by Bob Graham
“That’s certainly your right. Now, Mr. Ramos, Mr. Franklin Sands has apartment 444 at the Greenwich, directly across the hallway from Ms. Watson. He has signed a witness affidavit that on August 12, you and Ms. Watson had a loud—his term was ‘spitting match.’ He remembered the date because two nights before was Ms. Watson’s birthday and she had invited him to the party. He said he doesn’t get many invitations from beautiful young women and he was glad to go. Mr. Sands says you pushed yourself into her apartment and he stayed up for an hour with his door cracked open in case he heard a racket and needed to call the police.”
“Again, Mr. Larsen, I want to read the report,” Stephanie said.
“Okay, the last piece is Mr. Benjamin Brewster, who was especially helpful. He said that in early August—he couldn’t recall the exact date—he overheard an office telephone conversation in which you were screaming profanities at Ms. Watson. He said it was very disturbing to the other female employees in the vicinity. Mr. Brewster went on to say your display was consistent with your reputation as an amateur and professional tennis player. He compared you to—what’s the name of the guy in the car rental TV ads?—Jim McEnroe?”
“It’s John,” Stephanie corrected. “I want to read that report, too, before my client comments. Is there anything else?”
“No, but frankly that makes your client not just a suspect, but now the main suspect in the rape and murder of Ms. Carol Watson.”
“Before you go too far down that track, let me share a few other matters,” Stephanie offered. “I understand that the forensics lab has determined the bullets that killed Ms. Watson were S&W .45s from a Beretta. Right?”
“That’s correct,” Larsen confirmed.
“The handgun that Mr. Ramos was authorized by the State Department to carry was a Glock 26, which, of course, fires a .37 millimeter round. Can I assume you are satisfied Mr. Ramos’s weapon was not the murder weapon?”
“It wasn’t the Glock, but I can’t say that was the only handgun Mr. Ramos had access to.”
“If we could determine the origin of the .45 casings used in the homicide of Ms. Watson and the identity of the person who purchased those and the Beretta, would you be prepared to reconsider your assessment?” Stephanie asked.
“Do you have that information?”
“Not now, but I hope to soon.”
“How soon?”
“Forty-eight hours.” Tony looked at Stephanie with dismay.
Detective Larsen waited for Stephanie to continue and, failing to do so, said, “There is one other matter I should tell you about. Mr. Ramos, your superior, Ambassador Talbott, called me on your behalf. He gave you a strong character reference and, within the limits of its classified nature, told me of the assignment you have been given. What I’m going to do is to leave this matter where it is; you are the primary suspect, but we are not going to lock you up at this time. I’ll be continuing to gather evidence, and urge you to bring to my attention anything you find as soon as possible.” Looking at his watch, he concluded, “It’s 5:30 on Monday. I want to hear from you by this time on Wednesday. Ms. Toothaker, will you produce your client by then?”
“Yes, and we will have more information.”
SEPTEMBER 23
San Diego
Terri McKenzie was waiting in her Acura on the arrival level of San Diego airport. She recognized Stephanie Toothaker from the description she’d received from her the night before.
Stephanie placed her overnight case in the trunk and slipped into the passenger seat. “Tony speaks so highly of you.”
Terri laughed as she accelerated away from the terminal. “We’ve only spent one day together, yet I had a hissy fit when he didn’t call until he needed something.”
“That’s part of why I thought I should get out here and explain the lay of the land before you got in deeper.”
As Terri looked on expectantly, Stephanie told her the story of Tony and Carol, including Tony’s status as the prime suspect in her rape-murder. “There may not be enough evidence for a beyond-a-reasonable-doubt conviction, but he is damn close to being charged, arrested, and put in the D.C. jail. And this comes at a very inconvenient time—a critical time—for Tony and the U.S.”
As they neared El Cajon, east of San Diego, Terri remained silent. Her only visible emotion was a tightening of her hands on the steering wheel. Finally, “Do you think he’s guilty?”
