by Allen Kent
I looked from him, to Joseph, to my own team who stared at me expectantly.
“It needs to end with this attempt,” I said. “We need to let him get to Yusef Haddad.”
20
The challenge, or I guess I should say one of the challenges, of arranging the death of Yusef Haddad and restoring peace to the valley, was that there were so damn many moving parts to this whole mess. Even with the explosion out of the equation, we had Haddads scattering to work, school, and play every day; a suspected assassin we couldn’t find a good reason to arrest; and an assassin of the assassins we couldn’t find at all. It was this last piece I found the most unnerving as we broke up our strategy session and handed out assignments.
Grace was to go to the Haddads and ask them to curtail activities of all three families for the time being, saying only that we were concerned that there was the possibility of a new threat. Rosario feared, and I agreed, that if the local Syrians knew someone specific was after them, they would initiate a first strike of their own. Not what we needed if we were trying to de-escalate.
Rocky D’Amico accepted school duty for the Haddad grade school children. He was to meet the kids at their cluster of apartments each morning, walk them the eight blocks to school, and meet them at the end of the class day. Frankie was to follow the bus with the older kids out to the junior high/high school and trail them back in the afternoon.
Joseph arranged to get another patrolman assigned to the county for both day and night duty, while Johansson and Holland traded shifts keeping an eye on the Arbor Suites and our newly arrived Sayegh brother. Rosario insisted on being free to go where he felt like he was needed but agreed to chaperone the men to and from work at Kilgore Homes at 7:30 and 5:00. Grace grumbled about having the unsatisfying assignment of running the office, but still faced two more days of limited activity. Joseph and I took on the task of figuring out why we didn’t see anyone else watching Qasim Sayegh.
I couldn’t place the Arbor Suites among the dozens of hotels that had sprung up in Springfield since I’d haunted the city as a teenager. Joseph explained that it was just north of the James River Expressway in the burgeoning part of town called the Medical Mile. I suggested I follow her back to her apartment in my pickup, she park the Tahoe and change into civvies, and we go take a closer look at Arbor Suites. Though it was likely that a Syrian, new to the country, wouldn’t recognize a blocky, white, unmarked Tahoe with a driver’s side spotlight for what it was, there was no sense taking the chance.
Our first pass down Independence Street convinced me our Mr. Sayegh hadn’t been quite as clueless in his choice of lodgings as Joseph had suggested. The hotel backed on a highway that could be frantic at rush hour, and he was no more than a quick quarter mile from the onramp. Arbor Suites was a favorite of families wishing to be close to patients at the dozens of medical facilities clustered in that part of town, so people moved in and out at all times of day and night. Clerks expected a mix of visitors and knew not to ask too many questions. The outside rooms meant someone wishing to be anonymous never had to pass the desk. But Joseph was right about one thing. A single drive exited the parking area onto Independence. A stakeout had only to know what vehicle to watch for and keep an eye on the drive.
Newish buildings on three sides of the hotel housed professional services: a dental practice, a diagnostic services center, a cardiology clinic, and the offices of a regional senior living management group. Across the street, partially hidden by a low grassy berm, a veterinary hospital peeked between two mature maples and a scattering of younger spruce. I looped into the lot at the Arbor Suites and parked in the first available spot that faced the street.
“One of us better walk in and spend a few minutes,” I suggested. “If someone’s watching the drive, we need to look like a couple wanting a room.”
Joseph grinned over at me slyly. “This was creative, Tate. Are you going to come back out and tell me it might be a good idea for us to stay over?”
I shrugged. “Maybe there will be a room next to our guy. We can keep an eye on him and let your men get back to their normal duties.”
“Yeah. Right,” she sniffed. “And we’d have our attention completely focused on what was going on next door. I think we’d better stick with our assignment.”
“Worth a try,” I chuckled. “Why don’t you go in so I’m not tempted to book the honeymoon suite?” Joseph slid from the pickup and crossed the lot with the look of a woman resigned to a hotel stay while a loved one was receiving treatment. I scanned the lots around and quickly picked out Johansson parked beside the Dental Solution clinic to the east in his equally innocuous white Chevy Tahoe with driver’s side spot. If Jason Anzar was watching the hotel and had any surveillance experience at all, he’d know he had company.
I had come to believe that when Anzar was tracking the first Sayegh, he hadn’t been alone. The Patrol had checked Farid’s room and found no bugs or motion sensors that would alert an outsider when someone moved in or out. Hallway cameras showed only Sayegh and the cleaning woman enter. The frightened girl, a Somali immigrant working on a green card, had convinced Joseph that she knew nothing about the room’s occupant and hadn’t even seen the man.
My theory was that the Mercedes Sprinter had served as a mobile command post, allowing Anzar to position himself as needed to watch the Syrian’s car. That meant he had a roommate. The guy couldn’t watch around the clock. Someone switched off with him while he ate, slept, and did whatever else kept his eyes off his mark. So if Qasim Sayegh was being tracked as his brother had been and there was no Sprinter, I should be looking for another van—something two people could live and sleep in for a couple of days. From where I sat in the parking lot, I could see three.
