Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  “I need to find someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Daniel Wells.”

  Conners looked at him, then asked, “Who?”

  “Daniel Wells, from Naranja.”

  “The handyman?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could call him that.”

  “Why would I know where he is? I only took my lawn mower to him once to get fixed.”

  “He hasn’t been staying at your house?”

  “Not unless he’s screwing my wife behind my back.”

  “You’re Ed Conners. You’re with the Ku Klux Klan, right?”

  “That ain’t against the law. I’m proud to be Ed Conners and to be the head of our klavern.”

  “Your what?”

  “Local Klan group.”

  “These fellas other members?”

  “These boys work the different farms up and down my street. They was worried you fellas was crack dealers. We been having a problem. All they wanted to do was scare you off. They ain’t no Klan members. Hell, two of ’ em is Mexican. They couldn’t join if they wanted to.”

  Tasker could have kept questioning the man, but there was no point. He wasn’t holding back, and Tasker had someone he wanted to question more. He felt his frustration level rise and took a deep breath to control it.

  He started back to the F-250 with Conners. “Okay, you guys can go. Why not just call the cops next time you think someone is dealing dope?”

  Conners said, “Yeah, they come right out. Why don’t you go find some real criminals?”

  Tasker said, “That’s a good idea.” He stood and watched the men hop into the back of the truck, then waited as the truck rumbled out of the lot back toward the house.

  Jimmy Lail said, “What was that all about? I should’ve busted a cap into the air to get those be-autches talkin’.” He pulled out his automatic and, holding it sideways again, pointed into the sawgrass, showing his partners the motion he’d use to fire it. “That woulda made ’ em shit.” He looked at Sutter. “Ain’t that right, my brother?”

  Tasker couldn’t take it anymore. He sprang toward Jimmy, knocking his pistol out of his hand, then kneeing him in the leg, and finished by throwing the stunned FBI man to the ground and landing on top of him. He had Jimmy by the shirt, his face two inches from Jimmy’s.

  “The word is bitch. B-I-T-C-H. One fucking syllable. Never hold your gun any way except perpendicular to the ground. That’s how they’re intended to be held. I don’t care how many movies you’ve seen, your pistol is not supposed to be held at an angle. Never sideways. You got it?” Spittle flew from his mouth into Jimmy’s face.

  Sutter stood up and calmly tried to move Tasker. “C’mon, Bill.”

  He stood and looked down at Jimmy Lail, who said, “Bolini is right. You’re an asshole.”

  “Bolini? You been talkin’ to him?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sort of. I mean, I work with him, dipshit.”

  Now Sutter stepped in. “Now that sounds like you. Why you trying to talk like a street kid all the time?”

  Jimmy didn’t answer.

  “Now I’m not on as short a fuse as my man Tasker here, but if you ever use that fake urban bullshit accent around me again, I’m gonna whip your ass.”

  Tasker added, “Me too.” He took a step back and looked at Camy, who didn’t seem to mind having her boyfriend set straight. Tasker added, “And I don’t know what this idiotic surveillance was all about, but if you lied, you’ll be in for another ass-whippin’.”

  They watched Jimmy silently slink back to Camy’s car.

  Camy said, “If the counseling session is over, I better get him cleaned up.”

  Tasker took a deep breath as he realized they were all the way back at square one.

  twenty-six

  Alicia Wells blew her nose like her mama had taught her, mouth open and with full force. The honking sound was not very ladylike, but it cleared her clogged nose.

  Ever since Daniel had told her of his plans, she had been sinking lower and lower into a funk. She wasn’t sure if it was the idea of moving to Montana that upset her so much as the idea of moving to Montana with Daniel’s two boys.

  The other thing that was bothering her was Daniel’s comment that he was going to do something in Miami. She didn’t want Daniel doing something he’d get in a lot of trouble for, and she didn’t want anyone getting hurt.

