by Steve Gannon
Later I grabbed a catnap on a cot in the back of the station. Afterward, I shaved and cleaned up a bit in the detectives’ bathroom. Then, at 1:00 a.m., I prepared to start calling European marketers.
With a growing sense of discouragement, I stumbled back to the squad-room coffee station, poured my ninth cup of the day, and returned to my desk. Although unsure where my efforts would lead, as I glanced at our list of European distributors, I knew one thing for certain.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 44
Taylor and Long returned to the squad room early the next morning. Arnie, Banowski, and Deluca showed up shortly afterward, and together we worked straight through until noon, contacting nearly every distributor on our European list.
After a quick lunch at the Brentwood Country Mart, we returned to the squad room and spent several additional hours prioritizing potential suspects. By then we had developed a disconcertingly large database of U.S. private citizens who owned cellphone jammers that had the capabilities our terrorists would have required. Even by limiting our search by concentrating on purchasers in Southern California, then Arizona, and finally the remainder of the western states, we still wound up with an almost unmanageable number of names.
Our first investigative attempt was to compare individuals on our list with every person on the Bureau and LAPD databases, in particular checking for anyone connected with Ethan James Hess, the only identified terrorist to date. Disappointingly, this approach proved a dead end.
It was time to hit the streets.
For that we broke into three teams—Deluca and Banowski, Taylor and me, and Arnie and Long. Our first two teams were tasked with interviewing jammer purchasers within driving range. Arnie and Long would remain at the station calling jammer owners farther out, including those living out-of-state. It would have been optimal to have something definite for which we were searching, but we didn’t. Instead, we would have to depend on our intuition and investigative experience, asking questions and looking for anything that didn’t seem to fit.
Not the greatest plan, but it was the best we had.
We worked through the remainder of Saturday and all of Sunday, starting with the closest jammer purchasers and progressing outward. By Sunday evening Taylor and I had made it north to Glendale; Deluca and Banowski had covered south to Torrance and east to Whittier. Arnie and Long had completed calls to Northern California and were starting on purchasers in the San Diego area.
So far nothing had turned up.
As time went on, I found that I liked working with Taylor. She had good instincts and a nice touch with the interviews, her more subtle techniques dovetailing well with my direct, in-your-face approach. Nevertheless, despite our best efforts, by week’s end we had come up cold.
On Monday Long had to resume his regular duties at the West L.A station, although he continued calling out-of-the-area jammer owners when he had a chance. Deluca, Taylor, and Banowski also returned to their day jobs, leaving Arnie and me to interview jammer purchasers on our own. Each night after finishing their regular shifts, Deluca and Banowski joined me at the beach house, trading off watch and grabbing a few hours sleep in between.
During that time, in the hope that I would receive visitors, I intentionally left my home security system unarmed. As with our jammer interviews and the growing number of false-alarm webcam events that had swelled Padilla’s surveillance archive, nothing positive developed, and by the following weekend I was beginning to think our efforts had been for naught. Complicating matters, Mike’s work in Canada was coming to an end, and Allison was calling daily demanding to know when she could return. I still didn’t have an answer for that. Nor had I decided how to keep Nate safe once he was released from the medical center.
Notably, during that week I heard nothing from Bureau or LAPD authorities questioning my absence, confirming my conviction that both agencies had hung me out to dry. Now they just wanted to forget the issue, and to forget me, too.
And the sooner, the better.
Chapter 45
Early the following Saturday, our small team reconvened at the West L.A. station. With Arnie and Long again working the phone lines, our other two units hit the streets. Later that morning Taylor and I had progressed to interviewing a jammer owner in Sylmar, a residential area in the northern San Fernando Valley. I was driving. Taylor was riding shotgun, checking her cellphone GPS for directions.
At a little after 10:00 a.m., we arrived at a rundown house on the south edge of town. After parking on a seedy street out front, we exited the Suburban and climbed a short flight of stairs to the front door of the one-story residence. By then we had developed a system. I knocked. Taylor did the talking.
