Shock Wave

eight

Early Monday morning, after a good weekend with the girls and a pleasant conversation with his ex-wife when he dropped them off, Tasker found himself again in Naranja. He had already been by Wells’ house twice. Once at six-thirty, then again at seven. Finally he saw movement about seven-fifteen. It was early, but he didn’t have much time. He parked on the street and walked up to the front door over the long, narrow driveway.

A wiry boy about six with a buzz cut showing just a haze of blond hair answered the door. Tasker flashed back to his childhood summers of sunburnt heads from Mom’s buzz cuts the day after school let out.

“I bet they call you Buzz,” said Tasker, leaning over with a smile.

The kid slammed the door. Tasker heard him yell. “Mama, there’s some weird guy at the door.”

After a minute’s wait and some peeking from behind the curtains, a surprisingly beautiful woman answered the door. She seemed different from the other day somehow, more striking. Her blue eyes and light complexion made her look Scandinavian, but her accent marked her as a southerner. Not Florida. Alabama maybe.

“Can I help you?”

Tasker showed his badge and identification. “I’m Bill Tasker.”

“I remember you.” Her tone wasn’t harsh, just cautious.

“Mrs. Wells, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

“Daniel says he tried to explain at the jail, but you wouldn’t listen. You don’t understand. My Daniel is a good man. A smart man. He has three years of college. He only left the University of Florida to help his daddy when he got sick. He’d never do nothin’ like you said.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Even in a night-gown with the boy hanging on her leg, this girl exuded grace. The words “southern belle” came to mind. There was something else. Something that didn’t fit with his image of a southern belle.

She looked at him. “What do you need?”

“I’d like to look at his workshop.”

She shook her head, tentatively. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Tasker nodded. “I understand your reticence.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“I understand your reluctance,” Tasker said. “But I need to check some information.”

She thought about it. “I don’t know,” she started slowly. “I don’t wanna get him in worse trouble somehow. You ain’t got a warrant, do you?”

“No, nothing like that. I want to see if I can back up Daniel’s story at all.”

She looked up at his face, almost studying it. “That other fella just tried to trick me into saying stuff the other day.”

“What other fella?”

“The FBI agent, Mr. Cobb. He told me all kinds of things, but he didn’t want to help Daniel. If Daniel can’t work, we’ll lose this place. I don’t think I should make it worse for him.”

“Mrs. Wells, I am not with the FBI. I swear to God, all I want is the truth. The truth might be that Daniel tried to make some extra money and didn’t tell you a thing about it. But if the truth is that he wasn’t involved, then that’s what I want to find out.”

She assessed him carefully. Looking up into his eyes and taking a step closer, she asked, “You swear that’s what you’re doing?”

Tasker looked into her beautiful face and felt himself hesitate as he lost concentration. This girl had to know she had this kind of effect on men. She was better than a polygraph. She knew no mortal man could look into her eyes and lie.

Tasker said, “I swear to you I just want the truth.”

She took a long moment, squeezed the boy at her side and then sent him into the house with a playful swat on the butt. She looked at Tasker again. “Okay, I’ll open it up. I don’t know why, but you look sincere. I don’t think you’re trying to hurt Daniel.”

“I do just want the truth. We have enough to hold him now, anyway. But if I find anything, then I’ll know we were right. And if I find something that helps him significantly, I’ll let the prosecutor know before his bond hearing this afternoon. That’s why I’m bothering you so early.”

She nodded slowly, obviously still coming to grips with the bizarre fate of her husband. She led him through the carport to the detached one-car garage. An oversized van with faded signs that said NARANJA ENGINEERING was parked at the end of the driveway.

She stood on her toes in her bare feet to reach the keypad that opened the door. “Go ahead. I got to get my other two fed.” She hurried past him toward the house without another word.

He nodded and proceeded to scan the top of the workbench. Nothing more than tools and some instructions for a welding torch. The garage as a whole was very neat and orderly. He knew the type. A place for everything and everything in its place. His father had run the dry cleaners in Boca like that.

