“What were you going to talk about with the owner? And don’t give me any shit about having already told us.”
“The work I was doing. But honestly, I don’t fucking know why. It’s not like we were going to talk about the valve for the urinal. But he made it sound like it was important.”
“How did he contact you?”
“He got my phone number from the office and texted me.”
“Are you saying you didn’t see any real reason to meet with him?”
“That’s about right.”
We’d already read the text messages the plumber received during the month prior, but Korb kept working it. He worked it, and the plumber was effusive about how unfair it was to be held there on the holiday by the owner for no good reason.
“What do you think now?” Korb asked.
“Well, the dude is Muslim right?”
“What do you mean?”
“He just wanted to say he met with me.”
Korb nodded as if that made sense, but steered the interview to the white panel van that had delivered the wine refrigerator. He went slowly with the plumber through his recollection of the man wearing a hoodie who had installed it. The man had walked funny. From behind, the plumber saw him walk away wheeling a green dolly. His left foot was possibly pigeon-toed or injured. It made his gait awkward. That and clean fingernails that looked manicured to the plumber. The guy had said something when he came in. He might have had an accent. All were new details.
Smith had wanted an ENERGY STAR–rated appliance—a 30" wide × 32" tall × 29" deep wine refrigerator made by LG. He included the model number in his first e-mail to his supplier. The bomb was in an LG, a different, more available model, less efficient, but one that fit the size requirement.
Now came questions about the man in a suit who’d shown up just minutes before the plumber left. He was still there when the plumber drove away. Korb went after the plumber on that.
“Your boss thinks you were the last one there. You were supposed to lock up. Last time you told us you did.”
“I didn’t want to get fired. I can’t get fired right now. I’ve got another kid on the way.”
“Correct the record.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the last interview, did you lie to us about locking up the building?”
Korb made it sound very serious, although we’d figured it out two days ago. When the plumber was slow answering, Korb unloaded. We watched the plumber’s face turn white as Korb told him the criminal implications of lying in a terrorism investigation. His face paled, but his stubborn streak was unfazed. Instead of confessing that he’d lied, he said, “I told that guy I was leaving and was supposed to lock up. He said he was meeting the owner about wineglasses. He showed me a text. What was I supposed to do?”
“When you left, was that man still there?”
The plumber nodded.
“I need audio,” Korb said. “I need you to talk.”
“He was still there when I left.”
“You told your boss you locked up.”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“You told him that and lied to us. You’re flirting with danger here. I want you to set the record straight and explain on tape why you lied. Then you’ll sit with a sketch artist again.”
As the interview ended, I returned to my desk. As agents were doing with the main investigation, Lacey and I were tracking any local leads that might take us to the sleeper cell suspected of being in the general Vegas area. At my desk I read transcripts from an Omar Smith interview I’d missed.
Smith flew back to Vegas from Houston in the afternoon of July 4. He’d gone to Houston to convince a new investor to buy two of his properties, but that went badly and he didn’t have the energy to go by the Alagara and deal with the plumbing repairs, so he’d gone straight home. At home he ate, showered, changed clothes, and then went to Bar Alagara, ostensibly to make sure everything was ready and so he could be there when Melissa Kern arrived. It was clear he had some attraction to Melissa or was chatting her up to get information about the drone pilots. The strong feeling in here was most likely the latter.