“That’s not a fair question. My job is to defend my client. Honestly, I don’t know. He sure doesn’t seem the type, but in my business, you get cynical about what you see. I guess yours too.”
Terri nodded.
“The evidence is strong, but what we’re going to be doing today will go a long way in determining if it’s conclusive. Tony’s best—maybe only—shot to avoid arrest is to find a credible alternative as the real killer.”
Lock & Load was located on the west end of a neighborhood shopping center.
Terri pulled into a parking space in front of the store, and she and Stephanie entered. San Diego police detective Stu Wyllie was waiting on them. He was a decade older than the two women and gave off the aura of mature assurance, like Clint Eastwood in his later movies. Wyllie had seen enough sides of human behavior to tolerate it with a wry smile and few words.
He led the way to a solitary rear corner of the shop where he opened an oversized beige envelope. He extracted ten black-and-white photographs, each focused on a Ford F-150. Starting from the top, he displayed and explained them.
“The photos are in order of the date and time they were taken. These two were taken about midnight on July 12 in the Miami airport garage. The camera didn’t have a good angle, and there’s not much to see except an oblique corner of the license plate.
“The next two were taken by the tollbooth cameras when the truck was driven through. The two men are reasonably discernable, particularly the thick-bearded one in the passenger’s seat. The FBI lab guys did a good job on him.”
Skipping through the next four, Wyllie came to the last two. “These are the most conclusive. They must have slowed before deciding to run the Palmetto red light, and the camera had a clear shot at their faces attentively looking up. I asked the FBI lab guys to enhance and enlarge these to life size.” He turned the last photograph face-up. “And this is what we got. Better than your high school graduation photo, I bet.”
Jorge Santos, a thin forty-year-old with a swagger in his step and speech was the owner-manager of Lock & Load. Wyllie identified himself and introduced Terri and Stephanie without title or description.
Santos agreed to examine the photos to determine if any of the persons depicted in them looked familiar. He paused over the tollbooth shots, but couldn’t be sure. It was when Wyllie turned over the enlargement that the lights went on.
“Mohammed al-something, or Mohadded; I don’t know. He comes in here from time to time, more regularly last summer than any time before or since.”
“What did he do when he came in?” Wyllie asked.
“Mainly, he bought ammunition. He used to have a long rifle; he said he took it to Texas to hunt deer and antelopes.”
“Did he change his pattern?” Wyllie asked.
“Yeah. Midsummer; I know it was before the Fourth of July because I was off for a couple of weeks starting then. He bought a Beretta and a box of ammo. Most of our handguns are pretty much Saturday night specials, cheap. I remember whenever we sell a top-of-the-line handgun like that Beretta.”
“If we had Muhammad in a lineup, could you pick him out of a crowd?”
“I think so.”
“Could you look through your sales receipts before July 4 and determine his last name? Be sure the spelling is right—those Arabic ones are easy to confuse.”
Santos excused himself and went into his back-room office, closing the heavy security door behind him.
Wyllie looked at his watch. Over ten minutes had elapsed. He waited another ten before unholstering his Glock 23 and opening the offic
e door.
Santos’s body was slumped on the floor, behind the steel desk. A towel extended from his mouth, partially obscuring the jagged slash that had ripped open his neck and throat.
Grimly, Wyllie returned to the main room. “I’m afraid we’re not going to get any more information from Mr. Santos. He’s been murdered.” He immediately called the homicide unit and alerted the medical examiner’s office.
On the sidewalk, each of the three took his or her time coping with what had just happened. Stephanie said, “I don’t know if we have our man, but at least a serious suspect. Officer, since this is a registered gun shop, won’t there be a record of the sale in the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms file?”
“Yes. ATF should have the name and information on the purchaser of the Beretta. Homicide will be on top of that.”
Terri opened the passenger door of the Acura. On her seat were two .45 caliber casings.
SEPTEMBER 22–23
Washington, D.C.
