Shock Wave

fifteen

The small round table had nicks in its Formica top. The sleek, twenty-something waitress clearly resented having to work in her family’s small restaurant near the Orange Bowl and showed her dissatisfaction with every gesture of her delicate hands and every expression on her flawless face. Tasker sat, mesmerized by this striking girl, as she tossed plates onto the marred table and ignored empty water glasses. She was one of the reasons he loved coming here. The look on FBI agent Sal Bolini’s face was the main reason Tasker had asked him to meet him in such an out-of-the-way restaurant.

A thin film of sweat started to form across Bolini’s tall forehead. The heat from the kitchen, as well as the owner’s sparing use of the air conditioning, had had the effect Tasker wanted.

Tasker said, “You could take off your coat. No one’ll complain.” He smiled, comfortably cool in his polo shirt and khakis.

“I like the coat concealing my gun,” Bolini said, using a napkin to mop his face.

“A belly bag conceals pistols and keeps you cooler.” Tasker leaned back and patted his black bag. In truth it didn’t hide the fact that you were armed, it only hid what type of pistol you had. No one ever asked, but if you wore a belly bag in Miami and weren’t just off a flight from Stuttgart, you were carrying a gun.

“The bags go against the idea of being in plainclothes. If I were to wear a bag, everyone would know I was a cop.”

“What about an untucked shirt? Wouldn’t that accomplish the same thing, and you’d stay a hell of a lot cooler?”

“While I normally would enjoy a discussion on fashion, I can end this by saying that we at the FBI have… a certain image.”

Tasker nodded. “I see.”

“An image you tried to tarnish.”

Tasker flushed. “Tell me, Agent Bolini, what was I supposed to do? Take the fall on a false charge so the Bureau looked clean? It was your own agent who took the money and framed me. Should I have kept my mouth shut?”

Bolini remained silent for a few seconds and then said, “It was your attitude. That cop attitude that the Bureau is a bunch of fuck-ups and we were all against you. That wasn’t the case. Tom Dooley was an anomaly. Never happened before and won’t happen again.”

“Never happened before? What about that spy, Hanson? Or the agent indicted in the Midwest for murder? I’d say it happens more than you admit.”

Bolini’s face darkened. “This is why you called me? To nitpick? Get to the fucking point.”

Tasker cursed silently. He needed a favor, not another pissed-off FBI agent. He took a deep breath. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I need to run something past you. Something you may be interested in.”

“I’m listening.”

“You heard about arresting the wrong guy, Daniel Wells, on the Stinger deal.”

Bolini couldn’t hide his smile. “Yeah, I heard.”

“I know you’ve got some good contacts in the south county and access to some decent databases.” He paused.

“Yeah, go on.”

“This guy Wells is in the wind and I need help finding him.”

“If he was the wrong man and you got him turned loose, why do you need to find him?”

“I think he’s the guy who set the bomb on the cruise ship a couple of years ago.”

Bolini sat motionless and silent, staring at Tasker. Neither man spoke as Bolini seemed to gather his thoughts. “The Sea Maiden? What are you saying?”

“That Daniel Wells is responsible for the cruise-ship bombing.”

“The same Daniel Wells that you had released?”

Tasker kept it professional, even though he felt the mocking sting in every word Bolini uttered. “That’s correct,” he said slowly.

“You got a warrant for him?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

Bolini started to laugh, silently at first, then in big gasps, rocking his firm, six-foot frame. “This is precious. We make the arrest, you get him off and now you want us back on the case. That is just fucking hysterical.” He wiped his eyes.

“Tell me, Mr. Hot-shot FDLE Superagent, why aren’t Melissa Etheridge and Ice-T helping you on this?”

Tasker stayed calm, somehow. “If you mean Camy Parks and Jimmy Lail, they’ve opted out.”

“I thought the princess was all over the cruise ship.”

“Not with me.”

“I see. So ATF jumped onboard with the FBI in thinking you’re a mistake waiting to happen. Smart move on their part.”

“How do you figure?”

“Legally, they can’t be associated with you. They also can’t go after a guy they just arrested, then had to let go. You managed to insulate this guy Wells perfectly if he is involved in anything else.”

“I got evidence he was involved in the Sea Maiden bombing.”

“Does Camy Parks agree with your theory?”

“She hasn’t looked at it closely.”

“How can that be?” Then he paused, running his hand over his perfectly trimmed hair. “I see. No matter what you find, she’s been told to lay off. That’s rough.”

Tasker kept watching the man. He seemed sincere, for the moment.

Bolini asked, “When are you looking at getting a warrant?”

“Maybe today.”

Bolini’s eyes opened wide. “That’s crazy. What’s the rush? Shouldn’t you find him first?”

