Armed with that information, Sutter and Tasker decided a quiet recon was the way to go. They split up and eased around the outside of Mule’s home, peeking in windows where possible and looking for signs of life.
Sutter noticed one window-mounted air conditioner running in the rear bedroom. Tasker found a beat-up Ford van with two surfboards crammed inside behind the house. They concluded it was a good bet the fugitive was asleep in the back bedroom.
Sutter said, “What’s your policy say? Call in SWAT, alert the locals, write up a plan, call the media and wait for the guy to come out?”
“Funny. I’d usually knock, but this guy won’t come to the door.”
“Let’s try the kitchen door. If he ain’t home, we lock it back up and come back another time.”
Tasker nodded his head in agreement.
The rickety old door popped out at the bottom and was missing a couple of jalousies in the middle. The handle was unlocked, but a bolt held it near the top of the door. Without hesitation, Sutter popped out a spring-loaded knife and slid it up the crack of the door jamb. In less than three seconds, the door was open and they were inside the hot, musty old house. The smell of cheap homegrown pot hung in every inch of the house. All the interior doors were open but one. The one with an air conditioner.
Sutter thought that once inside the house, it didn’t look all that different from a house in Liberty City. A cheesy felt painting of a matador hung on the living room wall, an old TV with rabbit-ear antennas sat in front of an old sofa. People were people.
They crept down the hall to the closed door. At the door, Tasker tried the handle quietly. When he was about to go in, they heard a toilet flush and looked at each other. It didn’t sound like it came from inside the room. Behind them a wide man with dark hair, wearing only a pair of gym shorts, opened a bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. His eyes were half closed and hair stuck out in wild designs, even the thick hair on his back. He looked up, opened his bloodshot eyes and without warning darted down the hallway toward the rear door. On his way, he hopped up and yanked on a string hanging from the ceiling. A set of attic stairs swung to the floor, blocking the entire hallway.
Too late, Tasker yelled, “Police! Don’t move!” The two cops rushed down the hallway, Sutter throwing his weight into the stairs to get them up and Tasker scrambling below them. By the time they reached the kitchen, Mule was out the back and streaking across the sandy yard to a detached garage.
Tasker repeated, “Police! Don’t move!”
Sutter added, “You’re dead meat, redneck.”
Instinctively they both paused at the garage, not wanting to rush into a waiting gun. As they stood on either side of the door with pistols drawn, Sutter reached over and shoved it hard so it would swing open, giving them a clear view of the interior. When the door reached the end of its arc, Sutter heard a click, and then his world became a confused tapestry of sound and dirt.
The single window blew out with an orange haze of fire behind it and the door swung closed so hard it splintered. Tasker flew back into the yard and Sutter was knocked off his feet. It took five seconds of clearing smoke and settling debris for him to realize they had set off an explosive booby trap.
Tasker was up quick. “You okay? You okay?”
Sutter nodded, pushing himself up slowly. Tasker was off around the back. When Sutter slowly made it to the side of the garage, his ears ringing, he could see his partner chasing the still-shirtless Mule across the wide-open field. Trees lined the end of the field where the next road cut in. Tasker was going to have to pick it up if he expected to catch that guy.
Bill Tasker gasped for breath as he closed the gap on the fleeing fugitive. He always seemed to get winded in a foot chase, no matter how much he trained, but this time he attributed a lot of it to the fact that the explosion had scared the living shit out of him. Making matters worse was the uneven ground on the weed-ridden field. He yelled at Mule a couple of times and even thought about firing a shot into the ground to scare him, but then decided to rely on his own aerobic ability to wear the fugitive down.
Tasker was careful as he closed the gap, because he saw that Mule now had an army green bag with a shoulder strap slung over his hairy shoulder. Had this moron picked up a gun? The question was answered when Mule, without breaking stride, pulled something from the bag, fiddled with it and threw it straight up in the air. Tasker slowed and watched the small cylinder hit the ground. A loud, gut-jarring explosion blew up weeds and sand where the object had hit.