He looked in a few containers, one with rusty roofing nails and one with a noxious smelling, gooey liquid. Then on a small, neat desk he found something that immediately caught his attention. A personal check. Bernie Dashett had written a check to Naranja Engineering for forty dollars. Giving an alibi was one thing. But this kind of detail was unheard-of. Tasker snatched up the check and headed back through the carport. As he neared the front door, Mrs. Wells stepped outside. Now in a sundress, she looked like the girl next door, if you lived next door to the set of Baywatch.

“Find anything?”

Tasker almost stuttered. “Maybe. We’ll know by the hearing. What if we talk then?”

“You help Daniel and we’ll talk any time you like.” She smiled and Tasker knew it was time to get to the office.

He walked through the front doors of the new FDLE building off 107th Avenue and Twelfth Street at exactly nine o’clock. Before he could make the inner doors, the receptionist called to him from behind thick, clear Plexar.

“This was in the mail shoot for you when we opened.” She held up an envelope a little larger than a sheet of paper. The word “Urgent” was written in red marker across the front with his name in the corner. The receptionist slid it under the glass.

He opened it as he took the elevator to the third floor. Walking down the hallway, he heard, but didn’t acknowledge, greetings from everyone he passed. He slid out an eight-by-ten photo with a note on the back. The comment read: “Nazi summit, Dell Linley et al., August 4, 2002.” There was an address and time marked on it as well. The “et al.” was something cops and prosecutors used to say “everyone else involved.” Sometimes it was to save time and sometimes it was just laziness. He turned over the photo and looked at two young men talking in the outside courtyard of a McDonald’s. The photo was taken from across the street with a telephoto lens. Who the hell would send him something like this? Tasker looked at the scene again and didn’t see the connection until he noticed the man inside the restaurant with two small children eating at a table. It was Daniel Wells.

All day he had wondered who had sent him the photo of the “Nazi summit.” The piece of the puzzle that had led to Daniel Wells’ immediate arrest. It hadn’t exactly been a summit, and more important, Wells had had nothing to do with it. So the question hit him again: Who had sent it to him? He toyed with the idea that it might have been the FBI agent who’d spotted the transfer of the Stinger, Jim Cobb. Maybe the guy realized he had screwed up and wanted to set things right. But it didn’t add up. Cobb certainly didn’t strike Tasker as the kind of cop that went back on a judgment, no matter how outlandish it was.

Now Tasker couldn’t worry about it anymore. He had other problems. He tried to talk to the assistant U.S. attorney just as the hearing started, but traffic was brutal, and trying to run down where the photo had come from and what it meant had taken time. It seemed clear to him that the FBI intelligence that had helped land Daniel Wells in jail was shitty, if it was based on this photo. Who has a summit of white racists with only two rednecks talking outside a McDonald’s? Wells wasn’t even with them. He was just having lunch with his kids. Tasker had just driven down past the McDonald’s in Goulds an hour ago and confirmed it was the closest one to the Wells house. They had the wrong fucking guy in jail.

The refurbished Magistrate’s Courtroom, or “ Mag Court ” for short, was in the Federal Courthouse on Miami Avenue in downtown Miami. A large deputy U.S. Marshal in a suit stood next to each door, since there was a prisoner involved in the hearing. The high ceiling and the space between the formal-looking magistrate and lawyers gave the courtroom the feel of a big meeting hall. The room wasn’t particularly crowded. A few old men from Miami Beach. They just liked hearing cases now and then. A few reporters and the guy who sketched the hearing. Federal courts, unlike state courts, didn’t allow cameras of any sort in the courtroom.

Tasker fidgeted in the seat as the hearing got underway. He didn’t want to just stop it, so he waited for a recess. They were going to look at Bernie Dashett first, anyway.

Tasker nodded to Camy, who was sitting up front. It took him a second to recognize Jimmy Lail in a nice blue business suit sitting next to her. After a short opening statement, the portly assistant U.S. attorney called Jimmy to the stand to summarize what had happened the day of the arrests. Tasker thought this should be good for a laugh.

When asked to lay out the whole scenario, Jimmy began, “After identifying one subject, Bernard Harold Dashett of 21468 Hallow Road, an undercover sting operation was set up to interdict the Stinger missile Mr. Dashett had offered on the open market.” He had a southern, possibly Texas, drawl.

Tasker was stunned. The idiot could talk. A casual observer would view him as an intelligent, professional law enforcement official. If they only knew.