Our knock was answered by a tall, thin woman in her early twenties. She opened the door but left her security chain in place. “Yeah?” she said, peering out from behind a straggly fringe of bleached blond hair.
“Ms. Perkins?” said Taylor, referring to her notebook. “Sally Perkins?”
“So?”
“I’m Special Agent Taylor, and this is Detective Kane. We’re investigating a series of incidents in the area,” Taylor continued pleasantly, flashing her credentials. “May we come in and talk?”
“I didn’t do nothing,” the woman replied, regarding us suspiciously.
“We didn’t say you did,” I replied not so pleasantly, also flipping out my ID. “We need a minute of your time. Everyone else in your neighborhood has cooperated,” I lied. “No reason you shouldn’t, either . . . unless you have something to hide.”
“I ain’t got nothing to hide,” the woman mumbled. “I guess you can come in,” she added, unlatching the security chain.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Taylor, easing past her into the house. I followed Taylor in. As I did, Taylor shot me a look that said she sensed something was odd.
As we trailed the woman into a small living room, I smelled the distinctive reek of pot, possibly explaining the woman’s reluctance to invite us inside. The woman lit a cigarette and slumped onto a couch facing a large-screen TV. Taylor sat in a chair across from her. I remained standing.
“What’s this about?” Ms. Perkins demanded, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I swear, if this has anything to do with that piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend of mine—”
“We’re checking on an online purchase you made,” Taylor broke in, again referring to her notebook. “About a year ago. You bought a cellphone jammer in December, just before Christmas?”
“I knew it!” said the woman. “That goddamn Parker.”
“What are you talking about? Who’s Parker?” I asked.
“Parker’s my ex-boyfriend, the one who used my credit card to buy a bunch of stuff and then stuck me with the bill.”
“Where is Parker now, Ms. Perkins?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen him in a year. Don’t want to, neither.”
“But you know where to find him?”
The woman hesitated, then shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Does Parker have a last name?” asked Taylor.
“Parker Dillon.”
Reaching into my jacket, I withdrew several morgue shots of the two unidentified intruders at the Clark residence. “Is Parker either of these men?” I asked, passing the photos to Ms. Perkins.
“Jesus, are these guys dead?” she mumbled, staring in shock. Then, stubbing out her cigarette, she grabbed a pair of eyeglasses from the coffee table and looked closer. “Actually, this guy looks a little like Parker,” she said, tapping the image on one of the photos. “He had a beard when I knew him. Hard to tell. Maybe.”
At this, I felt my pulse quicken.
“Was Parker tall or short?” asked Taylor.
“Tall. And skinny. That prick could eat anything and not gain an ounce.”
“Did Parker ever live in Arizona?” I asked, taking a shot in the dark.
The woman nodded. “Before I met him. Flagstaff, I think. How’d you know that?”
>
“Does Parker have any Muslim friends or affiliations?” I asked, ignoring her question.
The woman looked puzzled. “Not that I know of.”
“Do you have any pictures of Parker?” Taylor jumped in. Although she kept her tone neutral, I could tell she was getting excited, too.
The woman shook her head. “I threw out all his stuff. Didn’t want to be reminded.”
“You didn’t keep anything?” I asked. “Nothing?”
“Well . . . I did save a couple things. He owed me money.”
“What did you keep?”
“Parker was a gun nut,” the woman answered. “I stashed a couple of his pistols before he moved out. Like I said, he owed me money.”
“We’re going to need those items,” I said. When the woman looked doubtful, I added, “Don’t worry, you’ll get them back when we’re done.”
“Okay. Long as I get ’em back. They’re in my closet.”
The woman rose and headed deeper into the house. Taylor and I followed her back to a cluttered bedroom. Standing on her toes, the woman pulled a shoebox from the top shelf of a closet. Without opening the box, she set it on a bedside stand. “You promise I’ll get this back?” she asked.
