Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  “You talk to this guy yet?” asked Tasker.

  “Nope. Just confirmed he ran the tag. I do have some other info to go over with you.”

  “What’s that?” Tasker said, quickening his step to keep up with the long-legged Sutter.

  “I think I located Alicia Wells.”

  Tasker stopped, holding the slightly taller Sutter by the shoulder. “No shit? Where? With the kids?”

  “I saw her in South Miami, but I think she might be in the city some nights. She definitely didn’t have the kids with her.”

  “That’s weird. I thought she was with the kids.”

  Sutter shrugged.

  “Well, where’d you see her?”

  “In a bar.”

  “Which bar?”

  “The Tittie Shack.”

  “What? Why would she go in there?”

  “For cash, it looked like.”

  “Alicia Wells was dancing? She wouldn’t do that.”

  “I knew you’d say that. Sometimes you’re clueless.”

  “She just didn’t strike me as the type, that’s all. Why didn’t you snatch her up so we could talk to her?”

  “It didn’t hit who she was until a few days later. I went back and spoke to the doorman.” He looked down at his cut knuckles on his right hand. “He told me she danced in the city, too. Give me a few days and we’ll find her.”

  Tasker seemed to accept that as they headed back down the hallway and turned into the little squad bay that housed the Street Crimes Unit. Tatum was stretched out, leaning back on a hard wooden chair. He was so dark-complected that his nickname was the “Black Hole.” He laughed at the name and played it up in crowds. His long dreadlocks hung loose around his face, which looked every bit of his fifty-one years. The gray streaks through his eyebrows and hair made him look more like a street person than the ratty T-shirt that said “Salvation Army” or his shredded jean shorts. His smell was unique. Sutter thought he had the same smell as a raccoon he’d once seen after it had been run over by a four-wheeler near the beach where his parents lived.

  Sutter extended his hand as Tatum stood up. “Johnny, I’d like you to meet Bill Tasker from FDLE.”

  Tatum took Tasker’s hand and smiled, revealing two gold teeth on either side of his front teeth. “You’re a folk hero around here.”

  Tasker blushed. “Why’s that?”

  “Sticking it to those FBI pricks. I swear those guys have tried to make more cases on cops here than on crime lords.”

  Tasker just nodded.

  Sutter said, “Billy is working on the guy I talked to you about. The one you ran last week.”

  Tatum nodded. “I was north of here about eight blocks. I remember ’cause I’d just walked from here. Been trying to find these creeps been hassling the homeless people. You know, smacking them around and taking their change they beg off the corners.”

  Tasker asked, “Wells bother you?”

  “No, but he said something funny. That’s why I remember him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When I held up my begging cup, to see if he might try and take it, he said, ‘No, thanks, I’m not thirsty.’ ”

  They all chuckled at that. Then Tasker asked if Tatum had seen anything unusual about him.

  Tatum shook his head. “Nope, he was in a little old Toyota and just looking around. At first I thought he was just looking for pussy, but there was enough around he woulda stopped for it. He just drove up and down the block.”

  “Would you mind taking me down to where you saw him?”

  “Sure, but you gotta put me in the back of a car so it looks like you and Sutter just arrested me.”

  Sutter liked his style and dedication to stay in character. That’s why he said, “Johnny, would you mind walking down there? You smell like you got a dead cat in your shirt.”

  Tatum gave a good hoot at that. “Close, my slim, well-dressed friend. A possum.”

  “A what?”

  “I found a dead possum this morning and had to carry him a few blocks till I found a dumpster.”

  “You carried a dead possum to a dumpster?”

  “I didn’t want it scaring any kids that saw it. It was right near that little day care.”

  Ten minutes later, Tatum was in the back of Tasker’s car, since Sutter refused to transport him, showing them how and where Wells was driving when he saw him.

  Tasker stopped the car a couple of times and looked around. This was a little business district. Narrow streets, windowless buildings.