Terri accompanied Stephanie on the red-eye flight back to Dulles. It didn’t take much persuasion from Stephanie and Officer Wyllie to convince her she was at risk. The gory memories of that afternoon were haunting. Neither woman was able to release them sufficiently to rest on the five-hour flight.
Sensing a major story, the Union-Tribune was quick to grant Terri indefinite leave with pay.
Proceeding directly to Detective Larsen’s office, the two exhausted women met Mark Block and Tony in a private interview room at D.C. police headquarters.
Stephanie filled in the details of the murder in San Diego, an event that had made it to page A4 of that morning’s Post. “Wyllie thinks he will have the name of the Beretta purchaser today. The San Diego police will put on a full-court press to locate whoever that may be.”
“We’ve been doing some investigating here,” Mark chimed in. “I’ve been re-interviewing the State Department personnel Larsen talked to on Saturday. With Ambassador Talbott’s assistance, I pulled the phone records of the INR bureau. Tony, your buddy Brewster has made twenty-two calls to the same number in Long Beach since the first of July.”
Tony shook his head. “The INR is a place for analytical nerds. But we’re around the spooks enough to have some idea of tradecraft. To make that many calls on an office phone for nonofficial business is stupid ... and illegal. I think I can guess, but who were they to?”
“Peninsular.”
“And what was his explanation?”
“Don’t know. Brewster’s been AWOL all week. We checked his apartment and he seems to have left town.”
Detective Larsen called the group into his conference room. Stephanie briefed him on what had happened in San Diego, the photographs, Santos’s preliminary recognition of the suspect, and minutes later, his murder. The two bullet casings in Terri’s Acura were the final icing on the cake.
“Have you heard back from the SDPD?” Stephanie asked. Then she added, “On the bullets?”
Larsen responded, “No, but at this point their origin is secondary.” His desk phone rang as he was finishing his thought: “What I’m interested in is the identification of the person who bought the Beretta.”
He spun his chair so he was facing the rear office wall and hunched over to take the call, leaving the other participants to gaze at each other in silence.
The detective replaced the receiver and, head still down and scribbling notes, slowly rotated to his original position.
Turning to Tony, Larsen said, “Mr. Ramos, it appears as if the Watson case has taken a new twist. That was Officer Wyllie. He says the ATF has given them the name of the man who bought the Beretta, and the homicide unit has been sent to bring him in for questioning. Pending what we hear further from California, I am reducing your status from suspect to person of interest. Ambassador Talbott has taken personal responsibility for your appearance, should it be required. Good luck on Mission Impossible.”
SEPTEMBER 24
San Diego
It was late on Wednesday afternoon when Sergeant Hector Alvarez and the ten other officers of the Beta SWAT Squad of the San Diego Police Department drove an unmarked Ford van past a one-story house in a working-class neighborhood across a canyon from the zoo. The lime-green concrete-block structure appeared to be deserted: no cars in the open carport or on the street in front, the grass needing attention, newspapers accumulating on the lawn.
Following departmental protocol, Alvarez parked the van half a block away, on a side street with a clear view of the lime-green house.
In helmets and full body armor, ten SWAT officers arrayed themselves behind the van in two lines of four and six. Alvarez looked down at his clipboard, then addressed them: “Abdul Muhadded is under suspicion of first-degree murder in the homicide of Jorge Santos on September 23. Muhadded has been implicated in a series of related homicides. He is armed and considered extremely dangerous. Every precaution should be taken in executing his arrest warrant. Consistent with maintaining the security of the operation, occupants of dwellings within one hundred yards of the target have been advised to vacate until the operation is complete.”
Looking up, Alvarez turned to the six officers constituting the line on his left. “Team A will enter through the front door, facing on Fontana Street. The knock-before-entering protocol is waived. On my command, force the door and enter.” Alvarez pointed to a diagram of the five-room interior of the house that had been distributed to each officer. Except for the leader of team A, each was assigned a specific room to enter and control.
