by Tom Turner
“I’ll be right there,” Crawford said, then he clicked off and looked up at Ott. “This should be interesting. We got Lonnie Bates and his lawyer out front.”
Ott smiled. “Lonnie got something he wants to get off his chest?”
“We’ll see,” Crawford said standing up.
“Guy’s name is Habib Hamdi,” Lonnie Bates said. “Back when we were growing up it was Jamie Deering.”
“So he converted to Islam?” Crawford asked.
Leonard Burton, Lonnie Bates, Ott, and Crawford were in the soft room, where they did interrogations. It was the step before the hard room, where they applied heavy pressure, pushing for confessions.
“Yeah,” Lonnie answered Crawford’s question. “Wears a robe and turban, the whole thing. One of those guys who’s always telling you what a bad dude he is.”
“What’s he do for a job?” Ott asked.
“Steals shit,” Lonnie said. “Anything he can lay his hands on. Word is he’s got hisself a Ferrari. Tried to lay it off on a fence down in Miami, but it was too hot for him.”
Crawford leaned in closer to Lonnie.
“I see I got your attention, Detective,” Lonnie said, with a smile.
“Keep goin’,” Crawford said.
“Well, it’s a little complicated,” Lonnie said. “Word is Jamie—I still call him that—may have capped somebody who owned the Ferrari, but I’m not real clear. All’s I know is he’s having big trouble dumping it.”
“Nobody wants to touch it?” Ott asked.
“So I hear,” Lonnie said, nodding.
“Got an address for this guy?” Crawford asked.
“Think he hangs at his girlfriend’s,” Lonnie said. “Somewhere in Lake Worth.”
“What’s her name?” Ott asked, taking notes on a pad.
“Dawnesha. Dawnesha Brown,” Lonnie said. “Think she does nails somewhere.”
“That’s all you got, Lonnie?” Crawford asked.
Leonard Burton had been pretty quiet up to that point. “Hey, man, that’s plenty,” he said. “Not every day that you get a murderer handed to you.”
“If he did it and if we can prove it,” Crawford said. “What do you think, Mort?”
Ott chuckled. “I think my fuckin’ shoulder still hurts from where Lonnie whacked me. That was more than just simple assault. What else you got, Lonnie?”
“Nothin’, man.”
“Where’s the car?” Ott asked.
“Got no idea. Swear.”
Ott glanced at Crawford. Crawford gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
“Okay, so where’d it come from then?” Ott asked.
“I don’t know that neither,” Lonnie said.
Ott exhaled. “Expect me to forget you tried to knock my shoulder out of its socket? Think harder.”
Lonnie glanced at Leonard Burton.
“Maybe someplace in Palm Beach,” Lonnie said.
“There you go again with all your maybes. Amir’s uncle’s garage?”
“Could be,” said Lonnie.
Ott shook his head. “Don’t gimme that—”
“Okay, okay,” said Lonnie. “Definitely.”
Thirty-Six
They tracked down Dawnesha Brown at Miss Lu’s Nails on Southern Boulevard in West Palm Beach late the next morning. They walked into the shop, ID’d themselves, and told her they needed to speak to her outside.
The three of them walked out of the nail salon, then Crawford and Ott turned to Dawnesha.
“Where does Habib live?” Crawford asked, under the overhang of the ramshackle strip mall.
Dawnesha’s eyes skittered back and forth between the detectives.
Ott took a step closer to her. “Where, Dawnesha?” he said. “We’re gonna charge you with abetting a criminal, if you don’t tell us right now.”
Dawnesha glanced away.
“He said, ‘right now,’” said Crawford. “Or your customers and co-workers are gonna see you in handcuffs.”
“Not good for business,” Ott added.
She looked down at the sidewalk. “411 North Pinellas Road.”
“Lake Worth?” asked Crawford.
She nodded.
Ott took a step forward and got so close she could smell him. “If he calls you, don’t answer,” he said. “If you call him, you’re goin’ to jail for a long time. Understand?”
Dawnesha nodded.
“Okay, you can go back in now,” Crawford said.
She turned and went back into her shop.