  She sat on her couch and started to sob again as the rush of ideas flooded her mind again. She had some money and could just take off. Daniel wouldn’t find her if she didn’t want him to, and he wasn’t the kind of man who’d bother her mother to find her, or even look that hard. But it didn’t seem right somehow. She couldn’t just walk away. She wouldn’t ever see him again, or little Lettye. She could live without seeing the boys, but even the thought of losing them forever had a sobering effect.

  She looked out her window at the backyard of the main house. Mrs. Garcia’s granddaughter was kicking a ball in her pretty white dress. The squat Cuban lady held her two-year-old granddaughter’s hand to steady her from time to time. That was all Alicia wanted: a normal life, and to watch her kids grow up. Was that too much to ask? She started to cry again.

  Tasker concentrated so hard on the computer screen that Sutter’s voice made him jump in the chair.

  “What’s with you?” asked Sutter, as he sat in an empty chair. In fact, the whole FDLE squad bay was deserted. He had followed Tasker over after their run-in with the Krome Avenue farmers.

  Tasker returned to the computer screen, saying, “Something about this case stinks.”

  “Everything about this case stinks. Be more specific.”

  “You ever wonder why the FBI has been no help at all?”

  “Actually, that’s the only thing that isn’t a surprise. I can’t remember them being much help on anything.”

  “But think about it. Sal Bolini won’t even acknowledge the case, but he talks to Lail about it. Jimmy Lail’s only suggestion wastes our time for four days. Something doesn’t add up, and I’m gonna find out what.”

  Sutter spun in the chair once. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why find out? You could always walk away. You could pretend that none of this fiasco ever occurred and no one would blame you or say another word.”

  “You serious?”

  “Would FDLE discipline you if you dropped this and moved on to something else?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Would your supervisor think you’re less of an investigator if you worked on something else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why not drop the whole thing? You’ve had enough trouble with the FBI to last a lifetime. Move on.”

  Tasker considered this. Logically, it was a sound argument. Tasker prided himself on his logical reasoning and rational thought, whatever the subject, and this was both logical and rational. He looked over to his partner, now learning the intricacies of the adjustable office chair by spinning it up, then lowering it.

  Tasker said, “That’s a good idea.”

  “Glad you agree.”

  “I can’t do it, but I recognize the good sense of it.”

  “Why can’t you walk away?”

  “Because it’s not right. This guy killed someone with a bomb and may do it again. The FBI is involved with him, and someone has got to stop him.”

  “And you’re the only one in the world who can stop him?”

  “Yes. Me and you.”

  “Good answer. I just wanted to make sure this was as important to you as I thought it was. What’s our next move?”

  Tasker leaned to one side so Sutter could see the computer screen. It showed a Miami Herald news-archive article on two Jordanian nationals the FBI had arrested for attempting to attack the Turkey Point nuclear power plant.

  Tasker said, “First stop, MCC.”

  Sutter just stared at him.

  “To interview either Samir Al-Soud or Kaz Jou
rdi. The article doesn’t specify which agent arrested them, but Lail said it was Bolini. Maybe they can tell us something.”

  “You think the Bureau would be pissed if they found out we were talkin’ to their prisoners?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Nope.”

  Without another word, they were off.

  Jimmy Lail would never admit that he’d hurt his back when Tasker threw him on the ground. He sat at the lat machine at the Bally’s in western Dade, just staring at the bar. He realized he was zoning out and looked around to make sure no one thought he was acting strange. He rubbed his head where the nylon sock cap irritated his skin, then reached for the bar and pulled it down with no real enthusiasm. This sucked. He couldn’t even concentrate, because that state cop had disrespected him so bad in front of his woman. And that Miami cop didn’t hide what he thought of Camy. It was a lot easier when everyone had thought she was a lesbian. It’d explained why she never wanted to go out of the house with him. It kept other men away. And the thought of it kept Jimmy in a general state of arousal.