A white Dodge Caravan was nosed into a spot along the front of the hotel, showing what looked like an Oklahoma plate. At the dental clinic, four spots down from Johansson’s Tahoe, a red Chrysler Pacifica with Missouri plates faced the hotel, separated by a strip of grass and low shrubs. In front of me across Independence Street, the deeply-tinted windshield of a silver minivan peeked over the grassy berm that separated the road from the animal hospital. The knoll covered enough of the van that I couldn’t make the plate or model. A low western sun gleamed off the reflective tinting, shielding anyone who might be watching from the front seat. Both the Dodge and Chrysler looked empty.
I casually picked up my cell and auto-dialed Dave Johansson’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Well, good afternoon, Tate. I see you and Officer Joseph have decided to give me a hand.”
I rolled down the window and leaned an elbow against the frame. If I was being watched, this needed to look like a relaxed conversation between friends.
“While you’re keeping an eye on our visitor, we’re trying to ID anyone who might be doing the same thing. How long have you been here?”
“I came straight up from the briefing. Got here about two. The man I replaced said Sayegh was still inside. He hasn’t moved since.”
“Where’s his car?”
“About six spaces to your left. That dark blue Hyundai.”
“I can see three vans that might be mobile surveillance posts. That red Chrysler to your left in the same row, a white Dodge behind me along the front of the hotel, and one I can just see the top of across the street in front of me. Did you see any of them come in while you’ve been here?”
“Yeah. The red van in this lot has only been here about an hour. A mom with a couple of kids who went into the dental clinic. And that Pacifica got here not too long before you did. An older couple. The woman was driving and unloaded a wheelchair from the back for the man. They must be staying over there while he gets some kind of outpatient treatment.”
“And that silver van across from me in the vet hospital lot? Was it there when you got here?”
“Yes. It’s been there the whole time.”
“Did you happen to ask the officer you replaced about any of the other cars around?�
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“No. He just confirmed the guy we’re watching for was still in the hotel and pointed out the car he’s rented.”
“Could you get in touch with him and see if he remembers that van being there?”
“Sure. Give me a minute. I’ll be right back with you.”
Joseph opened the passenger door as I hung up and slid in beside me. “I see Dave’s over by the dental building,” she said. “The clerk pointed out Sayegh’s car to me. He can see it from the lobby. It’s that blue Hyundai. It hasn’t moved since he got here.”
I nodded. “I just talked to Dave. And keep looking at me while I tell you this. I was asking him about the silver van that’s parked almost in front of us across the street. Behind that little mound. He’s checking with whoever had the morning shift to see how long it’s been there. Until he calls back, you need to be telling me all the rooms are booked.”
She gave me a sober, discouraged look. “Sorry Tate. You’re out of luck. No room at the inn. In fact, Sayegh was lucky to get one as a walk-in last night.”
“No room at the inn? Now, that’s an unusual Christian allusion for a Jewish girl from St. Louis.”
She gave me a frustrated shake of the head. “Tate, sometimes you come up with the damnedest things—and at the strangest times. What has that got to do with anything? I grew up surrounded by Christmas. I probably know that Christmas story as well as you do. Now, what’s going on with the van?”
I was halfway through my theory of two watchers and a mobile surveillance van when Dave called back. I put him on speaker.
“Garcia said the van was there when he picked up the shift at eight,” he reported. “He suggested you call Officer Nichols who came over as soon as the hotel reported Qasim’s arrival. He covered the night hours.”
Joseph glanced at her watch. “I’ll call Ron. He should be up by now.”
We signed off with Johansson. I started the pickup and pulled out of the Arbor Suite’s lot while Joseph dialed. We turned left along a long bend in Independence Street, passing two entrances into the veterinary clinic. When out of sight of the van, I swung into a third drive that led to the back of the building. Nichols answered and Joseph asked about the van while I tucked the pickup in next to a walk that ended at what looked like a rear service entrance.
“Very helpful, Ron,” Joseph said as I killed the engine. “I’ll let you know what develops.” She tucked the phone back into a front pocket of her jeans and gave me a thoughtful frown. “Ron saw the van drive into the lot about six a.m. But he’s pretty sure it was parked over in front of the FSL building before that.”
“FSL?”
Joseph nodded toward the front of the clinic. “Foster Senior Living. It’s the main offices for a group of managed senior living facilities. Just west of the hotel.”
“So the van moved from one lot to the other right around six?”
“That what he thinks.”
I pushed open the door of the truck. “My turn this time. I’m afraid if I go around the building, whoever’s in the van might pick me up in a mirror. I’ll see if I can get in through the back and find a window where I can see the plate. If the people inside don’t want to cooperate, I may need to have you come in and show your patrol credentials.”
“We could both go,” she suggested.
I tossed her the keys. “We could. But if the van left while we were in there, we’d be kicking ourselves. If it takes off for some reason, follow it.”
The rear door of the clinic was locked. I banged with a fist, waited a few seconds, and was about to risk walking around to the main entrance when a young woman in blue scrubs opened it and peered out, looking embarrassed on my behalf.