  Tasker asked, “What am I missing? Why would he come down here?” He stopped the car and stood as Sutter joined him from the passenger side of the car.

  Sutter shook his head. “I don’t see it either. Ninety-five is close. So is Biscayne Boulevard, but that’s it.”

  Sutter watched Tasker scan the area, and for the first time realized just how hard and personally Tasker was taking this whole thing.

  seventeen

  Donna Tasker looked at the computer screen in the main office. She had checked the entire district, trying to see if any of the names that Billy had given her were registered. There were a lot of Wellses, but when she looked deeper, none came close to the ones he was looking for. It was six in the evening. Between phone calls to her friend in Broward County, and then to another friend in Martin County, she had blown three hours on this.

  It really didn’t bother her; in fact, quite the opposite. Billy had never asked her for help before. She had to admit she felt a little thrill helping him put together a case, even though she had no idea what the case was about. But if he thought it was important enough to ask for help, it was important enough for her to do. She hadn’t done that when they were married, and she regretted it. She’d got so wrapped up in her own problems and worried about so many little things that she’d missed his attempts to get help.

  After he’d shot his friend, the corrupt West Palm Beach cop, things had just unraveled. Billy had done what he had to do, but it had still haunted her ex-husband. He’d drift off sometimes, and she just knew what he was thinking about. Maybe someday she could make it up to him. Set things right. He was such a good guy, she hated to see him unhappy.

  She made one last check of the system, then grabbed her cell phone and hit the first speed dial.

  “Hello.”

  She recognized his voice and smiled.

  “Billy, it’s me.”

  “Hey, everything all right?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You don’t usually call out of the blue like this.”

  She smiled to herself, feeling like a teenager with a crush. “I wanted to see if you’d recognize my voice if I just said, ‘It’s me.’ ”

  “Promise I’ll never forget. How’s that?”

  “Great.” She paused for a second. “I wanted to tell you that I couldn’t find Wells’ kids listed anywhere in Palm Beach County.”

  “Damn.”

  “And I checked Broward and Martin, too.”

  “You did all that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “Don’t be a dork.” She smiled again and said, “I gotta go.”

  “Thanks, Donna. You saved me a lot of time.”

  After she hung up, she found herself thinking about her ex-husband for another five minutes.

  Wells was exhausted. The late-night planning and work he’d done around his trailer were catching up with him. It was only noon but he needed some sleep.

  He almost crawled up the low, shaky steps and then pushed his flimsy front door open. He immediately turned back to the door and looped the small wire that activated his front-door security system. He ran his fingers along the wires to the pulleys, making sure everything lined up and would work if someone tried to surprise him.

  Satisfied he was secure from the front, and not real worried about the back, Wells stretched out on the soft couch left in the trailer by some previous tenant. The stained flower design and slight
smell of urine didn’t really bother him as he quickly drifted off to sleep.

  Tasker had swung by Sutter’s apartment on South Beach to speed up his partner. This was the break he’d been waiting for. The Homestead cop he’d spoken to, Mike Driscoll, had apparently stumbled across Wells living in the western part of the town. Now Tasker intended to use the information immediately.

  Sutter came out of the historic old apartment building still buttoning his shirt, his Glock with silver-painted handles exposed on his hip, and opened the car door. “Yo, what the hell, man? What’s goin’ on? You tell me on the phone to be ready in fifteen minutes and that’s it? No explanation? Can’t I take a day off once in a while?”

  “We found Wells.”

  Sutter froze, then in a more subdued tone said, “Where? How?”

  “Homestead. The cop that I talked to down there, the one that wrote him the ticket, was at a firehouse mooching food and saw a report about a minor fire at a trailer. The firefighter was sharp enough to write down the vehicle tags. Just for his report-he didn’t run them. Anyway, this cop, Driscoll, is pretty sharp himself, and he asks a few questions. He’d been on the lookout since our talk.”

