Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  “And Ali will sit around doing nothing?”

  I smiled. “I’m sure that’s the way she’ll see it. I left it up to Mike to convince her to go. She wouldn’t have listened to me.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Actually, everyone wanted to stay and continue visiting you. But keeping our family protected is more important than visiting right now, and I didn’t give them an option.”

  “I understand,” said Nate. “I imagine I’m fairly safe here,” he went on, glancing around the room. “The only thing that might kill me in here is the food.”

  “Was that a joke?” I chuckled, encouraged by a glimmer of Nate’s customary humor. “That’s a good sign, kid. Maybe you are getting better.”

  “I am, Dad. Don’t give up on me.”

  “I’ll never give up on you. No matter what.”

  “Good. So what are you going to do?”

  “You mean about the terrorists?”

  “Uh-huh. Now that they’re looking for you, what are you going to do?”

  Until that moment, Nate’s question was something I had delayed considering. Upon learning that Snead had cancelled the surveillance teams, my initial reaction—aside from anger—had been to ensure the safety of my family. Now that the ball was rolling on that front, I needed to decide how to proceed. I hesitated, the vague outline of a plan beginning to form. It might not work, but it was the only option I had.

  “I’m going to do what I always do,” I replied, surprised by the simplicity of my answer.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to find them before they find me.”

  After leaving UCLA, I placed several more phone calls—one to Deluca, another to Taylor—arranging to meet both of them later at the West L.A. station. Next I phoned Charlie Padilla, a surveillance-expert friend at Metro, and requested a favor. After describing what I needed, I arranged to have Padilla meet me at Allison’s house. Padilla said he’d be glad to help, adding that he’d be there within the hour.

  When I arrived at Ali’s house in the Palisades, I noted with satisfaction that Arnie and Banowski had already picked up Mike, Dorothy, and Travis—removing them from danger, at least for the moment. Charlie Padilla arrived forty-five minutes later. Following a quick conference, I watched as he concealed several motion-activated wireless webcams at Ali’s front and back entries, along with several more placed inside the house. Next Padilla followed me to Malibu, where he did the same for the beach residence. Along with sending email notifications when the webcams were activated, live camera feeds were available online, and all motion-activated events would be saved in an online archive. Though I had no illusions that Padilla’s cameras could match the defense of a Metro surveillance team, they were better than nothing.

  Next I visited Lieutenant Long at the West Los Angeles station. Sitting in Long’s office, I brought him up-to-date on the terrorist investigation, informing him that Snead had cancelled protective surveillance on me and my family.

  “Damn,” said Long, rubbing his chin when I’d finished. “When I advised you not to trust the feds, I should have added our own department to the list, too.”

  I nodded. “At least now my family is out of danger.”

  “That’s the most important thing,” Long agreed. “But how long can they stay away?”

  “Long enough for me to find those guys.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You just told me you were off the investigation.”

  “I’m putting myself back on. But now I’m going to work the case my way.”

  Long regarded me thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you’ll be asking permission from the department.”

  “Nope.”

  “You know running a maverick investigation could get you fired.”

  I shrugged.

  Long found my eyes with his. “What can I do to help?”

  “Lieutenant, I don’t want you to jeopardize your—”

  “What can I do to help?”

  I met Long’s gaze. “You realize that helping me could get you fired?”

  Ignoring my question, Long asked again. “What can I do to help?”

  For the first time since the FBI briefing that morning, I felt I wasn’t alone. “Thanks, Lieutenant. I hope you won’t regret it.”

  “Whatever happens, Dan, I won’t regret it.”

  Later that afternoon Deluca, Banowski, Arnie, Long, and I met in the squad room. By then the regular detectives’ shift had ended, and we had the space to ourselves. “I noticed everyone was gone at Allison’s,” I said to Banowski. “You got Travis and Dorothy off to New York?”

  Banowski nodded. “Trav said he’d call when they landed.”