“Why wait? I’ve got enough.”

“Like when you arrested him for the Stinger?”

Tasker scooted back from the table, drawing looks from a couple of the other diners. He said, “That was based on what one of your agents saw. An FBI agent.”

“So now it’s the Bureau’s fault again. Isn’t it time you found a different scapegoat? Couldn’t you be wrong about the cruise ship?”

“I’ve got evidence.”

“Like what?”

“Wells is on a list of buyers for TATP, the explosive used in the bombing. The stuff he bought is a chemical match for the explosive, and the explosives-maker can positively ID Wells. And he’s gone. Out of the house. No info. Just disappeared.”

“What about family?”

“Gone.”

Bolini considered all that and said, “Outta sight, outta mind. It’s an ATF case, I’d drop it.”

“Can’t do it. I’m the one who let him out on the street.”

“So what-he’s no threat now.”

“How do you know that?”

“A redneck like that. You got him running. He hasn’t the time to cause any trouble. Shit, you probably scared him straight. He’s probably deciding where to move so no one ever bothers him again about a prank at the port.”

“A prank? Someone got killed because of that prank.”

“Hey, don’t get so hot. I’ll tell you what. If you want to hand over all your stuff to me, I’ll take a look at it. Maybe that’ll help.”

“Work with the FBI on this?”

“Oh, hell no. The Bureau would never touch you again. I mean I might take a look at it myself, then decide if it’s worth pursuing.”

“No way. At least I know I’m making an effort to find him. If you guys won’t help, then you can go to hell.”

“Whoa, is that why you asked me to lunch? To tell me to take a hike? What are you looking for from me?”

“I need to at least find Wells. That’s why I called you. He’s got relatives in Tennessee and a few other places out of state. He’s in your intel base. Could you check around and see if you can find him?”

“Sorry, slick. You got into this mess, you can get out. If my bosses knew I helped you, I’d be on airport-security detail, checking for bombs shoved up people’s asses.” He took the last bite of his Cuban sandwich and added, “You’re on your own.”

Tasker thought, What else is new?

…

In the woods on the side of the trailer he’d rented, Daniel Wells pulled down his mask again and applied the flame to the wire weld. The heat inside his van varied from miserable to unbearable, but he kept at it.

He’d been lucky to find this place west of Homestead, so close to his own house but out far enough that no one would bother looking for him. He’d even been back to the house twice without anyone the wiser. He’d read the search warrant the cops had left and knew that they had made the surfer from Florida City talk. He’d have known anyway, from his friend. But this just made it seem more official. He kept the note from Bill Tasker. He did owe the guy, but his special feeling was bigger than his debt to a state cop. He might call him just for laughs. The effort they had put into linking him to the two-year-old bombing actually made him feel better, more satisfied. It showed that what he had accomplished did matter. It had wreaked havoc on the ship and with the cruise lines for a while. He’d done some welding work for them and knew that the bookings would drop and cause more and more people to worry. It was like making the mood last longer than just the bang. Unfortunately, the cruise lines had gotten back on track pretty quickly and he needed something else to satisfy him.

He knew that his next move would have to be big. Even if he’d tried something smaller so he could enjoy Alicia and kids a while longer, that had all changed now. Now he needed to make a statement and show people what one man can do if he set his mind to it. The dang Muslims bragged about everything they did, but it always took a whole bunch of the little buggers to pull something off. They caused terror, there was no doubt of that, but they had to plan for years, use all kinds of confederates, and then die in the act. Wells hoped to show those little bastards that one smart, determined American could pull off an equally spectacular plan with only a little planning and no extra people who could blab. The most important point was that it would be one man… who survived… and didn’t get caught.

He took a break, sitting in the van with the side door open. He turned off the torch and took off the welding mask. This was a great place. Cash rent, a landlady who didn’t even know his last name. Plenty of room, too. Wells didn’t even know where the property line ran, with all the pine trees and scrub brush clogging the yard. He had the Toyota behind the double-wide and the van in the cleared driveway, where he could work on it. The thick pad of pine needles made it easy on his knees when he had to stoop down outside the old van.

He looked at the crease across the top of the Toyota parked fifty feet away and thought about the piece of rebar he’d blown across the field that day. That was a good experiment, and it led directly to the device he had loaded on the Sea Maiden. That had been a good plan. Pack the suitcase with some TATP, two bottles of lighter fluid to make sure something burned, and lots of old rags. He’d just placed it with a stack of luggage a family from New York had set on the dock to be loaded and it went right up the plank. He had a timer that would’ve made it blow as it was headed out to sea but before it reached a cabin. At least that was what he thought. The damn baggage handlers must have thrown it so hard it detonated. That’s why the handler had been killed. With Wells, it wasn’t a numbers game. He couldn’t care less as long as it caused confusion. Confusion and terror for the passengers and crew. He imagined it had, but he was sorry the explosion hadn’t been on a higher deck with a more visible result. He would have been happy with the big bang and people scurrying about like mice, but the killing had spooked people. The death had added another element to his feeling, his urge. Made the story last a little longer, too. But now, he didn’t care. He might want some numbers this time. After this, he’d be a damn folk hero. This was definitely a big plan, and he loved that he was the only one involved. No one to betray him to the police.