Finally, at a five-minute recess, Tasker stepped up to Camy and said, “We gotta talk.”

“What’s up?”

“We grabbed the wrong guy. Daniel Wells handed him a possum trap, not a missile.”

She smiled. “Stop fooling around.”

“I’m serious.” Tasker ran down all of his leads as Jimmy Lail walked over.

Jimmy jumped in. “No way, dawg. That gansta is righteous and going down.”

Tasker stopped and looked at him. “Talk to me like you were on the stand.”

Jimmy frowned, straightened his tie and said, “Mind your own fucking business, Tasker. Everyone knows you’d do whatever you could to tarnish the Bureau.”

Tasker decided he liked the urban mode better, but simply turned and explained the entire situation to the assistant U.S. attorney. Five minutes later, the heavy little prosecutor stood and said to the magistrate, “Your honor, at this time, the government would have no objection to Mr. Wells being released on his own recognizance until further investigation is complete.” There were murmurs throughout the small crowd.

Tasker looked up to see Camy and Jimmy Lail scowling at him.

When the magistrate asked what the reversal of request was based on, the AUSA said, “Agent Tasker of the FDLE has uncovered sufficient information as to cast doubt on Mr. Wells’ role in this venture.”

The magistrate banged her gavel and said, “Mr. Wells, you are released based on your word that you will return to this court if required. Do you agree?”

Wells stood and said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

With that, Tasker felt Mrs. Wells’ soft arms wrap around him and a voice too close to his ear say, “Thank you so much.” Tasker looked over to see the Miami Herald reporter furiously scribbling notes and the independent sketch artist looking at him and the defendant’s wife in an embrace. This was going to cause some shit.

It had seemed so simple. So necessary. He had done what he needed to do. They had made a mistake and he’d corrected it by doing what he was trained to do: investigate.

Not everyone agreed with that simple logic. Now, sitting in his supervisor’s office, he was starting to feel the consequences.

“Billy, you made the right decision, no question,” said the special agent supervisor, his gray eyes warm and friendly.

“But I’m effectively cut out of my own case?”

“No, you’ll still testify if it goes to trial.”

“I can’t believe you caved to the Bureau like that.”

“It wasn’t a question of caving. The U.S. attorney said it was best for the case. They were happy that you saved them going after the wrong man, but you still got Bernie Dashett. He’s the right man.”

“That’s the only reason?”

The supervisor paused. “That’s the main reason.”

“What are the other reasons?”

“The Bureau raised hell.”

Tasker sat at his desk, doing the mundane paperwork that every cop complains about. After half an hour, he dialed Camy Parks’ cell phone.

“Hello.” Her bright voice cheered him immediately.

“Camy, it’s Bill Tasker.” Before he could say anything else, she hung up. He just stared at he phone. This was like breaking up with a girl.

He sat there, staring off into space, when a slap on the back brought him back to reality.

“Billy, why so down?” asked Frank Hutcheon, one of the senior squad members.

“Just case problems.”

“Look on the bright side, at least you’re not the target of the case.” He chuckled, but when Tasker didn’t laugh, the older agent added, “Are you?”

After a day during which his friends at the office really did try to make him feel better, with no effect, Tasker went home. Throwing together a salad for dinner, he had the local Channel 11 news on. They had led the charge against him in the media when he’d been suspected of the Alpha National Bank robbery, but he still tended to watch. They really did get the scoops most often.

As he half-listened, he heard the name of the local FBI assistant special agent in charge. His head snapped up and he saw the trim, well-dressed, Latin man talking on camera. Not behind a bank of microphones, like at a news conference, but one-on-one, as if they’d surprised him in public. What he said wasn’t a surprise or off the cuff. The FBI ASAC had a well-prepared statement.

“We at the Federal Bureau of Investigation are a little concerned that FDLE Agent Tasker has allowed his personal feelings for the FBI to influence this investigation.”

Tasker noticed that the administrative creep wouldn’t even refer to him by his correct title, “special agent,” because they felt only FBI agents should be called special agents. Aside from that, the ASAC never even hinted that anyone was worried about arresting the wrong guy based on some ambitious rookie’s incorrect observation. Tasker looked at the TV and wondered who had sent him the photograph of the so-called Nazi summit. Then, as he saw file footage of himself, taken after the Alpha National Bank case against him had been dropped, he realized this was all too similar to his last experience with the FBI.