“Holy shit,” Tasker said aloud, dropping to the ground. He watched as the running man headed for the tree line. Now Tasker was mad enough to take a potshot at this asshole. He got up and started to sprint when another explosion cracked behind the running man. The guy didn’t even know if anyone was chasing him, that one was just a precaution.
As Mule made the trees, Tasker was fifty yards behind him with his ears stuffed from the explosions. He tried shouting, but it just reverberated in his head. The man darted through the trees and out of sight.
Before Tasker reached the trees, he heard a thump and three of the loud explosions almost simultaneously. He paused at the trees, taking cover as he looked onto the road. He was surprised at the sight of his car-stopped, Mule on the ground in front of it, his bag torn to shreds and smoking on the ground. Sutter leaned on the hood with his arms folded. “I don’t like snakes. Hope you don’t mind me borrowing your car?”
“I had the keys. How…” Tasker stopped when he saw the look Sutter gave him. He hoped his friend hadn’t damaged the steering column too much.
…
It took about ten minutes to clean up the slightly dinged fugitive. Sutter claimed he had run him down by accident and intended to stick with that story. Tasker noted the lack of skid marks and the satisfied tone in Sutter’s voice, but decided to let the matter rest.
Tasker sat in the backseat next to the handcuffed man. The pot smell even emanated from his pores. Mule had cuts above his eyes, his upper lip was still bleeding and he had road rash on his left arm, back and hip. He had a dazed look that had as much to do with the “accident” as it did with the fact that three explosive devices had gone off within ten feet of his head and he had smoked an ounce of marijuana the night before.
Tasker said, “What were those things?”
“Huh?” asked Mule.
Tasker raised his voice. “The bomb things, what were they?”
“Oh those. Little nonfragmenting hand grenades I made. Pretty cool, huh?”
Tasker noted the lack of twang and asked, “Where you from?”
“New Smyrna Beach.”
A surfer. That explained it. Tasker knew the Central Florida town because his ex-wife’s family still lived there. This guy must have been some kind of genetic freak to be from the small beach town and still smart enough to put these things together.
“You ever know Donna Andrus?”
“Yeah, I did her once.”
Tasker narrowed his eyes at the slightly younger man. “I married her once.”
Mule cringed and added. “Only kidding, man. I knew her in high school, that’s all.”
“Really, you did know her?”
He nodded. “Sure. Blond chick. Nice titties.”
Tasker didn’t acknowledge the description but thought it was pretty accurate.
“I guess I only did her in my imagination.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.
Tasker turned professional and changed the subject, saying, “You’re under arrest on a warrant from Pensacola, and we’ll have to come up with charges on these things, too.”
“Man, can you cut me a break?”
“You almost killed me.”
“No, dude, those things don’t fragment. Just noise and a flash.”
“What’s in ’em?”
“Little black powder, few other things. I make one with pepper that will burn your eyes for a whole day. It’s way cool.”
Tasker had to laugh at the
shirtless man. This is the kinda guy that lives at home until he’s thirty-five and then raises kids that live at home until they’re forty. “You got anything else dangerous at the house?”
Mule looked at him. “I don’t want to… what’s the word? Incriminate myself.”
Tasker thought that was fair. “I’ll tell you what. You let us back in and point out the dangerous stuff and we’ll give you a pass on it. We just don’t want kids or somebody stumbling into it. Then you might be hit with serious charges.”
Mule thought about it. “Okay, if you don’t charge me with the poppers I set off today.”
“Poppers? That what you call those things?”
“Yeah, or flashers. Depends on the relative mix of materials.”
“Let’s see how helpful you are, then we’ll decide.”
Mule evaluated him for a few moments. “I don’t know why, but you seem pretty honest. I’ll trust you on this. Besides, I got some stuff that might help me.”
In the house, Tasker flushed the last of the pot they found as Mule pleaded.
“Please, man, not my Mexican tap dance. That shit is the best. You can dump the shit I grew behind the garage, but that Mexican shit cost mucho, man.”
Tasker paused for a minute, playing with Mule for making the comment about Donna, then when his hopes rose, Tasker dumped the rest into the toilet. “You sure you never did her?”