  “Thanks.” Then, to Arnie, “ How about Ali and Mike?”

  Arnie smiled. “Your daughter took some convincing. I’m glad it was Mike and not me doing the convincing. Mike finally had to bring up Ali’s pregnancy and the danger to her baby to get her to leave.”

  “But they’re gone?”

  “I put ’em on a plane for Toronto. Ali said she’d call when they landed, too.”

  “Good work, Arnie.”

  Just then Taylor arrived, her presence lighting up the station like a ray of sunshine. As she topped the stairs to the second floor, I gave the others a moment to stare, then rose to greet her. “I appreciate your being here, Taylor,” I said. “When you offered to help, I wasn’t certain you meant it.”

  “I meant it,” Taylor replied, glancing around the squad room with obvious distaste. “Your department hung you out to dry, and the Bureau hasn’t acted much better. It’s not right.”

  “Well . . . thanks. Did you bring what I asked?”

  Taylor opened her purse. After a moment of rummaging, she withdrew a USB thumb drive. Without comment, she handed me the memory device.

  After pocketing the thumb drive, I escorted Taylor into the squad room and introduced her to the others. Then, turning to Deluca, “Paul? You have something for me?”

  Deluca reached into his jacket, withdrew another flash drive, and placed it on the table.

  “What’s on that?” asked Banowski as I scooped up the second device.

  “It’s amazing how much you can pack onto one of those little things,” Deluca answered. “For instance, the one I just gave Kane contains the entire LAPD terrorist database that Snead’s task force has compiled so far.”

  Banowski whistled softly. “I don’t suppose Snead would be too happy knowing you gave it to Kane.”

  “Don’t imagine so,” Deluca agreed.

  Banowski turned to Taylor. “What’s on yours?”

  Taylor hesitated.

  “The thumb drive you just handed Kane,” Banowski persisted.

  “It’s okay, Taylor,” I said. “You’re among friends.”

  Taylor hesitated a moment longer, then answered. “It contains the FBI’s ‘Infidel’ database—all of it.” At a puzzled look from Banowski, she added, “‘Infidel’ is the Bureau’s code name for the case.”

  “Damn,” said Arnie. “There could be a few terminated careers here if any of this ever comes out. Makes me glad I’m already retired and drawing my pension.”

  “If this gets out, the rest of us will be retired, too—without pensions,” noted Long.

  “So let’s make sure it doesn’t get out,” said Deluca.

  “Look, I appreciate that all of you want to help,” I broke in. “But now that I have the databases, I’ll take it from here. There’s no sense in everyone risking—”

  “I’m in, partner,” said Deluca.

  “Me, too,” added Banowski. “Whatever you need.”

  “I think the Crenshaw Mall security team can manage without me for a bit,” said Arnie.

  “Count me in, too,” said Taylor. “I’m available through the weekend. Plus I’ve accumulated a few sick days, if you need me after that.”

  “I’ll provide investigative authorization and cover for working the case out of West L.A.,” offered Long.<
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  “I . . . well, thanks,” I repeated, a lump rising in my throat.

  “Now that that’s settled, what’s next?” asked Long.

  I thought a moment. “Okay, with the Metro surveillance being cancelled, I think we should establish our own two-man presence at Mike and Ali’s for the next few days, just in case we have visitors.”

  “Good idea. I can bunk at Ali’s starting tonight,” offered Deluca. “My wife will be glad to get rid of me.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” added Banowski. “Except for the wife part.”

  “Fine,” I said, writing Ali’s address on a slip of paper and handing it to Deluca. “Here’s her house key,” I added, removing a key from my key ring and passing it to him as well.

  “Two of us should be present at the beach house, too,” suggested Arnie. “How about if I move down there for a couple days, starting tomorrow? I’m assuming you’ll want us sleeping in shifts, with someone awake at all times?”

  I nodded. “If nothing happens soon, we might have to abandon Allison’s and move everyone down to the beach. That way we could switch to two-hour shifts and maybe actually get some sleep.”