Crawford had never gotten a search warrant this fast before. Usually because one particular judge seemed to spend more time on the golf course than his office. But this time they caught him at the courthouse and he signed it right away after Crawford convinced him of “probable cause.” That is, that they might find evidence at Habid Hamdi’s house that suggested he was behind the murder of Amir Al-Jabbah.
41l North Pinellas was a bungalow with blue peeling paint and a disgruntled-looking pit bull on a chain in the front yard.
Crawford and Ott parked on the other side of the street a few houses down, got out and surveyed the scene. There were no cars in the driveway and, from what they could tell, no signs of life inside.
They walked across the street and down to 411. The pit bull eyed them and snarled.
“Want me to shoot the little bastard?” Ott asked.
“Thought you were a dog lover.”
“I am,” Ott said. “But that’s an oversized rat.”
They walked past the house and studied it from the other side.
They eyed it for a few more moments. “Not hearing a TV or anything,” Crawford said. “Lights are off.”
Ott nodded.
“Let’s go inside, have a look,” said Crawford.
They walked back to the house and Crawford opened the metal gate. The pit bull snarled louder and took a few steps toward them.
Ott glared back at it. He could be quite an effective intimidator. Crawford told him it was because of his fearsome glower, which he could turn on and off as easily as a smile. Whatever it was it seemed to work, because the bit pull just snarled like it had a stick caught in its throat and kept its distance.
They walked up to the porch and Crawford knocked on the flimsy front door.
Ott pointed down at a small, square stub of cardboard that said Habib Hamdi and Bashir El-Nadal, a yellow tack holding it up.
Crawford knocked again.
No one answered.
Crawford pushed the door with his right hand. It had plenty of give. “Bet a stiff breeze could blow it open.”
“How ‘bout a swift kick?” Ott asked.
“Definitely,” Crawford said, and that’s what he did.
The door swung in, like it was kept shut by scotch tape.
“‘Come on in, boys,’” Ott said.
“‘Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,’” Crawford said.
The placed smelled like one half armpit and one half Mexican food.
Crawford took out his Sig Sauer 220, just in case.
Ott didn’t bother.
“How could anyone live in a shithole like this?” Ott said, as they went into a combination living room and office.
Crawford pointed to a computer on a desk that had two Dos Equis empty beer cans and a red candle next to it.
“I’ll check it out,” Ott said, pointing at the computer and walking toward it as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
Crawford nodded and went toward one of the bedrooms. The bed had black sheets and was unmade. He walked over to a bureau that had change and another empty Dos Equis can on top. He saw a check, picked it up and took a look. It was from WPB Convention Center, Inc., in the amount of $844.91. It was made out to Habib Hamdi.
Crawford walked back out to the living room where Ott was sitting at the desk, clicking away on the computer.
“Looks like Hamdi works at the Convention Center in West Palm,” Crawford said. “Got a check he hasn’t cashed yet.”
> Ott swung around in the chair. “Isn’t that interesting,” Ott said. “Computer was on and he was on the Convention Center’s website.”
Crawford walked over to Ott and looked down at the computer.
“Something else,” Ott said. “Take a look at who’s at the convention center today and tomorrow.”
Crawford glanced down at Upcoming Events and between ‘Palmcom 2016-Comic Show’ and ‘United Association of Plumbers and Pipefitters Local Union 630,’ it said, ‘Law Enforcement of Southeastern US.’
“Holy shit,” Crawford said, turning to Ott. “Al-Jabbah’s got these guys on a mission.”
“Yeah, probably a fucked-up revenge plot ‘cause of what happened to his daughter.”
Crawford nodded. “So it’s got absolutely nothin’ to do with ISIS or 9/11,” Crawford said. “Just a guy who hates cops.”
Ott nodded. “He’s got Hamdi drinkin’ the Kool-Aid, too.”
“Where you get that?”
“Read a bunch of his Facebook posts.” Ott pulled one up on the computer. “Like…check this one out.”
Crawford leaned close to read it. “Go Des Moines shooter! You got five before they got you! RIP, my brother!”
Then he remembered the five Des Moines cops shot dead several weeks before.
