by Steve Gannon
“Backup vehicle locations?”
“Tonight Ethan is parking one block over on Sunset. In Hancock Park, the backup vehicle will park across the golf course on Rimpau. In the Palisades, our second car will wait on a side street near Will Rogers State Park. There’s only one way out of Rivas Canyon, and we don’t want to get bottled up back in there.”
“We’re not going to need alternate sites, escape routes, or backup cars,” Rudy noted from the rear of the van.
“It doesn’t hurt to prepare for contingences,” Jacob pointed out. “Or do you think otherwise?”
“No,” Rudy backtracked. “You know best, Jacob.”
Jacob thought he detected a trace of sarcasm in Rudy’s response. Maybe it was time for his sergeant-at-arms to sit out a mission. Ethan was eager to increase his involvement, and Ethan could certainly assume Rudy’s responsibilities on the next outing. “Caleb, Parker, Rudy—you all know your duties for tonight?” he asked, deciding to postpone a decision on increasing Ethan’s involvement.
“I get us past the gate, make certain it’s only the Mr. and Mrs. at home, disable the security system, and cuff and hood the Davenports,” Caleb replied without hesitation.
“I disable the landline, secure the residence, and set up the black flag,” said Rudy, his response as automatic as Caleb’s.
Parker, sitting beside Rudy in the back, spoke last. “I’m setting up the lighting, positioning the tripod and camera, and recording the, uh, event.”
Jacob nodded. “And I’ll take care of the rest,” he concluded, confident their operation would proceed with military precision, just as it had the last time. Well, not exactly like the last time. There had been minor missteps on that one, like Caleb removing the cellphones from the residence, but those errors would not be repeated. They had practiced thoroughly for tonight’s mission, and practice led to perfection, with nothing left to chance.
In addition to the rehearsals, Jacob had familiarized himself with Parker’s camera equipment, as well as with his untraceable means of posting their videos. The murder videos were an essential element of their plan, and relying on one individual for something that important was unwise.
Earlier that afternoon Jacob had also retested their cellphone jammer—another of Parker’s contributions. The small but powerful unit had worked perfectly. Jacob’s hand traveled to his waist, where the compact device was clipped to his belt beside his silenced pistol. As he had on their first expedition, Jacob decided to wait until later to attach the jammer’s flexible antennas, activating the blocking unit only when they had reached the residence.
Forcing his mind back to the present, Jacob checked his watch. “Time to put out the signs,” he said. “Pull over on that street up ahead, Caleb.”
As before, in case they were stopped, Jacob had postponed attaching the fake magnetic signs until they had neared their destination. Being observed attaching the signs could present a problem, but it was an acceptable risk.
Caleb turned off Sunset onto a side street. After proceeding several hundred yards, he pulled to a stop beneath an overhanging sycamore and killed the headlights, leaving the engine running. Satisfied they weren’t being observed, Jacob nodded to Rudy. Reaching into the back of the van, Rudy pulled a lighted roof cap and two magnetic door signs from under the tarp. Signs and cap in hand, he stepped from the vehicle.
As he waited for Rudy to complete his task, Jacob placed a call to Ethan.
“In position,” said Ethan, answering almost immediately.
“Good,” Jacob replied. “Five minutes.”
Within thirty seconds of exiting the van, Rudy had the door signs and illuminated roof cap installed. Task completed, he climbed back into the vehicle and quietly closed the door behind him. “Let’s do this,” he said. “It’s showtime.”
*****
“Noah, come take a look at this.”
“I’d rather not, Emma,” Noah Davenport replied from the kitchen. “You know how I feel about watching the news. It’s usually depressing, and there’s nothing one can do about it. How about watching a movie on Netflix?”
“Later, Noah. You need to see this. The Muslim-backlash thing is getting worse. Another mosque was bombed today, this time in D.C. Several people were killed, some of them children.”
With a sigh, Noah joined his wife in the den, finding Emma curled up on the couch watching CBS Evening News. The newscaster, a rising network star named Brent Preston, was delivering what Noah considered to be an overly dramatic summation of the day’s events.
