Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  Tasker considered this and said, “That’s over my pay grade, brother. We just arrest them. The bosses can work out who’s upset and who’s happy.”

  Sutter smiled. “Amen.”

  …

  Daniel Wells was thirty years old and had only been into the heart of Miami a few times. Once as a kid when his family visited the Miami Seaquarium on Key Biscayne and his dad wanted to show the family what Hell was really like. Once when he worked a welding job at the port terminal. The day he drove to the port to have his suitcase loaded on Krans-Festival’s Sea Maiden. And today. Every time, he saw prostitutes near Biscayne Boulevard. The big park, Bayfront, was immediately east of him. I-95 was to the west.

  Now he was alone in his little nine-year-old Toyota Corolla. The rear seat was out, and a sketchpad sat on the passenger seat next to him. He was a few blocks north of the federal courthouse and a little west of where the Miami Heat played. The main streets were all four-laned, but the side streets, the ones running east and west that ended at I-95, were all narrow, two-laned theaters. That’s how he liked to think of areas: theaters. How many spectators could fit in an area, then react to the demonstration? The ultimate interactive performance art. And what a charge he got from the interaction. The rush of seeing people panic. The turmoil caused by people running willy-nilly had actually given him an erection on several occasions.

  This place might work if he had the right show planned. It’d have to be big and loud. People from the high-rise offices to the south would be able to see it and then who knows what the media might do to drive it. He had most of his plan mapped out, but he still needed a way to move his traveling show to this area. Maybe a problem on I-95 would divert the cops’ attention. Then he had an idea. Maybe a brilliant idea. He let out a yelp of excitement.

  A homeless man approached the little car. The black man’s gray-streaked hair hung over a scarf into his face. His eyes looked surprisingly alert, but as he walked up to Wells’ car his body odor radiated out in front of him. He silently held out a small tin can with the label worn off.

  Wells nodded and said, “No thanks, I’m not thirsty.” He drove on west to the interstate. Time to get back to his own kind of neighborhood. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror and noticed the bum staring at his Corolla.

  Tasker and Sutter waited in the small lobby of the ATF building. The receptionist behind the thick bulletproof glass had called Camy Parks ten minutes ago. Tasker hadn’t had the nerve to tell the Miami cop he’d had to stalk Camy just to give her the explosive to test. He was embarrassed enough that she was making them both wait in the lobby for so long. The receptionist didn’t care. From the looks she kept shooting Tasker, she was aware of the entire situation. With a lot of agencies Tasker wouldn’t have cared, but he respected ATF. They were one of the most kickass agencies in the federal government. They were able to tack on real charges to almost any violent crime involving a gun and they weren’t afraid to come out on anything. Now they thought he was an asshole.

  After more than twenty minutes, Camy Parks came to the main door. She opened it halfway and stayed in the secure area, blocking their way like she was talking to a vacuum-cleaner salesman at her house and didn’t want to be bothered.

  She nodded professionally. “Gentlemen, how are you?”

  Sutter spoke up. “Right now I’m a little pissed off you left us pullin’ our puds out here.”

  “Sorry, but I’m real busy.” Her gaze shifted to the main door and she smiled.

  Tasker turned to see FBI agent Jimmy Lail bop into the lobby, his jeans hanging low and his shirt opened to reveal a white tank top undershirt. He saw Sutter and brightened immediately. “My brother.” He reached out to touch fists with Sutter.

  Sutter nodded silently and forced the young man to shake hands instead.

  Jimmy looked at Camy. “Yo, beautiful, whazz up?”

  He glared at Tasker, squeezing past without a word.

  Tasker said to Sutter, “There’s one positive thing out of this mess.”

  The Miami cop snickered.

  Camy, ignoring the childish behavior of the non-federal agents, turned to Tasker without another glance at Sutter. “The tests on that liquid won’t be done for at least ten days.”

  Tasker frowned. “Can they tell us anything? Aren’t you interested in this case? You started it.”