To gain perspective, Tasker took a drive down into Naranja, just to see the Wells’ house. As he came down the road, he saw the oldest boy in the front yard, kicking a soccer ball. His blond hair was a little longer than his little brother’s. He noticed Tasker and immediately ran inside. Daniel Wells hurried out and waved to Tasker as he walked to the car.

“What are you doing down here?”

Tasker smiled. “Don’t really know. Guess I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

“Good. At least better than the weekend in jail. The news people won’t leave us alone.”

“I know the feeling.”

Wells smiled. “Come on in. Alicia would love to see you.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Are you kidding? Come on in.” He turned and headed back up the driveway, obviously expecting Tasker to follow.

Inside it was a madhouse, with kids running around, a dog barking, the TV blaring and the lovely Alicia Wells scurrying around the kitchen in tight jean shorts and a tank top. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, making Tasker realize she was even younger than he had first speculated. He guessed that the oldest boy was about Emily’s age, seven or eight. Maybe the lithe and friendly woman was twenty-five, but he doubted it. More like twenty-three. That made Daniel Wells… That made Daniel Wells a criminal. At least it did a few years ago.

Tasker bumped into a suitcase, knocking it into another and then a third, like a row of dominoes. He bent over to pick up the canvas bags, mumbling an apology.

Wells said, “Don’t worry about it.”

Tasker looked at the five matching suitcases, then at Wells.

“Like I said, the news people been buggin’ us, so I’m sending Alicia and the kids to some relatives tomorrow.”

Tasker nodded, surprised at how sorry he was to see Mrs. Wells leave the county.

Wells said, “I’ve got family all over.”

Tasker smiled. “Noticed you didn’t have an accent like your wife.”

“Had one when I was younger. Growing up in Ocala, you can develop a drawl, but my dad was strict about language, and a few years at UF knocked it out of me.”

Tasker nodded. “I know what you mean. I had the opposite effect. Raised down here, I didn’t hear a drawl until I went to FSU.”

“You’re a Seminole? You seemed so smart.”

They both laughed at the familiar rival university jabs. The phone started ringing, adding to the atmosphere of total confusion. Wells made no effort to answer it. Instead he held up a finger to Tasker, indicating he’d be right back. Tasker figured sign language was used a lot in this house. When he jumped at a screeching cat zipping through the living room, he saw Alicia Wells come up to him, smiling.

“Don’t pay no mind to all this. This is a quiet night.” Without warning, she leaned into Tasker and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him square on the mouth. “That was to thank you for everything.”

Completely flustered, he said, “Didn’t do anything but straighten out a mistake.” To quickly change the subject and get Alicia to move back a pace, he looked at the two wrestling boys in the family room and said, “They don’t look too upset by the whole thing.”

“They were. It was actually quiet here over the weekend. It’s Daniel that likes the noise and confusion. He stirs it up more often than not.”

Tasker felt relieved when her husband came back from the rear of the house. She immediately slid away from Tasker.

He had an odd feeling, like she was coming on to him. From his experience with rural families, he decided he was imagining it. His body wasn’t, but he was.

Tasker and Wells moved to the small dining room and sat at the round table.

“I owe you a lot, Mr. Tasker. And one day I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t owe me a thing.” He paused and then said, “You know I had some help getting you off the hook.”

“Really,” was all Wells said.

“There was a photograph that was supposed to show you at a Nazi summit of some kind.”

Wells laughed. “Nazis! I wouldn’t hang out with them. Their idea of anarchy is blowing up an empty bus. And they’re very unreliable in payin’ bills. Just a bunch of dumb-asses, you ask me.”

Tasker looked at him. He didn’t know what that meant. Before he could ask, Alicia Wells came out in a short skirt with a new, sheer tank top. Her pink nipples clearly showed through the top as her long, smooth legs glided her toward the dining room.

Tasker stood. “Gotta go.”

Alicia registered disappointment, but Daniel Wells pushed him along, thanking him again.

As he backed his Jeep out of the driveway, Tasker’s headlights fell across the old step van next to the garage. The whole visit had left him somewhat uneasy. When he pulled out onto the road, he saw Daniel Wells watching him from the carport.