The hairy man shrugged and nodded. “Okay, you owed me.”
Sutter was carefully setting the last package of black powder into an empty Corona twelve-pack box. Mule had pointed out everything he could think of, including a water bottle filled with a liquid he called TATP. He told them it was a little nasty, so the two cops should be careful.
Tasker remembered Camy telling him about the cruise ship bombing and how the bomber had used TATP. Had he stumbled onto the bomber by accident? Stranger things had happened.
Tasker said, “All right, Anthony, you’ve been pretty good about pointing shit out. Got anything to seal the deal?” Maybe he’d slip up and say something.
He smiled, revealing standard surfer’s chipped front teeth. “I got something, but I want some help on the warrant charges, too.”
“Can’t agree to that until we see what you got.”
“Can’t show you what I got until you agree to help.”
With that, Sutter came over to the table where Tasker and Mule were sitting.
He started, “Tell you what, slick. You give us what you got or you can go for a jog in the road again until I catch you in the car. Got it?”
Mule hesitated, then said, “In the drawer under the phone is a three-page list.”
Sutter said, “That’s better. What’s on the list?”
“Everyone I ever sold an explosive to. What kind of explosive. When and how much.”
Tasker was up and to the phone before he finished talking.
Mule continued. “I never heard of nobody doing anything wrong with my shit. Rednecks buy them to scare birds away from the crops. The Miccosukee Indians use it as part of their shows for tourists. Kids buy them for fun, and the Cubans, or at least the Alpha 66, buy them for God knows what. But they pay real good and are easy to deal with.”
Tasker looked over the list. No one had bought a single huge amount of anything, but the intel guys at FDLE might work something up on the list. Then on the last page he brushed over a name and had to go back. Daniel Wells. Thirty ounces of TATP he bought three years ago. Tasker looked up at Mule. “This guy Daniel Wells. You remember him?”
Mule thought and said, “Yeah, sure. The engineer from up in Naranja or the Redlands. What about him?”
“Why would he need an explosive?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“What exactly is TATP?”
“Triacetone triperoxide. Bad shit, man. Especially the way I make it. It could blow a hole in granite.”
Tasker’s stomach continued to tighten as he put it all together. Clues he’d seen and didn’t register. The suitcases he’d knocked over while visiting Wells-he could see them vividly in his mind. They had been red. And they had been Samsonites. No way, it couldn’t be. He gathered his thoughts and looked at Mule. “You got any of this batch of TATP left?”
“Yeah, your buddy just loaded it in the water bottle.”
Tasker wanted to be sure. His stomach was already flip-flopping. “What did Wells look like?”
“Late twenties. Good shape. Dark, short hair. He had a couple of kids with him. Think he was a single father or something.”
Tasker thought about the lovely Alicia for a second.
“How bad is TATP, I mean what will it do?”
“Little unstable, but like I said, has a good punch. He bought enough to blow the shit out of a few things.”
“Could you make a bomb in a suitcase with it?”
“Easy.”
Tasker thought about what this meant and mumbled, “Oh shit, what have I done?”
ten
Daniel Wells jerked the old parachute off his Toyota Corolla. When he climbed into the car, he realized the silk chute hadn’t kept out much water. The mildew smell made him feel like fungus was growing in his sinuses. He had spent the morning cleaning things up around the shop. Trashing old containers he didn’t need anymore. Keeping track of old accounts payable to collect. He just had a feeling his life was about to change, and the media calling him had not stopped, so he thought it was best to send Alicia and the kids away for a little while.
He had plans that had to be set in motion. Big plans. It was really all he could think about anymore. Even while he sat in jail over the weekend, his mind worked out the details that would make him a success. He’d put on a show that everyone would remember. That’s what he lived for anymore-putting on the shows. Although he had been setting small fires and playing pranks since he was five, the real urge, the feeling that kept him sane, had kicked in during his senior year in high school. After filling a milk carton with black powder and then leaving it at the table the jocks took every day, whether someone was sitting at it or not, Wells used an old garage-door opener to detonate the device. The noise and smoke were enough to give him shudders of delight. The fact that two of the star football players suffered permanent black powder marks and scars on their faces only gave him a sweet reminder every time he passed them in the halls. And he had never told a soul. He learned that when you tell someone, you get caught.
