U
rda dispatched one of his agents to share watch with Sloane and another to sit with Chase in the manager’s office. Knowing they were both backed up, Harvath left the hotel and met up with the FBI man at the Cool Springs Brewery on the corner. He was a tall, solid guy in his late forties who looked like he had probably played football in college.
Once they were on the highway and confident that they hadn’t been followed, Urda activated his lights and siren.
He exited the highway east of downtown and navigated through a low-income neighborhood of weed-infested yards and houses that were falling apart. Flashing blue lights and the powerful white lights of evidence lamps two blocks up told Harvath they were in the right place.
Urda showed his credentials to a Nashville PD patrol officer, who waved them through, and he grabbed the nearest parking place they could find. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off one of the houses, and crowds of onlookers were being held back across the street.
Walking up to one of the detectives, Urda identified himself and asked for a man named Hoffman.
“Hey, Mike!” the detective shouted. “You’ve got a visitor.”
A muscular man in a tight suit stepped away from a group of evidence technicians and came down the walkway. Urda shook hands with him and then introduced Harvath.
“Detective Mike Hoffman,” he said, shaking Harvath’s hand.
“Mike works with the FBI’s Nashville office on a lot of our cases,” Urda explained. “He’s the detective who agreed to be at the airport to follow Tommy Wong.”
“Except we ended up with somebody even worse,” he replied.
“What exactly happened here?”
“Follow me,” said Hoffman. “I’ll show you.”
After they signed in, with Harvath giving a fake name and agency, they were issued paper booties and told they could go inside. The techs were done collecting samples and everything had been photographed. The body had not yet been removed.
Hoffman stood back as he approached the front door and allowed Harvath and Urda to go in first. More portable evidence lamps crowded the living room, bathing it in hot, white light. The scene was horrific. Blood was everywhere. The FBI man stood with the Nashville detective as Harvath did a circle around the body and studied the room.
“Somali?” he asked.
Hoffman nodded. “Wazir Ibrahim. Thirty-one years old. He was a political refugee who moved to Nashville a couple years ago.”
“Is there a big Somali population here?”
“We’re not Minneapolis, but we’ve got our share.”
Ibrahim was in a kneeling position, slumped over forward, with his throat cut clean through.
“Any idea what the murder weapon was?” Urda asked.
“We’re thinking it was possibly a straight razor,” replied Hoffman.
“Or a garrote wire,” said Harvath as he bent down and studied the wound.
“He really bled out, didn’t he?” stated the FBI man as he looked at the large pool of blood across the carpet. “What’s he kneeling on? A prayer rug?”
Harvath nodded. “It looks like the killer came up behind him and did him while he was in prayer.”
“Which we’re assuming means that Wazir Ibrahim knew his killer. He knew he was in the house, and was comfortable enough to pray in front of him, or maybe even with him.”
“Big mistake,” Urda replied.
“No kidding.”
Harvath stood behind the body and mimicked garroting Ibrahim, in order to get a feel for how everything went down. “So what’s your connection to all of this?” he asked Hoffman.
“One of the task forces I’m on is focused on child sex crimes. We’ve been working a child prostitution ring run by a Somali network. Ibrahim’s name had come up, but we didn’t have enough evidence to charge him. A couple days ago, he got popped for beating his wife.
“I got called in and we tried to sweat him for details about the sex ring. As soon as we started talking about it, he clammed up and asked for a lawyer. He got his bail hearing, but couldn’t afford to bond out, so he sat in lockup.”
“Where’s the wife?” Harvath asked.
“She has family south of here in Shelbyville. The social worker recommended she stay with them for a while. Her brother-in-law came back up to get some more of her things. He’s the one who discovered the body. And before you ask, the wife and the brother both have airtight alibis.”
“Okay, so how do we know this is connected to our guy?”
“Because when officers collected statements, the next-door neighbor, a Mr. Enrique Vasquez,” said Hoffman, referring to his notebook, “stated that an Asian man had come looking for Ibrahim earlier today. The man claimed to be from the warehouse Ibrahim worked at. Said he was here about an insurance claim. I spoke to Ibrahim’s boss. Wazir never filed any insurance claim and the company carrier never sent anyone out.
