I talked to the Metro detectives, then drove the gravel road alone out to the abandoned foundation slabs and walked back along the road with a flashlight looking for footprints intersecting the road. I’d have to call about getting a dog out here in the dawn. I got back in my car, grief coming in waves as I crossed town to the Summerlin address of the owner of Hullabaloo and the Alagara, Omar Smith aka “The Turk.”
A dozen Bureau and LV Metro PD cars were in the driveway of Smith’s house and on the street when I arrived. If you lived in Vegas and listened to AM radio, you’d heard Smith’s ads. He called himself The Turk, but legally his last name was Smith, a change he made after becoming a US citizen in 2003. In his ads, he said Omar was his Turkish name and Smith his American. He had comic timing and made both names sound funny.
Tonight, he was anything but funny. He looked stunned, anxious, and deeply worried. He looked shocked. He’d granted us full access to his business records and computers as soon as he was contacted following the bombing, said he wanted to help in any way. He didn’t know of any enemies, hadn’t had any threats personally and didn’t know of any disgruntled employees. He had debts, sure, but didn’t every true entrepreneur? He was current with his debts.
He gave a large discount to the drone pilots for their party and said he very much liked Melissa Kern, the woman he’d negotiated with. He volunteered that he loved America and that he was Muslim, and the drone pilots fighting against radical Islam was a very good thing.
“Of course, many hate the drones,” he added. “Many want the pilots dead. You must know this.”
This brought more questions about his views, and he clarified, saying, “I am a Muslim but I am never at the mosque. This does not mean I don’t have faith. But I am not an active religious man. The Muslims who kill are like the Christians and Jews who kill. They are not really of any faith.”
At the FBI we never turn down free information. He talked more about himself, speaking as he sat on a white leather couch in a large, comfortable room with tile floors, rugs, high white-painted walls, and art. A housekeeper offered tea and coffee. No one accepted. I saw a big man emotional over the bombing, answering questions without a lawyer present. Offhand, I liked him, but doubted he ever did anything without a reason.
For five hours he answered questions about how the party-rental business worked and his other businesses, and how the drone pilots ended up renting the Alagara. He talked with his hands as he explained the constant breaking down and moving of party equipment and the running of his bakery, which made signature bread and cakes. None of that work happened with his long elegant fingers. His hands were far too smooth.
On his own he returned to religion, saying, “It is impossible in America for these pilots to be killed in a business owned by a Muslim and not have this become a question. This is another reason I opened my home and offices to you tonight.”
“Why do you say that?” an agent asked. “The country was founded on freedom of religion.”
“You’re an FBI agent so maybe you are right that America is for all religions. I was not aware of that.” He stared at the agent and added, “I have only been in seventeen states. Maybe it’s different in the others.”
This led to more philosophical talk, and I left the room. I toured the house. I doubted it would be open to us the next day.
In a media room, a large TV screen was tuned to reports on the bombings. The sound was down low. The first agents here told me that a housekeeper had let them in and led them to Smith, who was sitting in front of this TV, weeping. I went upstairs and walked through the bedrooms and lingered in the master to see how he lived and then came back down.
Across a garden path lined with low landscaping lights and curving around a pool and a fountain was his home office. I found Bill Murtha, an agent I’ve known forever, with three other tech types downloading everything on Smith’s computers. Murtha said, “Smith wants to cooperate fully.” He said that like it was righteous and smart. It was probably the opposite, and the vibe in here was urgency. Like a team of hackers who knew the police were already on their way.
Two hours later, I talked to a fatigued Omar Smith about Juan Menderes, my reason for having come. Not my only reason. I had needed to see in person the man who had rented to my sister.
“I like your ads,” I said. “Always have. I’m fine sitting at a red light when I’m listening to one of them.”
He absorbed that, then said, “My father heard them on his one trip to America when he came to stop me from changing my name to an American name. The ads disgusted him.”
“I want to talk with you about Juan Menderes.”
“I already showed the agents the text he sent when he delivered the cake. It is a requirement for the drivers. I cannot say why he ran. If they get a speeding ticket, they cannot drive for me ever again. They are responsible for their vans. They drive the same one every day.”
He held up two fingers. “Twice a year is a party for the employees. I talked with him at the holiday party at the end of last year, and he convinced me he should be a driver.”
“Do you videotape your parties?”
“Yes.”