Then a year later, the same trick at the Tri Delta house at the University of Florida. This time it had detonated prematurely and set a small fire, which the sprinkler system took care of. He read in the paper about a “prank” gone bad and the subsequent editorials about how someone could have been killed. That’s when it hit him. What if someone died during one of his shows? At first it concerned him, then it excited him. The thought never really left his head.
Too bad his attempt to set off a quarter-stick of dynamite under the visiting Florida State bench a year and a half later had gotten him thrown out of school. Old Bobby Bow-den would’ve shit in his pants if that baby had gone off. His story-that he came home to help his sick dad-still held up to this day. Unless he was talking to someone who was at the game that day.
Considering all the shows he had either put on or helped others put on during the years, it was amazing that the baggage handler on the cruise ship was the first person ever killed. At least that Wells knew of. He had built remote bomb devices for a couple of people and didn’t know what had happened those times. The local Nazis, the ones that called themselves the American Aryan Movement, had a pretty good plan to blow up a Metrorail People Mover bus. The problem was they didn’t want anyone in it when it happened. Wells had built them a nice, clock-operated, dynamite-based, flammable bomb, but the cheap bastards had stiffed him on the thousand-dollar payment. That was just plain uncool. He’d gotten them back, but still figured they owed him some cash. That was something he’d see to as soon as he had the time.
Now he had to get serio
us about his new idea. This one would get some attention, and he might even brag about it, but only after he was out of the area.
Bill Tasker and Derrick Sutter booked Anthony Mule into the Dade County jail after promising they would talk to the prosecutor about his assistance. Tasker was much more interested in verifying that information. As soon as he had the hairy surfer in the can, he had jumped in his Monte Carlo and raced back toward Naranja. Sutter had a previous commitment and was skeptical about the bomb-maker’s information. He had argued, probably correctly, that it could easily wait until tomorrow. After all, the crime had been committed almost two years ago. But Tasker couldn’t wait.
He still hadn’t decided what to do as he neared the house. Should he talk to Wells? Should he arrest him? Would he be cutting in on Camy Parks’ case? He decided that just making sure Wells was still at the house would satisfy him for now. Then he’d get ahold of Camy Parks and see where to go from there.
He turned onto Wells’ street and saw that there were still vehicles in the driveway. The step van was back toward the garage, and the station wagon was by the house. When Tasker turned onto the street that ran on the side to the rear of Wells’ lot, he saw a third car. One he had not noticed before. Behind the garage was an old Toyota Corolla with damage across the front roof section. It seemed familiar, too; then he remembered the photos in Camy’s file. He couldn’t tell if it was the same car, but it was one hell of a coincidence.
Three blocks away from the house, his hands shaking, Tasker pulled off the side of the road and picked up his Nextel. He hit the speed dial with Camy’s cell-phone number.
“Hello,” said Camy.
“Camy, it’s Bill.” Immediately he lost the connection. Or did she hang up? He tried again. This time there was no answer.
This was unlike any surveillance Tasker had ever been on. He was in a car-that was not unusual. In Miami, watching an office building-that was still normal. But watching another law enforcement office, waiting for a fellow cop to come out-that was new to him. He sat across Fifty-eighth Street, looking at Camy Parks’ issued Ford Crown Vic. Unlike at some of the federal agencies, the ATF agents tended to put in some long hours. Along with investigative responsibilities, they handled some regulatory duties with gun dealers. The agency was traditionally grossly understaffed. He wasn’t surprised she was still at the office near seven o’clock, but he had to see her. She hadn’t returned his calls and the secretary wasn’t taking messages from him anymore. Finally he saw her at the side door to the building, dressed in workout clothes. Even from this distance he could make out the muscles on her legs.
Shock Wave Page 7