“The guy gave the neighbor a business card, but it was bogus. Obviously, something’s going on, so I started thinking. What are the odds that two Asian gentlemen switch boarding passes for a flight to Nashville on the same day some Asian guy with a bogus cover story is sniffing around a murder scene just hours before the murder happens?”
“Probably not a coincidence,” offered Urda.
Hoffman nodded. “Which is why I put together a photo lineup and included one of the stills of your guy Deng from the CCTV footage at Nashville International. Guess which one the neighbor picked out?”
“Deng.”
“Yup. Says he’s positive, except the guy he saw banging on the front door today had glasses.”
“What about the brother-in-law? Does he know anything?”
“No. He and Wazir didn’t really have a good relationship. We showed him the photos, too, but he didn’t recognize anyone.”
“Have you had a chance to question the wife?” Harvath asked.
“Not yet,” said Hoffman, “but we’re working on it. She’s on her way back to Nashville now.”
“So who bailed Ibrahim out of jail?”
“His bond was put up by a local operation called Lumpy’s. The agent who did all the paperwork said he had a phone call claiming to be from the director of some Somali benevolence association. The caller allegedly stated that he had heard Wazir had been locked up, but didn’t know any of the details. He stated his mosque had taken up a collection to help him.
“The bond agent pulled up the info in the county system and relayed it to the caller. He told him what the rap was and how much it would cost to get him out. A while later, some Somali showed up with the entire thing in cash, plus the bond agent fees, and that was that, Ibrahim got sprung.”
“Do we know who the Somali that showed up with the money is?”
“He’s a taxi driver,” Hoffman replied. “We’ve got detectives with him right now. He says some Asian guy paid him three thousand dollars to drop off the bail money, sign the paperwork, and drive Ibrahim back here.”
“Which makes him one of the last people to have seen Wazir Ibrahim alive,” stated Urda.
“And he’s scared shitless, believe me. The detectives have put the fear of Allah into him. He’s been totally cooperative.”
“Have they given him the photo lineup?”
“They did,” replied Hoffman. “Same results. He picked Deng right out, but also said he was wearing glasses.”
Urda looked at Harvath. “So Deng switches boarding passes in order to come to Nashville, bail this Somali out of jail, and kill him. Why? Who is this Ibrahim guy?”
Harvath drew closer to the pair so that no one could overhear their
conversation. “He’s got to be connected with the Nashville cell somehow. Why else send Deng all the way here from China?”
The FBI agent nodded. “But if this was just about whacking some guy, why not pay one of the U.S.-based triads to do all of this? Plus, if you’re going to croak him the same day you arrive in town, what’s with the hotel room? Why hang up your clothes as if you’re planning on sticking around?”
They were excellent questions and ones Harvath didn’t immediately have the answers to. He was about to ask Hoffman something else when the same detective from earlier stuck his head in.
“Hey, Mike,” he said. “It looks like we have a partial description of the suspect’s vehicle.”
“Talk to me,” Hoffman demanded.
“An officer canvassing the neighborhood talked to some residents about a block down. They said they saw an Asian man with glasses driving a black SUV this afternoon. He parked down by them and walked up the block in this direction.”
“Do we know what kind of SUV?”
“Either a late-model Mercury Villager or a Lincoln Navigator,” the man replied. “I want to give them the photo lineup to see if they pick out your guy. Do you have it here?”
“No. It’s in my car on the passenger seat. Go ahead and grab it. Let me know what they say,” said Hoffman.
The detective flashed him a thumbs-up and left the house.
Special Agent Urda turned to Harvath. “What do you want to do? Sit on the hotel and hope he comes back, or put out a
Be on the Lookout
and rope in Nashville PD and the state police?”
“This guy
is
a murder suspect,” Hoffman added. “If one of our officers rolls up on him, they deserve to know who they may be dealing with.”