“. . . sparked by the terrorist beheadings last week in Los Angeles,” the handsome reporter was saying as Noah settled in beside his wife. “Since then,” the newscaster continued, “a total of thirteen mosques and Islamic centers, including the one bombed today in our nation’s capital, have been destroyed in cities across the country.”
At that moment their gate buzzer sounded.
“Who could that be?” asked Emma, still concentrating on the newscast. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No. Maybe they’ll go away.”
By then Brent Preston’s face had been replaced with the image of a large, burning structure and the words “Omar As-Sunnah Islamic Center, Washington, D.C.” superimposed at the bottom. “Fatalities attributed to the Muslim backlash have now reached sixty-seven, with that number expected to rise in days to come,” the newscaster’s voice continued over the shot.
Next, the broadcast returned to Brent Preston in the news studio. “A spokesperson for the FBI declined to comment on the investigation, saying only that they hope to have a suspect or suspects in custody shortly,” Brent concluded, turning to a second camera angle. “In other news . . .”
The gate buzzer sounded again.
“I’ll go see who it is,” said Noah, rising from the couch.
Thankful to be leaving Brent Preston’s annoying newscast behind, Noah made his way to the front door. Curious, he glanced out the window. A Wiseguy Pizza van was at the gate, sitting at the end of their long driveway. “Yes?” he said, pressing the intercom button.
“Pizza,” a voice replied.
“Hold on,” said Noah. Calling back into the house, “Emma, did we order pizza?”
“I didn’t,” Emma’s voice came back. “But I am hungry. Maybe we should have, although pizza doesn’t exactly fit into your new gluten-free diet.”
“We didn’t order pizza,” said Noah, speaking into the intercom. “Must be a mistake.”
“No mistake, Mr. Davenport,” said the voice. “We’re sponsoring a free giveaway this week. Maybe you’ve seen our ads on TV? ‘We’ll make you a pizza you can’t refuse?’ And that commercial where a guy wakes up with a Wiseguy pizza on the pillow next to him? Anyway, a number of Holmby Hills residents were chosen to receive a complimentary pie as part of our promo, and you’re one of them. We’ve been delivering pizzas all evening, so we’re running a little low, but we still have several to choose from.”
Noah hesitated, surprised that the delivery man had known his name, but reassured that this wasn’t a scam. “Do you have any pepperoni?” he asked, feeling a bit guilty. Sure, he’d lost weight over the past weeks by avoiding gluten, which meant avoiding a lot of grease and sugar as well. But life was short, and one didn’t have to be good all the time . . .
“Yes, sir. Pepperoni and cheese,” the voice came back. “And another with pepperoni, mushrooms, and roasted garlic. We also have one last pie topped with barbequed chicken, red pepper, and sun-dried tomatoes. If you’re not hungry now, our pizzas keep great in the fridge. A lot of people prefer our pies cold, along with a beer or a soft drink or whatever.
“No, we like them hot,” said Noah. “And actually, that barbequed chicken sounds pretty good.”
“Yes, sir. It’s still hot, and it’s free. You want it?”
Noah hesitated a moment more. Then, giving in to temptation, he pressed the gate release.
Only live once, he thought, deciding he could resume his die
t in the morning.
Chapter 20
Moving to the front of the conference chamber, Agent Vaughn cleared his throat for attention. “Everyone quiet down. SAC Gibbs has something to say before we start.”
I glanced around the room. The mood there that morning was bleak, with a lot of anger and frustration thrown in as well. I had talked with Deluca on the drive in from Malibu, and I knew that Snead’s task-force detectives were taking the murder of a second family hard as well.
From talking with Deluca, I also knew that although LAPD investigators had been swamped with hot line tips, they still had nothing to show for their efforts. Locating the source of the ISIS flag, finding the Maui Jim sunglasses retailer, and checking friends, neighbors, and workers who knew the Welches’ gate code had also stalled out. A canvass of the Bel Air neighborhood had come up empty as well. It had been four days since the first murders, and with this second round of killings, it was clear that the clock was ticking. As such, investigators working the case were growing increasingly desperate to come up with a lead, a viable suspect, anything that could move the investigation forward. So far that wasn’t happening.