“When we’re done,” I assured her. Using a pen and touching only the edges, I flipped open the box. Inside, along with several cleaning rags, were two handguns—a Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver, and a Kimber .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol. “Have you touched either of those weapons?” I asked.
The woman shook her head. “Don’t like guns.”
“You never handled them, even when you put them in the box?” asked Taylor, realizing where I was going.
“Parker put ’em in there.”
“That’s good, Ms. Perkins,” I said, using my pen to close the box. “I’m also going to need to borrow one of your pillowcases,” I added, stripping one from a pillow on her bed and using it to enclose the shoebox.
“You’ll get that back, too,” said Taylor.
“Whatever,” the woman grumbled. Then, regarding us curiously, “All this because Parker bought a cellphone blocker? Seems like you’re going to a lot of trouble for nothing.”
“You’ve been helpful, Ms. Perkins,” said Taylor. “We’ll be in touch.”
“I have one more question,” I said, turning in the doorway to block the woman’s exit. “And before you answer, Ms. Perkins, I’d advise you to think real hard. Your boyfriend Parker may be in serious trouble, and not just because of a cellphone jammer. If there’s anything you’re not telling us, you could be considered an accomplice.”
The woman shifted uncomfortably. “I told you everything.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. Ignoring a curious look from Taylor, I stepped closer to the woman and held her eyes with mine. “I can tell when someone’s lying. Earlier, when I asked whether you knew where to find Parker, you lied. Or at least you held something back. What was it?”
The woman looked away. “Nothing. I mean, nothing for sure,” she corrected. “Parker was involved with some cult he kept trying to get me to join. They have a compound where they raise their own food and such—an intentional community, Parker called it. He said we could move out there and live for nothing.”
“And?”
“And I think he went there after I kicked him out.”
“Where is this ‘intentional community’ compound of Parker’s?”
The woman thought a moment. “I don’t know for sure . . . but I think he said it was somewhere in Trancas Canyon.”
Chapter 46
From their concealed position on the hillside, Rudy peered down at the beach house below. “I’m tired of waiting. You think someone is still inside?”
Jacob lowered a pair of high-powered binoculars with which he had been studying the beach residence. “Patience, Rudy. We’ll wait as long as it takes to be certain no one is present.”
“Who were the men who left with Kane?”
“Police officers, most likely,” Jacob answered, again raising his binoculars. “Because surveillance vehicles are no longer present on the street, it appears the authorities have now stationed men inside Kane’s home.”
Patiently, Jacob studied the residence for another minute. Then, “I think everyone is gone,” he said. “Are you sure you’ll be able to disable the security system?”
“Positive,” Rudy replied. “It’s a wireless system with no landline, so no problem.”
“Are you certain?”
Rudy shrugged. “I didn’t work at a security company for nothing, Jacob.”
Satisfied, Jacob returned with Rudy to their vehicle, a nondescript van displaying magnetic door panels and a roof cap that read: “Onkin Pest Control.” Minutes later, after following a narrow, winding road down to Pacific Coast Highway, they pulled to a stop, parking several houses down from Kane’s residence. Then, wearing workmen’s coveralls, they quickly walked to Kane’s front door.
“Is the jammer on?” Rudy asked when they arrived.
After checking a small device clipped to his tool belt, Jacob nodded.
Rudy rang the buzzer and banged on the door.
No answer.
At a nod from Jacob, Rudy opened a leather satchel he had carried with him. After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he rummaged inside the bag. Finding what he wanted, he removed an electric pick gun, an oddly shaped device that resembled a flashlight with a strip of metal jutting from the front. Using the pick gun and another metal tool called a torsion wrench, Rudy opened Kane’s six-cylinder mortise lock in exactly eight seconds. It took even less time for the buzzing device to breach Kane’s doorknob lock.