  “So your patrolman put this all together?”

  “Sure did.” Tasker accelerated west over the Julia Tuttle Causeway, swerving through traffic like a grand prix racer.

  Sutter calmly strapped on his seat belt. “Does Wells have any idea we know?”

  “No way.”

  “Then slow this vehicle down before I have to write you.”

  Homestead patrolman Mike Driscoll didn’t want anyone else coming on the arrest. He made his point that three cops should be able to grab a guy from a trailer.

  Tasker hesitated. “I can call for some agents from Miami.”

  Driscoll leaned in from the edge of his chair. “I’m tellin’ you that the place isn’t that big. We slip in quiet and snatch his ass up before he knows we’re there.”

  Sutter added, “He’s got a point. More men, more noise.”

  Tasker kept thinking about it. “It’s still a probable-cause arrest. I didn’t get a warrant yet.”

  Sutter said, “No problem. This guy was a pussycat last time. The three of us are plenty.”

  Tasker nodded and they headed out, all crammed into Tasker’s state-issued Monte Carlo.

  Daniel Wells couldn’t get used to taking naps during the day. When the kids were around, he never tried to sleep. Always afraid he might miss some segment of chaos they’d create. They loved it as much as he did. He worked a lot at night, when it was cooler, finishing his van and getting everything ready. He wasn’t going to pass the big rig test, but he knew how to get around it. He only needed to drive the thing twice, and after the second time he’d never go near a big truck again.

  He picked up his Popular Mechanics and laid his head back on the soft pillow of his sofa. The old material felt like corduroy. He didn’t know if they used that on couches back in the sixties, when this thing was made. All the furniture was old but comfortable, and he couldn’t beat the price. Free with the trailer. This wasn’t too bad, as long as his money held out.

  He wasn’t comfortable with the silence of this place at times. In one respect it was new and different, so he didn’t mind experiencing it, but it was not his natural element. He’d never been around peace and quiet. When he was a kid, if it was peaceful he and his brothers would change all that. No wonder his dad was deaf now. He and his brothers set off thousands of firecrackers and cherry bombs. Then, as Wells got more experience, he’d make his own kind of fireworks. Often he’d slice open firecrackers for their tiny amount of black powder. Storing up jarfuls. Then he’d make his own explosive devices. Float model ships filled with powder, then detonate them with a long waterproof fuse in the pond near his childhood home. When that got dull, he’d set things where others would see them and react. His best was a giant firecracker he’d been able to secure inside a plastic jar. He’d glued a clear plastic tube down the middle so the firecracker and fuse wouldn’t get wet, then filled the rest of the jar with a mixture of milk of magnesia, red food coloring and red raspberry syrup. He placed the jar on the newspaper box of the busiest convenience store in Ocala and waited across the street. The fuse smoked more than he thought it would, but nobody took the time to look for the source of the smoke. When that thing went off, his red sauce splattered eight people. They looked like slasher victims. They ran around in a panic, holding their nonexistent wounds to stem the bleeding. Then the fire department and cops showed up. It was on that day, when he was eleven years old, that he realized what was really important. At least to him. He also realized that the fact that it was fake didn’t matter to him. He could have put nails in that jar and really hurt people and would have felt the same way. This wasn’t a joke or a phase, this was a drive.

  All these thoughts rushed through his head as he dozed off again on the flowered couch near the bay window of his rented trailer. Then something woke him. He didn’t know what. A noise out of place, something man-made.

  He sat up and looked out onto his wide front yard with the winding lime driveway. He could see all the way to the gate, and it was all in order. The gate was closed and nothing moved. Then he froze. On the edge of the driveway closer to the road, he saw a line of disturbed pine needles. The thick carpet of needles had ruts through it and was patchy in places where he’d walked, and then there was the giant burnt swath. But they always had a certain look when newly turned over. The black on the bottom had a different color until the sun baked it for a few hours. That was what caught Wells’ eye as he looked outside. Then, while he was still motionless behind the tinted window, he saw movement. Someone had entered his yard and was crouching on the far side, slowly making his way toward the house. He looked around. The gun was under the seat of the Toyota. He had two cheap nine-millimeters in the van, but they were in pieces right now, waiting to be cleaned. He slid off the couch and into his kitchen, reaching up onto the counter and snatching his keys as he slid along the cheap linoleum.