And everyone knew it.
With a nod to Vaughn, Gibbs stepped forward. He looked tired. “As I’m certain you all know, there was a second incident last night in Holmby Hills,” he began. “Two more individuals were killed. A video of their murder turned up this morning on the internet.”
“Same guys?” someone asked.
“Same guys,” said Gibbs. “Responding to an anonymous call, LAPD detectives arrived at the Holmby Hills residence around midnight, then called us. Our ERT unit is still processing the scene. So far we’ve recovered more oil drips, several bloody shoe-tread impressions, a number of unmatched prints, blood and hair from the drains, and so on.”
“How about witnesses?” asked Garcia.
“LAPD is canvassing the neighborhood. At this point, it appears that nobody saw or heard anything.”
“911 calls?” asked someone else.
“The residence landline was disabled, like last time, with a phone in the kitchen left off the hook. The victims’ cellphones were still present in the house. No incoming or outgoing calls were logged on either of them that evening.” Gibbs glanced at me. “911 or otherwise.”
“How about security cameras? Anything show up there?” asked Taylor.
Gibbs shook his head. “We’re still checking.”
An uneasy silence descended over the room. The Bureau’s strategy of reaching out to “critical asset partners” in the intelligence and Muslim communities hadn’t paid off, and the realization that a forensic breakthrough wasn’t going to close the case was beginning to sink in as well. The Bureau’s best chance to come up with a suspect or suspects had been the analysis of the AB-negative blood found in the Welches’ master bathroom. Yesterday the DNA results had come back from the lab. Matching the unexplained blood to someone in the system had been unsuccessful.
“Okay, at this time ASAC Vaughn will bring us current on the investigation,” said Gibbs.
Vaughn again stepped to the front. “First some updates, then on to new business,” he said, opening a file he’d carried with him. “VICAP failed to turn up a match to similar crimes,” he began, referring to a search of the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. “Nothing has shown up in the Welches’ correspondence or computers that might prove helpful. The Welch autopsy results were also unremarkable. Both victims died of exsanguination following decapitation. Their toxicology screens were negative. Prints, negative. DNA matching, negative. Copies of these reports will be available at the end of the briefing.”
Vaughn checked his notes, then pushed on. “LAPD is currently canvassing the Holmby Hills neighborhood, along with checking security cameras in the area and talking with anyone who knows the Davenports’ gate code. Speaking of which, the Davenports’ home-security system has an upload link to offsite storage, but as the Davenports were home at the time, their system wasn’t active. The killers took the onsite unit with them.”
“Damn, is there any good news?” someone grumbled.
“A little,” said Vaughn. “Blood typing of the clothes and towels found in the Santa Monica dumpster corresponds with that of Mr. and Mrs. Welch—AB and O. One of the towels in the dumpster also shows a blood typing consistent with blood found in the Welches’ master bath, type AB-negative, which we’re assuming came from one of the killers. Comparison of the bloody shoeprints at both murder locations was a match as well.”
Not much, I thought. Again, forensic results were important once you had a suspect, but nothing Vaughn had said brought us any closer to that.
“This is the second residence that’s had a security gate,” Garcia noted. “Is there a significance there?”
“Possibly,” Vaughn replied. “Anyone have an idea on that?”
“Maybe the killers are picking homes that provide the privacy and time they need to do whatever they want,” suggested Young. “Once past the gate, they don’t have to worry about visitors.”
“They could be sending a message as well,” added Taylor. “No one’s safe in their own homes, even behind a security gate.”
“I suppose we’ll know more if it happens again,” said Vaughn. Then, addressing Agent Young, “Anything on the Chinese AK-47?”
“No, sir. AFT is interviewing owners in the Los Angeles area. They plan to move farther out next.”
Vaughn glanced around the room. “Anyone?”