Jacob put a hand behind his back, curling his fingers around the grip of the Charter Arms snub-nosed .38 Special revolver tucked in his coveralls. “Hello?” he called into the house, opening the door a crack. “Pest control. Anyone home?”
Both men paused, listening.
“Here, boy,” Jacob called into the house again, hoping Kane didn’t have a dog. “Here, boy,” he repeated, whistling softly.
Nothing.
Donning a pair of latex gloves of his own, Jacob followed Rudy inside. As they entered, Jacob noticed a light blinking on an alarm panel by the door. Forcing himself to remain calm, he glanced at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”
With a nod, Rudy inspected a Vivint wireless alarm panel mounted in the entry, then punched in the numerals 2580, entering a factory-preset duress code to disarm the system. In addition to deactivating the alarm, the Vivint “secret” duress code, designed for use by someone being forced to deactivate his or her alarm, was also programmed to notify the police. The panel’s emergency call, however, was being blocked by Jacob’s jammer, preventing the internal radio circuit from linking to a nearby cell tower.
With the system now deactivated, Rudy entered another factory-preset default sequence, this time punching in the installer code 2203. Moments later he had access to the entire system.
“No one ever changes the defaults,” said Rudy, making note of Kane’s master code. Then, pressing another series of buttons, “What code do you want to add?”
Jacob thought for a moment. “6666,” he said, deciding to pick an easy sequence to remember.
Rudy paused, concentrating on programming in Jacob’s new code. “Okay, done.”
“Excellent.” Jacob again checked his watch. “We have five minutes to reconnoiter the residence. And if possible, to find a key.”
“Right,” said Rudy.
“Five minutes,” Jacob repeated. “No more.”
Chapter 47
The weather took a turn for the worse on our drive back from Sylmar, with the wind picking up and storm clouds gathering over the ocean to the west. Fighting freeway traffic on our way in, I phoned the other members of our team, bringing them up to date on our visit with Sally Perkins. After asking them all to meet us in the West L.A. squad room, I next called Jimmy Wú, a friend who worked in the LAPD’s latent prints unit. Al
though Jimmy was off-duty for the weekend, he agreed to join us in West L.A. as well—no questions asked.
In recent years, staffing shortages and LAPD budget cuts had created a backlog in the department’s fingerprint analysis unit, with thousands of theft, burglary, and other property crimes going unprosecuted as a result. The situation had deteriorated to the point where detectives and sometimes even patrol officers were being trained to collect latent-print evidence at selected crime scenes, allowing analysts more time to work on other cases. As such, I had received basic fingerprint training myself, and I briefly considered attempting to lift latent prints from Parker’s weapons. In the end I decided against it. Given the situation, any evidence we recovered was simply too important to risk screwing things up.
We found Jimmy Wú waiting for us at the station when we arrived. As requested, he had brought a fingerprint kit with him. After describing what we needed, I set Jimmy up at an empty desk in the back and gave him the pillowcase-wrapped shoebox. Next, Taylor and I met with the rest of our team in Long’s office. As we waited for Jimmy’s results, I reviewed what Taylor and I had learned in Sylmar, stressing that confirmation of our suspicions would depend on matching any latent prints recovered from Parker’s guns to one of the unidentified terrorists at the Clark residence.
“Damn, amigo,” said Arnie when I’d finished. “This could be it.”
“Maybe,” I said. Then, glancing around at the others. “So where do we go from here?”
Taylor spoke up. “Assuming we get a print match, we don’t have a choice. We turn everything over to the Bureau.”
“Or to Snead’s task force,” said Deluca.
“Or both,” said Long.
“I’m not saying I disagree, but let’s think about this for a minute,” I suggested, not willing to turn things over just yet. “Snead and the Bureau have both discounted the cellphone-jammer theory, so no one at either agency is going to be particularly receptive. Without authorization, we followed up on the jammer lead ourselves and came up with a name—Parker Dillon. If Parker turns out to be one of the dead guys at the Clark house, maybe our unauthorized investigation gets forgiven. But then what?”