  After finishing up with some lackluster squats, Jimmy headed over to the ATF office. Camy might be able to keep him from coming by her house, but she couldn’t keep him from a federal law enforcement office.

  Forty minutes later, he strutted through the main door and waved to the older receptionist, who was so used to his face she buzzed him in without calling Camy. He bounded up the stairs to her squad and was able to sneak within five feet of her desk before she even noticed him.

  She looked up from her report, but didn’t smile. “How’d you get in here?”

  “Walked, baby. How you think?”

  “I think you’re supposed to call first.”

  “I never used to have to call.”

  Camy leveled her stare at him. “Jimmy, this is work. You’re supposed to be professional at work. Act like a professional.”

  Jimmy didn’t reply. He decided he needed his space, anyway, and sulked back out of the building. This case had ruined his life. His woman wasn’t giving him his props, the other cops disrespected him and he was starting to think people didn’t like him.

  The thing that bothered him most was that an FDLE agent, a damn state cop, thought he was better than him. That wasn’t right and it wasn’t true.

  Jimmy always excelled at anything he did. He’d been teacher of the month at Prairie Middle School in Laredo two different times before he joined the FBI. The multicultural class he’d taught had been talked about all over the county. It was the first time the other culture considered hadn’t been Mexican. If they wanted that, they could cross the Rio Grande on the west side of town. He had brought Kwanzaa to South Texas. He didn’t need any of this shit.

  They could complain about the Klan surveillance all they wanted. They still did it. And Jimmy felt satisfied on a number of different levels. The cops had done what he’d told them to do. He’d impressed some people who mattered at the Bureau. And most important, he had harassed the Klan a little, and that would burn up his racist father back on LBJ Lane in Laredo more than anything Jimmy could do. The Klan had never changed its out-of-date views, but Jimmy could still strike a blow for the peeps wherever he worked.

  The Miami Metropolitan Correctional Center was quiet this time of the evening. The administration didn’t like visits after six, but for law enforcement they would make exceptions. Tasker found that Kaz Jourdi had already been moved to Atlanta, where he was being evaluated for a future destination. Samir Al-Soud was still at MCC waiting for transportation. Neither had caused any trouble while guests of the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

  After a thirty-minute wait in an interview room the size of a small closet with a rickety table and three folding chairs, two burly Bureau of Prisons officers escorted a small dark man about thirty-three with a wicked comb-over hiding a large, shiny head. He had intense dark eyes which he immediately trained on Tasker, trying to assess who he had to talk with now. He was thin but had some muscle. Tasker wouldn’t want to tangle with him if he was pissed or had a cause.

  The prison officers let him step inside the small room alone and said to Sutter, “We’ll be in the control room. If you need us, stick your head out the door. We have to see you.”

  Sutter smiled, looking at the prisoner. “No problem. I think we could handle this one.”

  The second officer laughed and said to the first, “How many times have we heard that?”

  Tasker asked, “Is there something we should know about Mr. Al-Soud?”

  “No, nothing specific. We just seen more than one FBI agent get his ass kicked down here.”

  Al-Soud seemed to follow the conversation with interest.

  Sutter said, “Don’t worry, I’m a Miami cop.”

  The first officer said, “Seen that, too.” He turned and shut the door.

  Tasker pulled out the chair next to the table and offered it to the small man.

  Al-Soud slowly sat, exchanging looks with both cops.

  Tasker said, “Mr. Al-Soud, you speak English, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “My name is Bill Tasker and this is Derrick Sutter.”

  The man made no reaction.

  “We wanted to talk to you about your arrest. It has no bearing on your case, which, from what I understand, is already concluded.”

  The man looked at Tasker and said, “Why would you want to talk to me? Why not talk to another FBI agent?”

  “I’m not with the FBI.”

  He looked at Sutter. “And you’re a Miami cop?” He had no trace of an accent. He could have been from Los Angeles.

  Sutter said, “That’s right.”