  She softened slightly. “Bill, I’ve been ordered not to get involved. My bosses think this is some kind of stunt by you to make up for what you did on the Stinger case. We’re waiting for a major lawsuit from Mr. Wells and this will look like some kind of harassment. So even if it was an exact match, I doubt I’d do much other than note in our case file that you suspect Mr. Wells of the bombing.”

  Tasker looked stricken. “You mean the ATF actually thinks that I’m making this up? That I fabricated evidence?”

  “We’re not willing to state that publicly, but, yes, that’s about the size of it.”

  Sutter broke in: “Bullshit! You don’t want to admit that you guys couldn’t solve the case. If that explosive matches exactly, you’ll have to shit or get off the shitter. You’ll either jump in the case or have to investigate how Billy made it up.”

  “That remains to be seen. I’m sure the ATF will do what’s right.”

  “It’s right to help us now. Not hide behind some political motive.” Sutter’s voice had grown louder since he started to speak.

  She ignored him, keeping both eyes on Tasker. “The preliminary results indicate that it is similar to the explosive used in the cruise-ship bombing. I don’t know if that will help, but it’s all we have.”

  Tasker nodded. “Thanks, it might give me enough for a warrant.”

  Sutter leaned in between them. “Listen, Princess, when you get off your high-fucking-horse and see my man here didn’t do nothin’ wrong, you’re gonna sing a different tune. You should save us all some time and accept it now.”

  She smiled. Not a dainty, radiant smile like Tasker had seen so many times, but an evil, almost threatening smile that some street predators let out before they slash your throat. “First,” she started slowly, “you call me Princess again and you’ll be picking some of that gold in your mouth out of your shit.” Her eyes cut into him like a laser. “Second, I am not on any kind of horse, and I don’t have to explain anything to you. And third, I know all about you, Mr. I-can-have-any-woman-I-am-so-cool-and-smart-and-slick. So you can save the lectures for one of your little hoes on South Beach.”

  Sutter said, “Heard I couldn’t get you.”

  “Not on your best day.”

  He added, “Unless I didn’t have a dick.”

  She turned, letting the door swing shut and lock automatically.

  Sutter stared at her perfect ass as it disappeared behind the door and said out loud, “That is some kind of great genetic code.”

  Camy Parks waited in the ladies’ room for more than five minutes as her heart rate slowed to near normal. She sat on the second toilet, practicing the breathing exercises she learned in yoga. It worked eventually and she checked herself in the lone, cheap, industrial mirror. She could still look at herself in the mirror. But if Tasker was right and she didn’t help with Wells, she might not be able to look at herself for long. This was one part of being an agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms that she didn’t appreciate. Smaller than other agencies and often in danger of being disbanded or merged into another department, they didn’t have the capacity to butt heads very often. Fortunately, they did such a good job and worked with so many cops that it wasn’t necessary to exert influence often. Now she would have liked to have her bosses stand up to the damn FBI and say they would work on this case because it was right. Instead they came up with excuses like Tasker was just trying to make himself look good. If they knew the state cop, they’d know he wasn’t capable of something like that. She’d have to explain it one more time.

  She came out of the bathroom and through her squad bay, ignoring
Jimmy Lail as he sat at an extra desk, reading a hip-hop magazine. She marched down the long corridor through the administrative area to the secretary in front of the special agent in charge’s office. The SAC of any federal investigative agency was the final word. They ruled their empire as they saw fit.

  “Does the boss have a minute for me?” Camy asked the lovely young Latin secretary.

  The girl, whose English was questionable, just smiled and nodded.

  Camy stepped up and knocked on the frame of the open front door. “Do you have a second, sir?”

  The large man with a ruddy face and graying temples looked up from part of the mountain of reports littering his desk. “Sure, come in,” he said, motioning her to a chair in front of his wide oak desk. “As long as it doesn’t have to do with that FDLE agent, Tasker. That’s a dead issue.”