“This is on a different subject,” said an older agent near the front. “We impounded the Davenports’ checkbooks, computers, phone records, and so on—just like at the Welch residence. The two families lived fairly close to each other. How about looking for a correlation between them? Common country clubs, maid services, gardeners, pool guys—like that. Maybe we can figure out how the victims were chosen.”
“Good idea,” said Vaughn, making a note in his file.
“Anything show up on the dumpster surveillance?” someone else asked.
Vaughn shook his head. “No. Nor at the Starbucks site, either. By the way, this time the terrorists’ video was uploaded at a coffee shop in Venice. They used the Tor masking service again, along with the same Russian social-media platform. Our tech guys are trying to run a trace, but they’re not hopeful.”
I spoke up. “There have been a couple new developments on LAPD’s end.”
“What do you have, Kane?”
“LAPD checked every one of the 217 Police Service Responder operators who were on duty the night of the Welches’ murders,” I replied. “None of the PSR operators has a record of anything coming in from Mrs. Welch.”
“No surprise there,” said Vaughn. “Her phone log listed those attempts as cancelled calls.”
By then I had studied the briefing notes from yesterday’s meeting. The briefing summary was a four-page document that contained copies of the Welches’ Verizon records, their cellphone data usage, and a list of clothing and other items recovered from the Santa Monica dumpster. “That’s correct,” I said. “But Mrs. Welch’s initial 911 call lasted nine seconds before she disconnected. Her next call was considerably shorter, but I still think there might be a—”
“I see where you’re going on this,” Vaughn interrupted. “Your cellphone-jammer theory again, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the average pickup time for an emergency call in Los Angeles, Kane?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted.
“In Los Angeles, the current goal for 911 pickups is for them to be answered in fewer than ten seconds,” said Vaughn. “Depending on the call volume and the number of operators on duty at any given time, that ten-second wait could be considerably more. Rather than theorizing about the use of an illegal, hard-to-acquire piece of equipment like a cellphone jammer, isn’t it more reasonable to think that Mrs. Welch simply got tired of waiting on a busy signal, panicked, and hung up?”
“Maybe, but—
”
Again, Vaughn cut me off. “During the Bel Air canvass, did investigators turn up anyone who had experienced a loss of cellphone service on the night of the Welch murders?”
“No, sir. But jammers are only good for a limited distance.”
“Limited distance or not, I think we’re wasting time here.” Vaughn glanced at Gibbs, who nodded in agreement. “Let’s move on. You said there were several LAPD developments?”
Reluctantly, I continued. “Just one more. LAPD ran the bloody word painted on the Welches’ wall through our Questioned Documents unit. Turns out the Arabic script was written left-to-right, European style—not right-to-left, as would have been done by a foreign national.”
Vaughn looked confused. “I don’t see what difference that makes.”
Director Shepherd, who to date had attended every briefing but had rarely spoken, broke in. “I think I do,” he said. “We’ve been working on the assumption that our terrorists are foreign nationals, or at least that some of them are. But if that were the case, the Arabic word would have been written correctly from right-to-left, not left-to-right by someone with no knowledge of Arabic.”
“So now our terrorists are homegrown?” someone asked.
“Looks that way,” Taylor spoke up. “Which begs the question, what’s with the stilted language they used on their video?”
“What do you mean?” asked Duffy.
“If our terrorists aren’t foreign nationals, why are they working so hard to make us think they are?” Taylor replied.
“Good point, Taylor,” Vaughn noted.
“Actually, Kane came up with it,’ said Taylor.
“Well, in any case, this changes things,” said Vaughn, frowning. “I’m not certain how, but we’ll need to factor that parameter into the investigation.”
At this I sensed a shift in the room, the mood changing from frustration to one of guarded hope. At least now there was something new to chew on.
Vaughn thought a moment. “Garcia, have your Field Intelligence Group increase their focus on areas where homegrown Muslims are being recruited and radicalized—prisons, social media sites, and so on. Reach out to the Bureau’s TITAN partners, too. Someone out there knows these guys. We just need to find them.”