  “You think they’re going to make a try for you?” asked Long.

  “My gut says yeah, but who knows?” I replied.

  “And if they don’t?” asked Long.

  I didn’t have an answer for that. “The weekend’s coming up,” I said, glancing around the table. “After you all finish your Friday shifts, let’s meet back here and put our heads together. In the meantime, I’ll review the thumb-drive material and see whether anything jumps out.”

  “Seems like combing through those databases will be a waste of time,” said Deluca. “So far nothing on them has brought us any closer to the killers. What are you looking for?”

  “I’m not certain, Paul,” I replied. “But I still haven’t been able to shake the feeling that we’re overlooking something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. But I think it might be important.”

  Chapter 42

  Damn, Kane. Don’t take this wrong, but you look like hell. You been here all night?”

  I glanced up from my workstation, noticing Lieutenant Long entering the squad room. “Yeah, Lieutenant, I have,” I said, passing a hand across a rough stubble covering my chin. I took a swig of black coffee, ran my fingers through my hair, and resumed staring at the computer screen.

  “Anything turn up?”

  I shook my head. “Still working on it.” I had spent the night combing through the Bureau and LAPD task-force databases, searching for something we might have missed. So far nothing had turned up.

  In summary, the dumpster DNA from the killers’ bloody clothing had presented the FBI with their best opportunity to come up with a suspect, and that had fizzled. The identities of two of the suspects I’d shot in Rivas Canyon still remained a mystery, and tracing the activities, known associates, and so on of the third deceased terrorist—Ethan James Hess—had been fruitless as well. As for Snead’s task force, the LAPD’s main contribution to the investigation had been to locate the postal box of Mr. David Miller, to which the ISIS flag and the fake magnetic signs had been delivered. Frustratingly, the postal-box lead had also dried up. Although forensic analysis on other fronts was still underway, nothing looked hopeful.

  On the upside, I had received calls from both Allison and Travis informing me that they had arrived safely, and in Allison’s case, demanding to know when she could return. For that I didn’t have an answer.

  Hearing heavy footfalls in the staircase outside, I looked up again from my desk. A moment later Banowski entered the squad room carrying a large Starbucks coffee. “Morning, Lieutenant,” he said, nodding to Long. Then, looking closely at me, “Kane. You, ah, get any sleep?”

  “Morning, John,” I replied. “I’ve already been told I look like hell, so don’t bother.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” Banowski chuckled, dropping his considerable bulk onto a chair nearby. “Just don’t look in a mirror. At least I got half a night’s sleep at Allison’s. By the way, Deluca snores.” Then, glancing at the pile of notes on my desk, “You getting anywhere?”

  “Working on it,” I repeated.

  “Just so you know, I’ll need the rest of the morning to clear up a few things. After that I’m all yours.”

  “Thanks, John. Whenever you’re ready. I still have a few things to clear up myself.”

  After refilling my coffee cup from a stale pot that had been brewing all night, I returned to my desk, put up my feet, and rocked back in my chair. Closing my eyes, I began working the edges of the case, using a mental technique akin to not looking directly at something in the dark, hoping to tease out whatever it was that had eluded me earlier.

  As I reviewed the case in my mind, one item kept popping up—something about the investigation that I had never satisfactorily resolved.

  Why had Arleen Welch’s 911 calls gone unanswered?

  As Vaughn had pointed out, one possible explanation was that Arleen had simply disconnected before an overworked emergency operator had been able to pick up, resulting in the “cancelled call” status shown on Arleen’s cellphone. What that didn’t explain, however, was the sudden “no service” status of my phone when I’d entered Dr. Clark’s residence. Snead had accused me of breaking my cellphone connection with Taylor in order to execute the terrorists without repercussion, but I knew that wasn’t true. Also puzzling at the time, and even more difficult to explain, was that later my phone service had been unexpectedly restored—again for no apparent reason.