When it was all over, he’d have to go deep underground. Get the kids and Alicia and head out to the Northwest maybe. When people saw what he’d done, he could pick and choose where he laid low. Every fanatical crackpot group would want to hide him and the family from the authorities. Where would he go? He had to think of the kids. He couldn’t go with the white supremacists. They had good accommodations, but he didn’t want the kids affected by all that negativity. Besides, most of those guys were pretty stupid. And the local group, the American Aryan Movement, still owed him a thousand bucks for building a bomb. That simple fact stuck in his head and pissed him off every time he thought about it. He wanted the kids around smarter people, folks who would set good examples.

Maybe the tax protestors? He didn’t really care about them much. He’d never paid much in taxes anyway, but it was something to consider. He’d find someone. Keeping Alicia in line would be the biggest problem. She’d been pretty good, but his uncle said she’d left last week, and even though she’d paged him, it sounded like from a bar when he called back, and she hadn’t seen the kids since she left. That worried Wells a little bit. He could always let her go. She didn’t know too much. Hell, even if she did, she didn’t know what any of it meant. But, man, could she shake it.

He picked up his mask and set it in place on his head, then used his striker to light the torch. He turned and started to weld the two metal surfaces again, melting the rod to form a perfect seam. The sparks kicked past him as he worked closer to the open door. He didn’t even notice the smoldering pine needles as he crawled into the van to work the seal closer to the other side. The small patch of ground popped into a low but spreading flame. Wells concentrated on his work, still marveling at how much he was accomplishing on his own.

About twenty minutes after starting back to work, Wells felt a tug on his boot. He jumped out of his skin, turning to see a fireman, in full protective uniform with his helmet under his arm, standing next to the van. Behind him, two more firemen hosed down a patch of blackened pine needles.

Wells shut off the torch, raised his clear visor and scooted out to talk to the fireman. He quickly stood between the fireman and the van in an effort to block the man’s view. He looked over his shoulder at the other men scurrying excitedly to ensure the fire hadn’t spread. Wells now realized how much smoke the needles had put into the air and wasn’t surprised someone had called the fire department. In a small way, this little scene of turmoil caused Wells to feel his special feeling of satisfaction.

The fireman said, “You didn’t even notice you almost burned down your trailer?”

“Don’t get mad, Officer,” said Wells evenly. “I’m sorry, I was working in a lot of smoke and didn’t see this. I accept responsibility.”

The tall fireman pulled out his notebook, still pissed off. “You scared the shit out of your neighbors.”

“I said I was sorry. Isn’t it your job to do things like this? If none of us made mistakes, we wouldn’t need the fire department, would we?”

That softened the man. “I need a little information.”

“Sure.” Wells shifted to hide his work.

“Name?”

“Westerly. Dave Westerly.”

“What’s your address way out here?”

“Don’t know. It’s on the trailer.” Wells looked at the other firefighters cleaning up their equipment. “What’s this for?”

“Just goes in our records, that’s all.”

Wells led the taller man toward the trailer as the fireman took a few more notes. He walked with the fireman as he circled the trailer and the Toyota making notes and checking for any remaining embers.

The fireman finally said, “Looks all clear here, Mr. Westerly. Use a little more care with that torch, will ya?”

“You bet, Officer,” said Wells, watching the man walk over to his waiting friends on the big truck. He turned to the van, wondering if the fireman would have wanted to know why he was welding a big gas tank inside the cabin of his van.

Bill Tasker left the welding supply store in Florida City and slowly started driving around the streets of the small town on Florida’s southern continental mass. He liked the community feel of the town and how it flowed into Homestead as he drove north on Krome Avenue. He didn’t have a real plan, other than to grab something to eat at his favorite Mexican restaurant in Cutler Ridge while he reviewed some reports. He was about to find one of the roads that cut east from Krome to US 1, when he saw a pillar of smoke rising from inside one of the rural neighborhoods. He could hear sirens and caught a glimpse of the fire engine turning down the street half a mile ahead in the direction of the fire. He never saw any actual flames.