“Jesus, Facebook lets you get away with shit like that?” Crawford asked.
“I don’t know, he got some pretty bad reactions.”
“Keep reading,” Crawford said, walking away. “I’m gonna check out the other bedroom.”
He opened the door and was greeted by another pungent smell. Something between nail polish remover and rotten eggs. He walked over to a wide, low bureau that had various cans and plastic bottles on top. One was a drain cleaner, another for the removal of rust, a third was a pool sanitizer, which was peculiar since there was clearly no pool at 411 North Pinellas Road.
“Mort, come in here, will ya.”
For a stout man, Ott moved fast. “Jesus, I think I like the piss smell better than this,” he said, walking up to the bureau.
He picked up one of the cans. “Well, look-ee here,” he said. “Think I used this shit to gas up model planes when I was a kid.”
“And this,” Crawford said, grabbing another, “got sulfuric acid in it”—pointing to the pool cleaner—“and that, for the pool they don’t have.”
Ott started to open a drawer, but Crawford grabbed his wrist. “Hold on, could be booby-trapped.”
“Good thinking,” Ott said, looking around. He knelt down and picked a long, skinny black tie off the floor and tied it around the knob on the drawer.
“Back up.”
They backed away a few feet and Ott turned away and pulled the tie. Nothing happened, so he pulled the drawer open and it was filled with nails, screws and ball bearings.
Crawford turned to Ott. “Got ourselves a little bomb-making factory here.”
Ott nodded. “Nitro-methane, acetone, hydrogen peroxide…yup, I’d say so,” he said, then pointed. “I’m guessing these homies probably don’t use that polish-remover for their nails.”
Crawford put on his own pair of latex gloves and picked up a plastic bottle, inspected it, and put it down. “We better get our asses over to the Convention Center,” he said taking long, quick strides out of the bedroom.
He stopped short in the living room and Ott almost plowed into him. “We got any pics of these guys?” Crawford asked.
Ott held up his iPhone. “Took one of each from Hamdi’s Facebook page.”
“Atta boy.”
“Always thinking,” Ott said as he followed Crawford out the front door.
The pit bull growled at them.
Ott just waved at him.
They walked over to the car and got in. Crawford turned to Ott. “Let me take a look at your pics of these guys,” he said as Ott turned the key to the ignition.
Ott handed him his iPhone.
“I got Ron Mendoza on speed dial from the Darryl Bill murder,” Crawford explained, scrolling the M’s, hitting a number, then pressing speakerphone.
Mendoza was the West Palm Beach chief of police.
“Mendoza,” the deep voice answered.
“Ron, this is Charlie Crawford, Palm Beach,” Crawford said, “I’m here with my partner. We got a 10-24 here. Two suspects—ISIS wannabes—one works at the Convention Center, may have bombs, possibly targeting the Law Enforcement convention there.”
“Ho-lee shit,” Mendoza said. “All right, let me get off and make some calls. What are the names?”
“Black guy and a white guy. I’m guessing mid-twenties. Habib Hamdi is the one who works there. Bashir El-Nadal is the other one,” Crawford said, spelling each for Mendoza. “Gonna email you photos.”
“Thanks.” Mendoza said and gave him his email address.
“We’re headed there now,” Crawford said.
“See you there,” said Mendoza.
Bashir El-Nadal and Habib Hamdi were parked on the side of Okeechobee Boulevard, El-Nadal at the wheel. He was at the wheel of a fire-engine-red 1997 Peterbilt 378 semi that weighed in at forty-four-thousand pounds and had a 475-horsepower engine. They had boosted it earlier in the day and were about to take it on its last glorious ride. Al-Jabbah’s plan was masterful, El-Nadal thought. Get up a full head of steam going down Okeechobee, then pull a hard right and crash through the glass front entrance as cops from all over the south were sucking down screwdrivers and Jack Daniels at the five o’clock welcoming cocktail party in the front main lobby.
They were expecting more than a thousand men in blue at the party, Hamdi told El-Nadal, no doubt boasting about their heroic exploits and making plans to hit the West Palm Beach titty bars after they got a good load on at taxpayers’ expense.