Hoffman was right and so was Urda, to a degree. The cops and state police needed to know that there was a dangerous suspect on the loose. The search also needed to be expanded beyond the hotel.
Harvath relented. “I’ll go along with the BOLO, but we need to limit it. Nothing over the radio. I don’t want somebody on a news desk with a scanner picking any of this up.”
“We can send it via the mobile data terminals in the patrol cars.”
“Go ahead and do it, then,” said Harvath.
If Bao Deng’s only reason for coming to the United States was to kill Wazir Ibrahim, he would already be on his way out of the state, and possibly even out of the country by now.
But something told Harvath that there was more to it. Much more.
T
he self-storage lot had been chosen well. It was a mom-and-pop operation on a quiet road without a lot of traffic. It was the exact type of location Cheng would have chosen himself.
Driving the lanes between the rows of outdoor storage units, he studied the numbers. When he found the one he was looking for, he brought his vehicle to a stop parallel to the door and killed the engine.
He had already done one slow loop around. No one was there. He was completely alone. Stepping out of the Navigator, he walked around behind it and over to the storage locker door. He double-checked the number against the slip of paper in his hand—26. He was at the right spot.
With a small flashlight, he searched the frame of the metal roll-up door until he found it. It was a clear, tamperproof decal no one would have noticed had they not been looking for it. It was still intact, telling Cheng that no one had entered the storage unit since the items had been placed inside. Turning his attention to the heavy, high security combination lock, he rotated the five wheels on the bottom into place and the lock released.
Removing it from the hasp, he bent over and pulled the door open high enough to slip underneath. At the back of the unit were several boxes, two of them about a foot wide and almost five feet tall, all stacked upon a faded wooden pallet. He approached the boxes cautiously. Using his car key, he sliced the tape and opened each box to verify the contents and make sure everything was there.
He began with the tallest box and worked his way through the pile.
Except for the heavy metal cylinders, everything was contained in its own hard-sided storage case. There was one case in particular that Cheng did not want to open. He took little comfort in the assurances Colonel Shi had given him that it was perfectly safe. After removing its locks, he lifted the lid and looked inside. He had been shown a picture of it before leaving China, but somehow he had thought it would look different. Instead, it just sat there looking rather benign. It was amazing to think that something of that size had the potential to end so many lives.
Closing all of the lids, he relocked the cases, and placed them back into their cardboard boxes.
He had a roll of packing tape in the SUV and he returned to get it. Opening the Navigator’s rear door, he reached across the seat for the plastic bag containing his supplies. As he did, he heard a car nearing. Unless it was someone retrieving a boat to go fishing in the morning, it wasn’t a good sign.
In an instant, Cheng made his decision. Leaving the bag, he stepped onto the backseat and then grabbed the roof rack to pull himself up. After quietly closing the Navigator’s door from above, it was a simple step onto the metal roof of the storage unit.
He lay down on his stomach, slid back several feet from the edge, and waited.
When the car came down his lane, the first thing he noticed was that it didn’t have its lights on.
Another bad sign.
He removed the suppressor and threaded it onto the barrel of his Smith & Wesson.
No sooner did he have it affixed to the front of the pistol than a bright searchlight began sweeping both sides of the lane below.
Was it some sort of private security service, or was it the police?
He doubted a private security service would drive around with their headlights off. Their job was to present a visible presence in order to deter crimes. It had to be the police.
The vehicle came to a stop a couple of car lengths behind his SUV. Cheng lay completely still. He thought he discerned the muted squawk of a police radio coming from an open window.
It was an unfortunate circumstance. Cheng didn’t look down his nose at police officers. He admired them. They had a very difficult job, which required a tremendous amount of courage. Whoever was down there
was simply unlucky. They had shown up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or
, he wondered,
were the authorities on to him?
Did they know he had switched boarding passes and that he had killed two men since arriving in the United States? Were they looking for Bao Deng, or worse, Tai Cheng? Was this random, or was it something more? There was no way to tell.