  She didn’t even bother to sit down.

  twelve

  The sun had just popped up over the Naranja neighborhood about ten minutes south of Bill Tasker’s town house in Kendall. He sat in his state-issued Monte Carlo, Derrick Sutter nodding off next to him. Three FDLE agents were at the rear of the house and three more in a car behind him. When they pulled in front of the Wells residence, all the agents would converge at once on the small house. He’d finished the search warrant about six the night before. By ten, after the FDLE legal counsel and assistant state attorney had reviewed it, the duty judge for the Dade Circuit Court had signed it. He hoped he wasn’t too late. His boss waited in his big Crown Vic, probably smoking a cigarette and thinking of everything that could go wrong. That was his job. The former NYPD detective was a good guy and let his agents run their own cases. That’s all anyone could wish for.

  Tasker didn’t see the big step van Wells used for work. He noticed the old Toyota was not next to the garage, either. This was a dilemma every cop faced at some point: Do I go in or wait till he’s home?

  Tasker nudged Sutter awake. “What do you think? Should we wait till there’s a car here?”

  Sutter blinked hard. “Just cause there’s no car don’t mean nobody’s home.”

  “House is dark and quiet.”

  “All of them are. It’s only six.”

  “No cars.”

  “That’s true, but when will he be back? Could be waiting a long time. We’ll get burned before eight o’clock. Every redneck down here will think we’re looking for a grow house or chop shop. Shit, not one of these crackers got a job.”

  Tasker smiled. Sutter sounded just like a racist carrying on about black residents of Liberty City. He picked up his Nextel and called his supervisor. He could tell he was awake by the smoke pouring out of the cracked window. “Boss, you out there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “We were discussing what to do. Looks like no one’s home. You wanna wait?”

  “Nah, let’s hit it. If your man’s not there, we’ll grab him later. If there is anything you need for your case in there, it don’t matter if anyone’s home or not.”

  “Ten-four.” Tasker set down the Nextel on his seat and looked at Sutter. “Looks like we go.”

  “He sounded just like a boss at Miami PD. If you wait, it may cost overtime.”

  Tasker nodded and then picked up the car radio to broadcast to the other agents. “We’re gonna go in a minute. We’ll do like we briefed, slow and easy. Don’t enter the garage. If no one’s home, we’ll get the Metro bomb techs just in case. The team at the front door is going to knock nice and polite, then see what happens. There may be kids inside.” He heard the acknowledgments from the others, then turned to Sutter and said, “Showtime.”

  At the front door, Tasker, his supervisor and Sutter fanned to either side of the door. Tasker knocked hard, then shouted, “Daniel, it’s Bill Tasker. Come to the door.” Nothing.

  Sutter stepped back and lifted his leg to kick when Tasker held up his hand to stop him. He tried the handle, and the unlocked door opened easily. Tasker signaled to the others to move up.

  Drawing their pistols, the three cops entered the house. Two more agents came up to the front and started leapfrogging from one room to the next while Tasker’s supervisor covered them. The house was empty, neat and open.

  Once the house was secure and they had the lights on, Sutter said, “It’s almost like he was expecting us and didn’t want us to damage the house getting in.”

  Tasker had had the same feeling. Before he could prepare to search, his supervisor started flinging open drawers and poking around in cabinets. This happened at most search warrants the boss was on. He still did things the old New York way. His methods worked, but they were expected to follow a different set of rules nowadays in Florida. Tasker subtly tried to distract the portly supervisor, finally giving up, saying, “Boss, stop!” When the older man turned to look at him, he added, meekly, “I need you to arrange for the Metro bomb squad.”

  After the supervisor had stepped outside, Tasker said, “Let’s do a quick look through the house. Grab personal phone books and things that might point to where Wells is if he’s in the wind.” He sat down at the same dining table where he’d watched Alicia Wells glide out in that sheer top. If Wells was gone for good, how did he know to leave? This was a troubling consideration for Tasker as he waited for the bomb techs to get into the garage.

  Three hours later, after the search of the house and the garage was done, Tasker placed a copy of the warrant on the dining room table. He also left a short note. Something he’d never done on a search warrant before. It just said, “Daniel, you said you owed me. Prove it. Call me.” He signed it and left his cell number at the bottom of the page.