They had met with Jabbah Al-Jabbah for the last time at Starbucks on Clematis Street in West Palm. Al-Jabbah had promised that both their families would be getting half a million dollars each, which meant El-Nadal’s estranged wife and three kids and Hamdi’s mother. Al-Jabbah had said over and over how they would be heroic martyrs like the men who had taken part in 9/11, only more so because their victims would be cops, who had been directly persecuting their brothers and sisters for years.
Hamdi had tried to talk him into making it a million each, which Al-Jabbah could easily afford. But Al-Jabbah shook his head and said that he was paying them roughly one thousand dollars for everyone they would kill and that was the going rate. El-Nadal and Hamdi had looked at each other quizzically at the time, not aware that there was such a thing as a ‘going rate.’
Hamdi’s phone rang. He looked at the display. It was Al-Jabbah.
“Hello, my brother,” Hamdi said.
“It is time,” Al-Jabbah said. “Your date with destiny.”
Al-Jabbah prided himself on dramatic lines like that.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” Al-Jabbah said.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” Hamdi said.
El-Nadal turned the key and the Peterbilt sputtered before starting up. He put his foot on the accelerator and headed for the Convention Center a mile away.
First thing Ron Mendoza had done was call dispatch and put out a 10-24 alert that two suspects—maybe armed with suicide bombs—were at, or in the vicinity of, the Convention Center and everyone near there should converge on the building and be ready to shoot to kill. Then he had gotten through to the manager of the convention center and told him to evacuate the entire building immediately.
Crawford and Ott were going west on Okeechobee doing about sixty, Crawford’s pistol out, when the red Peterbilt blew past them.
“Jesus Christ,” Ott said, stepping on the gas. “You see that? Passenger was definitely one of our mutts.”
“Well, shit,” said Crawford. “Catch up, man.”
And in ten seconds, Ott was on the Peterbilt’s tail pipe, and had flipped on his lights and siren.
But instead of slowing, the Peterbilt picked up speed.
“Close the gap,” Crawford s
aid, as the Convention Center loomed up five blocks ahead.
He leaned out his window and shot at the tires of the Peterbilt. But it kept going. As Ott swung the cruiser to the left of the semi, he fired a burst into the cab.
Suddenly, the Peterbilt swerved left, cutting off their car and careening toward the front entrance of the Convention Center.
Crawford squeezed off five more shots, but the Peterbilt slowed only to adjust to the sharp left turn. It bumped up a few steps and smashed through the glass front doors of the Convention Center as Ott skidded to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the building. The Peterbilt exploded on impact and the Caprice shook like it was on top of an L.A. earthquake as metal fragments slammed into its windshield and front body.
Crawford looked over at Ott. “You all right?”
“Yeah, but my ears are ringing like shit,” Ott said, looking out through the front windshield and reaching for his door. “Doesn’t look like anybody was in the lobby.”
As he opened his door, Crawford noticed a nail embedded in the middle of the windshield.
Two black and white cars skidded to a stop on either side of the Caprice.
A uniform jumped out of his car and came up alongside them. “You guys all right?”
“Yeah,” Crawford said, “we’re fine. Guys in the truck…not doin’ so well.”
Cautiously, all of them walked into the lobby, their weapons drawn. Two bars were set up on either side of the lobby. There were broken bottles and glasses everywhere.
Crawford and Ott approached what was left of the Peterbilt. They looked through the driver’s side window. There was no way to ID the two men inside, but there was an iPhone on the floor that, remarkably, looked intact.
Crawford picked it up and scrolled down to the most recent calls. He saw the one from just ten minutes before and looked up at Ott.
“Whaddaya know,” he said. “Jabbah Al-Jabbah’s number. Wishing them a bon voyage, no doubt.”
“Yeah, off to the land of twenty virgins,” Ott said.
Groups of cops, their weapons drawn, started coming into the lobby from outside the building where they had retreated to once Mendoza’s warning had gone out. One of the cops went up to one of the bars and poured five inches of Stolichnaya into an unbroken glass. Then he took a long pull and almost drained it.