impromptu competition turned to surprise, and then shock as his grip suddenly collapsed, his knuckles grinding audibly. Grimacing, he tried to retrieve his hand. I held on a moment longer, then released it.
“That’s a good grip you’ve got there, Agent Young,” I noted. “I’ve always hated a flabby handshake myself,” I added, quoting from one of my favorite John Wayne films—a reference apparently lost on Young.
“Me, too,” Young agreed sheepishly.
Gibbs, who had witnessed our puerile contest, regarded us both with impatience. “Brody, if there’s time following the briefing, I’d like you to introduce Kane to the rest of our field agents working the case,” he said. “That is, if you’re done screwing around.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” said Young, massaging his hand to restore the flow of blood. “I’m done.”
“Good.”
Gibbs seemed about to say something else, but stopped abruptly as he noticed Assistant Director Shepherd entering the room. Gibbs turned and nodded to Vaughn, who moved to the front and raised a hand for attention.
“Everyone find a seat,” Vaughn ordered as the room began to settle. “I know many of you have been here all night, so let’s get the briefing underway. Special Agent in Charge Gibbs will bring us up-to-date, after which we’ll move on to assignments. SAC Gibbs, you want to take it from here?”
I glanced at Shepherd, who had moved to a spot near the computer screens, seeming content to let Gibbs handle the proceedings. Meeting my gaze, Shepherd looked back and nodded briefly, then returned his attention to Gibbs.
“Thanks, Mason,” said Gibbs, stepping to the front. “Since yesterday there have been several new developments in the investigation, which has been code-named ‘Infidel.’ First, Detective Daniel Kane is present from the LAPD and will be acting as our Joint Terrorism Task Force liaison. Kane will keep us apprised and updated on all areas of the LAPD’s ‘Infidel’ inquiry, as well as bringing the JTTF/LAPD task force up-to-date on Bureau progress.”
Heads turned in my direction. Several agents nodded. Most simply stared.
“Second, there are several new areas of investigation underway,” Gibbs continued. “Fresh oil drips and a tire track imprint, both possibly from the murder vehicle, were discovered at the Bel Air scene. Oil samples and tire prints from the Welches’ vehicles and a gardener’s ride-on-top mower have ruled them out as the source. Our lab is currently analyzing the oil drips, which, along with the imprint casts, may be useful when we locate the murder vehicle.”
“LAPD already has the oil-drip analysis,” I interjected.
“Oh?” said Gibbs.
“Yes, sir. The oil was a mix of five-thirty Chevron Supreme and forty-weight Havoline. SID sent a sample over to the Standard Oil refining lab in El Segundo, so we’ll have a more detailed breakdown shortly.”
“Thank you, Detective,” said Gibbs. “Actually, this might be as good a time as any for you to bring us current on any ancillary investigative areas that the LAPD is pursuing.”
“Yes, sir.” I paused to revisit my conversation that morning with Deluca, then continued without referring to notes. “To start, LAPD looked hard at Chuck Lohrman, the pool guy who reported the murders. He’s been ruled out as having any connection with the homicides. Unfortunately, a canvass of the Bel Air neighborhood has been unable to turn up any witnesses to date. We’re still reviewing footage from a number of neighborhood security cameras that might have caught a shot of the murder vehicle. Nothing there yet. And working on the assumption that the killers knew the Welches’ gate code, we’re interviewing anyone who had the code—friends, neighbors, landscape service, the cleaning woman, and so on. Nothing there yet, either.”
“How about the tip line?” asked Garcia.
I knew from talking with Deluca that a host of FBI personnel had been detailed to assist in manning the LAPD’s twenty-four-hour hot line. Although Bureau agents were working side-by-side with a team of Snead’s investigators, most of the legwork generated by the tip line would be done by Snead’s detectives.
“Nothing useful has developed so far,” I answered. “Not that there haven’t been a flood of calls, all of which have to be checked out, seriously impacting LAPD man-hours. In my opinion, if you’re expecting anything worthwhile to come in on the so-called hot line, don’t hold your breath.”
Several agents nodded in agreement.
“We’re also trying to run down the source of the ISIS flag on the video,” I continued. “We’ve determined that the Arabic letters on the flag are an exact copy of an image currently posted on the internet.”
“How does that help?” asked an agent near the front.
“Because of the size of the flag, we think the killers had it custom made—silkscreened, not embroidered, as it’s an exact copy—and they used the internet image as a pattern,” I explained. “We’re checking print shops, silkscreen facilities, and online services, trying to locate the source. It’s a long shot, but we’re also checking for the source of the cloth sacks and plastic handcuff ties, which we think the killers brought with them.”
“Keep us updated on those investigations,” said Vaughn.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “One more thing. We had our lab blow up several of the video images. We think the killers were all wearing identical Maui Jim sunglasses. They’re expensive, so we’re hoping if they were bought locally, someone might have a record of the purchase. It’s another long shot, but we don’t have a lot to go on.”
“Keep us updated on that as well,” Vaughn ordered, seeming impatient to proceed. “Anything else?”
I shrugged. “That’s about it on the LAPD side, except for an analysis of the fingerprint, blood, and other forensic material that was taken at the scene. I’m sure your lab will come up with the same results we do.”
“Thanks for that update, Detective Kane,” said Gibbs. Then, turning back to Vaughn, “Mason, you want to bring us current on our investigative efforts since yesterday?”
“Yes, sir,” said Vaughn, opening a file he’d carried tucked under an arm. “I’ll make this brief so we can get to our assignments. Several intersecting lines of inquiry are underway, the most important of which is locating the source of the murder video. Whoever posted it used an IP masking service called the Tor Project. With help from NSA, our Computer Analysis Response Team unit was able to trace the original upload to a Starbucks in Santa Monica. From there we hit a brick wall. CART is still worki
ng on breaking into the Tor network. We also have surveillance on the Starbucks in question, along with several other coffee shops in the area. If the killers do it again and upload another video, we’ll have them on tape.”
An uneasy rustling travelled the room as everyone considered the possibility of more killings.
“At present none of the unmatched prints found at the scene has turned up in the system,” Vaughn continued. “Forensic analysis of materials recovered from the Welch residence has also proved unproductive. The murder knives seen in the video were not found in the house, so we’re assuming they were retained by the killers. None of the kitchen knives or other cutting instruments in the home showed the presence of blood, but we’re running them for prints just to be certain. DNA analysis of the blood of unknown origin discovered in the master bathroom—blood we think might belong to one of the unsubs—came back from the lab this morning. No matches have been located in the system.”
Vaughn paused to refer to his file, then continued. “On a positive note, earlier this morning our CART unit was able to break into the Welches’ personal computers. CART is currently downloading all files, email messages, and other correspondence from the Welches’ hard drives. Along with an examination of the family’s checkbooks and bank statements, this material may lead to a connection with the killers. Garcia, your team is working that angle, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” said Garcia, using a handkerchief to wipe his brow. “Nothing has turned up so far, but getting a look at the Welches’ computer files will help.”
“Good,” said Vaughn, looking satisfied. “We sent an Emergency Disclosure Request to Verizon, so we should have the Welches’ phone records later today. We’ll see whether anything helpful shows up there, especially on the night of the murders.”
“Yes, sir,” said Garcia.
“Okay, two more items, both of which may be promising,” Vaughn pushed on. “Young, your team is working the gun angle with ATF. What have you learned so far?”