“I’m sorry, sir. But this isn’t a customer entrance.”
I showed her my badge and used my polite officer voice. “I’m with the sheriff’s department. We’re trying to keep an eye on a van that’s parked in your front lot facing the road.” As I had guessed, she didn’t look carefully at the badge to check the county. “Can I just walk through and take a look out a front window? We’re trying to get a plate number.”
A concerned frown wrinkled her face. “Oh. Okay. One of the doctors asked when he came in this morning if anyone knew who that was. It was parked there before any of us got here.” She held the door and let me into a short hallway that led between two examination rooms into a spacious reception and waiting area. An older man in a white lab coat stepped out of one of the rooms, looked us both over, and asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?” I again showed my badge and explained about the van.
“What’s it suspected of?” he wanted to know.
“Several businesses along the street have reported it staying in their parking areas overnight,” I improvised. “We’re concerned about someone living in it. We don’t want them hanging around the area after the buildings close. I’d like to run a check on it before we approach to see if we can learn anything about the owner. A quick look at the plate is all I need, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a problem for us,” he said. “Stacy, walk him on through the kennel room, then back when he has what he needs.”
I thanked him and trailed Stacy down a longer hall and into a large open room that smelled of dog chow, woodchips, and antiseptic. Cages against one wall held an assortment of dogs: two sleeping, one pacing and barking anxiously, the rest perched eagerly on their haunches with tongues hanging out. A glassed-off section held cats in smaller cages, all sitting near the front of their pens, watching us suspiciously. It confirmed what I’d always thought about one of the differences between the species: dogs are social creatures; cats are forever wary.
“Are we in any danger?” the girl asked as she guided me across the room to a row of high windows that looked out onto Independence Street.
“I wouldn’t think so,” I assured her. “With it parked down in this area, we suspect it’s someone with a patient in one of the hospitals around who just doesn’t want to spring for a hotel. If that’s the case, we’ll help them find a campground where they can park overnight.”
The windows were high enough that the girl had to stand on tiptoes to see the van. “That one there? The silver Toyota?”
“That’s the one.”
“Does that plate say Mississippi?” she asked, craning to see over the sill.
“Looks like it to me.” I copied the number from the light blue plate centered by a round state seal. “Can you read that? Hinds County? I think that’s Jackson.”
“Yup. Hinds. That’s a long way to come for treatment,” she murmured.
“They must have family that lives in the area,” I suggested.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Don’t be mean to them.”
21
We waited in the pickup while Joseph called in the license number. It only took seven minutes for the reply. Tyler Brawn of Jackson, Mississippi. She immediately called Rosario, told him what we’d found, and asked if he could get a complete profile run on the name, specifically military service and any connection to the online Talismen. He said he’d try to be back with us within thirty minutes, to hold tight. We filled the half hour by planning how we should approach the darkly tinted van.
It took forty minutes for Rosario to get the information. “Just what you’d suspected,” he said, speaking through the Bluetooth in his car. “I’m on my way up there. Tyler Brawn was with the 155th Armored Brigade and served in Syria at the same time Anzar did. He was discharged about three months ago. And his online search history shows connection with the Talismen website.”
Joseph chuckled. “How did you find that out so quickly?”
“When you have any kind of presence online, like Facebook,” Rosario explained, “it’s not that difficult to trace an activity back to a computer’s IP address. I’m not sure exactly how our tech team does it, but they can then pretty easily find out what sites that address has accessed. Those search engines aren’t any better protected than most good commercial sites, and our
guys are good.”
Joseph looked over at me with an impressed arch of her forehead. “Do you want us to wait for you to get here to approach the vehicle?” she asked the agent.
“No. I’m still an hour away. Both of you approach. Ask Johansson to keep an eye on you. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
Joseph called Dave Johansson while I drove back out of the rear lot and into the clinic’s front parking area. “Better reposition where you can see both the hotel drive and this van,” she instructed her patrol colleague. “And where you can block this drive pretty quickly if we run into trouble.” Dave was moving before I eased my Ford up behind the Sienna.
Joseph released her holster strap as we stepped from the pickup. I approached the driver’s door, she the passenger side. The windows were so deeply shaded we couldn’t see a damn thing inside the van. I rapped sharply on the driver’s window. It immediately whirred downward.
A young man I placed in his early twenties with a square, clean-shaven jaw, intelligent hazel eyes, and close-cut brown hair, grinned out at me. “Something I can help you with?” he asked.
I showed him my badge. “We’ve had complaints that you’ve been loitering around the parking areas here. You’re making some of the businesspeople nervous.” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the clinic, then took my badge and looked it over thoughtfully.
“Aren’t we in Greene County, Sheriff?” he asked pleasantly. “You seem to be out of your jurisdiction.”
I nodded toward the other side of the van. “My partner there is state police. She’ll be happy to show you her creds.”
“Wow! State police!” he said with a twisted grin. “That’s pretty heavy backup for loitering. Especially when I’m not even in your county.”
I ignored the sarcasm. “May I see you license, Mr. Brawn,” I asked. A voice answered from the rear of the van.
“I’m Brawn. And sure. You can see my license.”