  Since then I’d learned that there had been a fourth terrorist present in the house, and that he had probably escaped out the back door, right around the time my phone service had been reestablished. With a long-due flash of insight, I suddenly realized that the presence of this fourth man changed everything, reviving a theory I had proposed earlier. But before I acted on that theory, there was someone I needed to consult. After informing Long and Banowski that I’d be back later, I retrieved my Suburban from the station parking lot and headed to Santa Monica.

  Fifteen minutes later I pulled to a stop in front of an unassuming, one-story building with a storefront window displaying an eclectic selection of televisions, stereos, computers, and ham radio equipment. Above the door, a neon sign read, “Hank’s Radio and TV.”

  Upon entering the shop, I made my way to a brightly lit service area at the rear. There, a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses sat hunched over a workbench inspecting the innards of a flat-screen TV.

  “Electricity’s dangerous, pal,” I said, leaning across the service counter. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  The elderly man looked up, his weathered face creasing in a grin. Setting down a soldering iron, he rose to shake my hand. “Dan, it’s been too long. Great to see you.”

  “You, too, Hank. How’s Mitchell doing?”

  Earlier in my career I had worked a drive-by shooting in which Hank Dexter’s teenaged son, Mitchell, had been present in a crowd indiscriminately sprayed with gunfire. Mitchell had wound up riding a wheelchair. During the course of the investigation, Hank and I had become friends, and we still kept in touch.

  “Mitch is fine,” Hank answered. “My second grandchild is due this summer,” he added proudly.

  “That’s wonderful, Hank. I’m happy for you. Please give Mitchell and his wife my best.”

  “I will,” said Hank. Then, regarding me curiously, “Not that it isn’t good to see you, but I gather this isn’t a social call.”

  “No, it’s not, although I’ve been meaning to drop by for some time. But yeah, there’s something I want to run by you.”

  “I’ve seen you on the news lately. Those terrorist beheadings. It’s unspeakable what happened to those families,” said Hank. “I was happy you were able to save that woman in the Palisades, and I was grateful you weren’t hurt yourself.”

  “Thanks, Hank.”

 
“Is this about the terrorist case?”

  I glanced around to make certain no one was listening. “It is. But I’d like you to keep quiet about my visit here today, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” said Hank. “Let’s go someplace more private,” he suggested, motioning for me to join him at the rear of the service area. I ducked under a counter and followed him to the back.

  “Now, how can I help?” he asked, regarding me curiously when we arrived at the rear of the shop.

  I paused to collect my thoughts. Then, “Okay, here’s my problem,” I said. “I have a victim who tried to make several 911 calls. None of them went through. Her phone log lists them as cancelled calls, which could mean she simply hung up before a connection was established.”

  “But you don’t think that’s the case?”

  “I’m not sure, Hank, but I am suspicious. One of the 911 calls went unanswered for over nine seconds, which seems a bit long for an emergency operator to respond. On the other hand, I suppose it’s possible.”

  Hank nodded. “What makes you think otherwise?”

  “Something that happened later. When I entered the Rivas Canyon crime scene, I unexpectedly lost phone service. Later my service was restored, again for no apparent reason.”

  “Happens all the time in the canyons.”

  “Yeah, but no one on the street lost service. Just me.”

  “Still, it happens. Dead spots are common, especially in canyons that can block a cell-tower signal.”

  “That may be, but there’s more,” I continued. “What I’m about to tell you wasn’t revealed to the press, so keep it under your hat. There was a fourth terrorist present that night. He escaped, right around the time my cell service was restored.”

  Hank remained silent for a long moment. “I think I see where you’re going,” he said, looking pensive. “A cellphone jammer.”

  “Right. Our SWAT teams use tactical jammers at active crime scenes all the time. Jammers are also employed in prison environments, and they’re used by military units as well. But in those cases, the units are large and bulky. I’m wondering whether a portable jammer could explain what happened to me.”