  Whoever was coming would get a surprise at the front door. He looked over his shoulder at the cable that ran from inside the house out to the roof and into the canisters in the dead hanging plants lining the porch. He cursed himself for not having anything as spectacular in the back.

  He could run now or wait to see the bedlam. He slipped out the rear door and settled into the bushes. Then he worked his way around in the bushes and scrub pines until he could see the porch. There were three men. He was too far away to recognize any of them, but one was in a blue uniform. They were crouched behind his van, surveying the house. They had no idea he was already outside. He started to tingle inside. This was always the best time. The expectation. This was going to be great.

  “Bullshit. I don’t want to go ’round back. The redneck probably has a dog or something,” said Sutter in a harsh whisper.

  “Did you hear any dogs?” asked Tasker, confused as to why his normally kickass partner was hesitant.

  “I’ll go in the front with you guys. This place is so far out west he can’t run nowhere. We go in fast enough and it won’t matter.”

  Tasker didn’t like having this sort of discussion at the scene of an arrest.

  The Homestead cop, Driscoll, kept a former Marine’s eye on the trailer, unconcerned about the spat between partners.

  Tasker leaned into Sutter and said quietly, “I don’t see why you can’t cover the back. You’re still on the arrest.”

  Sutter replied even quieter, “Snakes.”

  “What?”

  “Too many woods. I can’t handle the idea of snakes.”

  Tasker just stared and decided not to pursue the issue. He spoke a little louder so the Homestead cop could hear now. “We don’t have the warrant yet, so we gotta see him or get him to come out.”

  Now Sutter looked shocked. “You tellin’ me that if he don’t answer, you’re leaving without him?”

  Tasker knew his partner was right.<
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  The three men low-crawled to the end of the van and waited. Tasker casually looked in the small rear windows and saw the van was empty except for a box in the rear. He looked closer at the welded box and saw that it was a gas tank of some kind. He forced himself to concentrate on the trailer for now and shifted his attention back to the task at hand. After waiting a few minutes, the three men walked quickly at an angle to the edge of the trailer. Tasker had been careful to find an approach with no windows in direct line. They paused at the edge of the metal steps that led to the porch which covered twenty feet of the front of the trailer.

  Tasker cringed as their weight on the porch made the trailer shake. They fanned out, with Driscoll covering the bay window and Sutter and Tasker on either side of the door.

  Tasker knocked once. He looked at Sutter.

  Sutter said, “We gotta move.”

  Tasker tightened his hand around the lever that operated the front door. He cranked it down and felt something click on the other side of the door. Before he could determine if it was the handle or not, he heard a sound above them and saw three separate flashes above the hanging plants. Then the deafening boom. He was on the ground with Sutter when the burning sensation ate its way up his face and over his eyes. Even with his ears ringing from the explosion, he could hear the other two men screaming.

  Wells stood slowly and surveyed his trap. All three men were down and yelling obscenities and gurgled coughs. This was technically perfect. It’d had the exact consequence he had intended.

  He opened the door to his old Toyota and retrieved his Ruger.22, then strolled over to his van and dug out his keys from his pocket and started it, not worrying about the men in agony on the porch.

  He drove down his driveway, stopped at the gate, opened it and drove through like he did almost every day. The only difference was he didn’t bother closing it this time.

  As he turned onto the unpaved road, he saw the gold Monte Carlo by itself near the corner of his property. He pulled up next to it and couldn’t resist leaving another little package for anyone who opened the door.