  Tasker said, “I’m an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”

  “So an FDLE agent and a Miami cop are interested in an FBI case. This must be some turf war.”

  “Not really. The opposite, actually. We’re on another case that the FBI is not interested in.” Tasker looked at the calm little man. “Who arrested you?”

  He looked surprised. “Why, the FBI, of course.”

  “I mean, which agent? Do you remember?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Oh yes. Of course. A most disagreeable man. Agent Bolini.”

  Tasker cut his eyes to Sutter. Then said, “I read the news article, but what exactly did you do?”

  “I am afraid, due to legal considerations, I shall not answer that.” He looked at Sutter. “And nothing could make me talk.”

  Sutter shrugged, stood up and said, “Okay, that just means I’m outta here quicker.” Sutter took a step toward the door. The small Arab man looked to Tasker.

  “Okay, okay, wait. I’ll talk to you.”

  Sutter let a small smile cross his face.

  Tasker winked at him, turned to Al-Soud and said, “We’re listening.”

  The man gazed ahead as he recalled details. He began, “I’ve got to tell you-it was brilliant.”

  Tasker smiled. “Hold on, ah, what should we call you? Samir? Mr. Al-Soud?”

  “Call me Sami. Everyone does.”

  “Okay, Sami, tell us your idea.”

  “It was mostly mine, but Kaz added some logistics.”

  Sutter cut in. “Summarize this shit, Sami. We’re not investigating you. We’re just interested in your case.”

  Sami nodded, anxious to get on with his story. “Well, you know that Turkey Point used to be relatively unguarded. I am an electrical engineer and had done some contract work out there a few years ago.”

  “At the nuclear plant?” asked Tasker.

  “No, the fossil fuel plant, but they’re right next to each other and the engineers showed me around plenty of times. They have that typical American pride in their accomplishments. They love to brag and show off how smart they are.” He took a second and asked, “Now, where was I?”

  “You were saying how brilliant you are,” said Sutter.

  He nodded, “Yes, of course. So, as I was saying, I talked it over with Kaz, my frien
d, and we thought that if someone attacked the plant from the ocean side, they could make quite an inroad to this facility. There used to be a dock there and everything.”

  Sutter said, “Why’d you want to attack it?”

  “It was a popular idea among some of us. Make a statement about America’s vulnerability.”

  Sutter took a harsh tone. “A vulnerability based on freedom that you enjoyed.”

  “Correct,” said Sami, like he couldn’t understand Sutter’s reasoning.

  “And you liked living here?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But you wanted to attack us?”

  “Yes, the power plant.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, to make a statement about America’s vulnerability.”

  Tasker looked over to Sutter and shook his head so they could move on.

  Sami was silent for a few seconds, then said, “So, I had the idea that a big enough bomb planted on the ocean side of the plant might not destroy it but would scare a lot of people and disrupt life.”

  Tasker asked, “How were you going to get the bomb in? Suicide attack?”

  “No, of course not. Not unless Kaz wanted to ride in a boat loaded with explosives. And he wanted to live as much as me.”

  “So what did you plan?”

  “A sealed explosive that when it was dumped in the water and reached a certain depth, it armed itself. Then, after we were gone, it exploded.”

  “You could build something like that? Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  “Not us. We met a man. An engineer who told us he wanted to see the same thing-the plant to go up in a big show. He had the whole device made up. He had the explosive, too. But before we even had a boat, the FBI grabbed us and we abandoned the plan. They had us, they knew everything, so Kaz and I pleaded guilty. I start a twelve-year sentence next month.”

  “What happened to the other guy, the engineer?”

  “I don’t think they ever caught him. I gave his name to Agent Bolini, but I don’t know what happened.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Daniel Westerly. He lived in Naranja.”

  Tasker just stared at Sutter.

  Wells had almost everything ready to go. He was about to get some rest for the night, when his pager went off. Within a minute, he’d hustled down to a gas station and called the number back, and when a man answered, Wells said, “Hello?”