Turning to the four on his right he continued, “Team B will control the rear door and enter on my command or that of the team A leader.
“Alpha Squad is available as backup if needed. Team leaders will call for help on the open command channel.
“You are authorized to use lethal force at any indication of resistance. Are there any questions?”
There was the shuffling of veteran warriors anxious to engage, but no questions.
Each officer made a final check of his M4 automatic weapon and other equipment. At Alvarez’s hand command, team A circled around the front of the van and moved laterally, flat against the row of houses facing Fontana between them and their target. Team B moved from the rear through the backyards of those same houses.
Alvarez remained in the van command post. Through his binoculars he could observe the movement of team A. Now, with their backs pressed against the wall of the target facing Fontana, the six inched their way to the door in a cautious, well-practiced procession. The team leader reached the door; Alvarez radioed the command to enter.
The team A leader inserted a Halligan bar between the lock and the doorframe, and slammed the bar with a sledgehammer. The door gave way. From a crouch, M4s at the ready, the SWAT officers burst in.
Even in the almost vacant neighborhood, their efforts did not go unnoticed. From the curtained front window of a house of the same model catty-corner from the one now occupied by team A, Ben Brewster and his olive-skinned, black-bearded companion had an unobstructed view of both teams. When all six had passed through the door, Brewster removed his Motorola cell phone from its holster and punched in a seven-digit number. His right thumb hung over the green SEND key, then pressed.
The bomb had been placed in the front corner bedroom, number 5 on Sergeant Alvarez’s diagram, whose walls were first to collapse. With the structural integrity of the building compromised, the enclosure surrounding the front door fell into the lawn and the roof crashed to the terrazzo floor. For a lingering moment the blinding light erased the afternoon shadows. A millisecond later the shattering sound of the blast caused both onlookers to cover their ears with their hands.
Brewster and the bearded man closed the curtains through which they had been watching and left through the rear door.
Brewster, at the wheel of a Toyota Tundra, turning west, spied Sergeant Alvarez running full-tilt, covered like snow by the falling debris, toward the collapsed house. He paused to look at Brewster and
the passenger, who raised a Beretta and fired two shots. Alvarez stumbled before crumbling to the pavement.
In less than seven minutes Brewster had turned the Toyota Tundra south onto Interstate 805. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Entering the flow of traffic, he noted a sign that read: Mexico 17 miles.
SEPTEMBER 27
Washington, D.C.
Mark Block was quick to accept the invitation when Tony called and said that he was exhausted and tense and needed to work through his funk on the tennis court. But Tony also had an ulterior motive. Mark was renowned for his memory and the way he applied it to staying in contact with his legion of friends and acquaintances, and Tony needed to tap into that.
In less than an hour of a crisp fall morning, Mark was dispatched 6–1, 6–0. Leaning against his Mustang, Tony generously observed, “You started strong. I calculate that’s twenty-four straight wins.”
“Actually,” Mark corrected, “The number is twenty-three.”
Tony accepted the correction and moved on. “It’s that steel-trap mind I’m here for. Do you recall that young attorney, Jeff Nussbaum, who worked on the FBI file of the 9/11 investigations? I heard he was somewhere in the Justice Department, but I’m not sure.”
“Yeah, Jeff has just been reassigned from the criminal division here in D.C. to the U.S. attorney’s office in Los Angeles.”
“Is that an up, down, or sidewise move?” Tony inquired.
“Up, I think. The L.A. office has had a lot of problems, like the Chinese spy case.”
“What Chinese spy case?” Tony asked.
“It came to be called the Parlor Maid case,” Mark explained as they walked to their cars. “This Chinese woman for twenty years lived a triple life. She was allegedly passing national security secrets to the Chinese, including nuclear secrets. For most of this time she was an informant of the FBI, who paid her $1.7 million for her services. And she was the lover of the two FBI agents who were supposed to be her handlers.”
