Foreign Influence

“If we can drop a couple of those in the alley behind the building, will you be able to pick up the signal out here?”

“I should.”

“Will they work okay in low light?”

“They’ve got an IR illuminator, but it puts an extra drain on the batteries. We won’t be able to run them all night.”

“Hopefully, we won’t have to.”

Davidson used the cameras mounted outside the van to check for foot traffic along the street. They were in a small honor-system parking lot where you placed your money in a slot on a big board beneath the number that corresponded to what stall you were in. Levy had picked the lot himself, preferring it to being parked out on the street. The view wasn’t as good, but it was acceptable. It was his opinion that a windowless van parked too near the mosque might draw undue attention to itself. Vaughan had agreed.

“How do you want to do this?” asked Davidson.

“We’ve got your Bronco parked around the corner,” replied Vaughan. “From this distance, I don’t think anyone is going to notice us getting out of the van.

“I’ll stay here and monitor the feeds while you take Josh with you. He’ll ride shotgun and can drop three balls. One at the begi

Levy shook his head. “I don’t leave the van.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

Vaughan looked at Davidson for some sort of explanation but the Public Vehicles officer just looked back at him and smiled as if to say, I told you so.

He turned back to Levy. “How are we going to know if we got the balls placed correctly?”

The PI pulled a radio from a charger rack and handed it to Vaughan. “It’s not rocket science. You roll down the window and drop them out. I’ll radio you and let you know how the picture looks.”

“What if I screw it up and one of them rolls underneath a Dumpster?”

“Don’t screw it up.”

Satisfied that the argument was settled, Levy unzipped the gym bag hanging from the arm of his chair and removed a small hand towel. Unrolling it across his lap, he fished his key ring from his pocket.

“That’s good enough for me,” said Davidson, taking the radio from Vaughan, suddenly anxious to leave. “Let’s get going.”

Hanging from Levy’s key ring was a gold nail clipper. The PI pivoted open the handle and studied his nails.

“The street’s as quiet as it’s going to get,” said Davidson as Vaughan watched Levy. “Let’s get this done before evening prayers are over with.” He poked the Organized Crime cop with the radio’s ante

“Make sure to do a radio check when you get to your truck,” stated Levy as the two men parted the heavy blackout curtain and exited the van through its back door.

Cutting through the alley behind the parking lot, Vaughan said, “I’ve never known anybody who carries a nail clipper on their key ring. Is it solid gold?”

“Probably,” said Davidson with a shudder. “I can’t watch him clip his nails. It creeps me out.”

“If that’s the worst of his behavior, then you’ve got it pretty good.”

“That’s the thing. It isn’t just one quirky thing with him. It’s a million. And they all add up.”

“And that’s why you don’t like doing surveillance with him?”

“Damn straight,” replied Davidson. “The guy’s an investigative genius, but there’s something just not right about him. It’s like if Magnum PI and Rain Man had a baby. You saw how he wouldn’t leave the van.”

“So?”

“So Judge Wapner probably comes on in ten minutes.”

Vaughan shook his head. “The guy’s a little eccentric. So what? You need to lighten up.”

Davidson smiled. “Give it another hour. You’ll want to beat the guy to death with the heel of your shoe.”

He doubted it and they walked in silence the rest of the way to the Bronco and climbed in.

While Davidson did a radio check, Vaughan received an e-mail from one of the forensics specialists going over Nasiri’s taxi. The piece of plastic that had been recovered at the scene of the hit-and-run was indeed from a radiator header, and the radiator header in Nasiri’s cab was new. Everything they were telling him jibed with what the Pakistani mechanic from the Crescent Garage had told them.

The bad news was that there was no blood, hair, or tissue anywhere on the outside of the vehicle. Worse still was what the tech told him next.

Skirting the poisonous tree issue had not been easy. The only thing Vaughan could do was to ask his forensic pal to search the interior of the cab, as well as the trunk, for traces of any chemicals. He said he was looking for any sign that Nasiri had washed down his cab with solvents in an attempt to hide evidence of the hit-and-run. His real hope was that they would come back with hits for TATP or the precursors for the compound. The bad news from forensics was that the cab contained no traces of chemicals whatsoever.

Vaughan shared the bad news with Davidson as they pulled away from the curb and headed toward the alley.

“I’m not surprised,” replied Davidson. “If that stuff is as volatile as you say it is, they’re not going to want to move it until they absolutely have to. If Nasiri was transporting anything, it was bottles of peroxide and cans of drain cleaner; all nice and sealed.”

Vaughan didn’t like it, but he had to agree. “So we’ve still got nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing? You’ve got Josh Levy’s balls in the palm of your hand.”

He held up one of the cameras and looked at it.

“Now, Josh may think his balls are made of brass,” said Davidson, “but I still think you should drop them out the window delicately. Nobody likes to have their balls busted.”

“Are you done?” asked Vaughan as he rolled down his window.

“Since you asked, you have to admit that even though he wanted to stay in the van, Josh really does have big balls.”

“Is that all of them?”

“All of my ball jokes?”

“Yeah.”

“For the moment.”

“Good,” said Vaughan. “I’d like to concentrate on what’s happening at the mosque.”

“Like Captain Hook.”

Vaughan nodded.

As they rolled up to the stop sign half a block from the alley, Davidson snapped the clip on the metal clipboard wedged between his seat and armrest. “You know what that is?”

“No. What is it?”

“The sound of no hands clapping.”

Vaughan shook his head. “Can we please concentrate on what we’re about to do?”

“So you’re asking me to give you a hand with this part?”

“You know, Levy probably isn’t the one I’m going to beat to death with my shoe tonight.”

“All right. I get it,” said Davidson. “You lawyers have no sense of humor. How fast do you want me to drive down the alley?”

“Fast enough to look like you know what you’re doing and are just cutting through.”

Davidson put his left hand over his eyes and waved his right index finger over the speedometer before landing on a speed. “Okay, got it. Anything else?”

“Yeah. You’d better put your thinking cap on. If this surveillance doesn’t pan out, we’re going to need a really good plan B.”