  The garage had been cleaned out. Only a few of the larger power tools and some papers were left. Tasker approached one of the uniform bomb squad officers. His German shepherd sat next to him on a leather leash.

  “Can you guys tell me anything?”

  The muscular Metro-Dade cop said, “Bandit alerted on the workbench, the rear storage area and on the side of the garage. Looks like this guy worked with all kinds of explosives.”

  “Anything worth taking?”

  “Your guys grabbed two empty containers. May be some residue.”

  Tasker thanked the Metro cops and headed back to his car, where his supervisor and Sutter were talking.

  His boss said, “Billy, you done a good job. I don’t want you beating yourself up over this thing. Take a day or two. Make it a long weekend. Monday we’ll kick it hard and find this mope. These hicks don’t go far from where they know. He’ll turn up. I just don’t want you getting so worn-out you get in trouble.”

  Tasker looked at him and said, “Again.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  His supervisor stood tall and looked right at him. This was a guy who didn’t say that much, so when he did, people usually listened. “You can have a chip on your shoulder if you want, but I never figured you for that type. I’m tellin’ you there’s more to life than this shit. This is a job, not a crusade.”

  Tasker nodded. “You’re right, boss. Donna asked me if I could come up and spend the night with the kids while she went away for a couple of days. That way they don’t miss school on Friday. Maybe I’ll do it.”

  “Where’s she going? Some kind of teachers’ conference?”

  Tasker slumped slightly. “Nope, she’s going away with her boyfriend.”

  “And you’ll watch the kids?” Tasker could see this veteran of three marriages wouldn’t do something like that.

  “It’s not for her, it’s to see the kids.”

  “You’re a better fucking man than me. That shit makes this shit look good.”

  Tasker wasn’t sure what he was looking forward to less: waiting to chase Daniel Wells or seeing Donna leave with the defense attorney.

  By noon, Daniel Wells had heard that cops had been inside his house. Now everything he had feared had been confirmed. Everything had changed. Was he wanted? He knew the cops at least wanted to
talk to him, but was there an actual warrant? He knew who to call to find out. Wells didn’t think that relationship had changed too much. This wasn’t news to everyone in law enforcement.

  His mind wandered as he darted down East Palm Drive near the Homestead Racetrack. His little Toyota’s engine whined as he headed west, away from Turkey Point. He had a good stash site near the power plant. Before the security checkpoint, there were two worn-out limestone roads that cut south to the canals that fed the nuclear cooling towers of the power plant. Years before, while he was working with those two crazy Jordanians out this way, he’d found a metal foot-locker still in good shape. One day, months after the Jordanians had gone to jail, while the boys were with him, he’d let them dig a hole around the box to keep them occupied while he went fishing. They were little then, maybe four and six. Before he knew it, the tiny hellions had managed to sink the box even with the ground. Over time he’d added a liner and some weatherproofing, and now he had a secure, watertight secret hiding place that only he and the kids knew about. The boys had probably forgotten by now, but he still used it. He’d just stored his remaining TATP and some quarter- and half-sticks of homemade dynamite the gentleman in Florida City had sold him a few years back. There was no shit left at his house for anyone to find.

  He didn’t know exactly what the charge was for the bombing. He thought they might try to stick a murder charge in there. He realized someone had died because of the bomb he’d made and planted. The problem was that the wrong person had died. If someone was going to get killed on that ship, a lone baggage handler didn’t do much to add to the terror.

  Wells shrugged. You live and you learn. He was just glad he was using his engineering classes. Maybe things would have been different if he’d graduated, but maybe not. He’d still have his urge. He’d still need to scratch that itch to see people’s lives thrown into disorder. At least living in Naranja, fixing people’s little engineering problems allowed him to keep a low profile. Maybe he’d survived a little longer because of it. He kept daydreaming as the long, empty road slowly showed signs of civilization, or at least the city of Homestead.