About ninety minutes later, just as it was starting to get dark, after he had eaten his fill of refried beans and a fish taco, Tasker gathered his stack of reports concerning the profiles of bombers like Wells and headed north toward his house. Pretty much everyone agreed that bombers were almost always white males between twenty-five and forty. Wells certainly fit that broad guideline. Thinking of the failed engineer from Naranja, Tasker took an impulsive turn and headed west, then south, toward the neighborhood where the Wells house was located.

He drove past slowly, hoping he’d see something that might point him in the right direction. Some piece of info he’d missed the other times he’d been at the house. He could picture the heavenly Alicia Wells in her sheer tank top coming out to talk with him, and wondered where she and the kids were now. If he answered that question, he might be able to find Daniel Wells.

Sutter checked his watch, a nice Rolex knockoff that fooled most of the players in the city. It was past ten and he knew the second shift of dancers would be out soon. Even though he enjoyed the topless bars-what normal male wouldn’t like looking at good-looking naked girls trying to dance to every song ever written-he was at this particular place looking for someone. He’d heard country ballads, hard rock, pop, and now was watching the slightly heavy, stretch-marked Latina friend he’d made on his last visit, shaking it to Eminem. White rappers-what was the world coming to?

Last time he’d been here, he’d seen a girl who looked familiar. He couldn’t place her at the time, but he’d sure thought about her. A nice blond girl with blue eyes and a pretty face. The kind of girl you’d take to your mama, if your mama liked white girls. He couldn’t figure how he’d know someone all the way down here in South Miami, but he felt like she was familiar.

When the second set of dancers came out, he didn’t see her. He’d been quiet, sitting by himself away from the stage. He was dressed in a Joseph Abboud imitation that looked sharp on him for a quarter the price of a real Joseph Abboud, so no one would make him for a cop. He stood up and approached the doorman.

“Excuse me, my man.” He waited for the behemoth to turn and acknowledge him. Now he tapped him on the arm. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

The giant uncrossed his arms, which looked like thighs, and slowly rotated his melon head in Sutter’s direction. “What?” was all that came from the bottom of the big man’s diaphragm.

Even with the pounding music, the man’s deep voice and direct delivery unnerved Sutter. He regrouped. “I was here a week ago and saw a girl. Blond girl with blue eyes. Real sweet. When does she usually work?”

The man just stared.

Sutter said, “You know, they say always be nice to the customers.”

The doorman said, “You know what I say?”

“Fee, fi, fo, fum?”

The doorman stared at Sutter. “No, smart-ass, I say I don’t got time for stupid questions. Go back and finish your drink before I mess that cheap suit.”

Sutter had been a cop eight years. In the actual City of Miami, no one would talk to him like that. He didn’t think he needed to take this kind of shit out in the sticks. “Look here, my man.” Sutter held up his left wrist like he was showing him his watch.

“So?”

“You know how much this watch cost?”

The man squinted and leaned a little closer. “Maybe a hundred bucks.”

“For a Rolex?”

“Ain’t no Rolex.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Sutter slowly moved to his right.

“The second hand don’t move right.”

Sutter moved a little more and lowered his wrist. “You’re full of shit. Look in the light.” He moved his arm so an overhead high-hat light illuminated the dial. “Look close.”

The man now leaned lower with his head near the edge of the bar. Without warning, Sutter slammed the big man’s shaved head into the bar and at almost the same time drove his knee into the side of his leg, striking the common peroneal nerve. The man shuddered from the knee spike and grabbed his head as blood started to pour from a gash Sutter had opened near his temple. Without anyone else noticing, Sutter shoved him hard out the front door, where the man tumbled down the three short stairs leading into the bar.

Once on the lime-and-gravel driveway, Sutter calmly walked over to the man writhing on the ground and said, “I tried it the nice way and you insulted my clothes. Now I’m gonna do it the easy way. Easy for me, at least.” He stepped on the man’s right hand, catching his ring finger curled underneath.

The man yelped, twisting his head to get a better look at Sutter, or to see if anyone else was around.

“Just you and me, Asshole the Giant.” He put more pressure on the hand.

The man cried out.

Sutter said, “I was asking about a girl. I could tell by your face you knew who I meant. Now give me a name.”

The man had given up any false heroics. “Her name is Champagne.”

“Oh, please, I’m supposed to buy that? Not her stage name, doofus, her real name.”

The man didn’t answer. Sutter stepped harder on the hand, feeling one of the small bones snap under his foot. “In about three seconds, you’re never gonna jack off with this hand again.”

The man gasped. “Alicia.”

Sutter froze. “What?”

“Alicia. Her name is Alicia Wells.”

That was where Sutter knew her from. The Wells arrest. Now he had to find her. She might be able to lead them right to her husband. “When’s she come in?” He moved his foot so the man would feel some relief.

“Who knows? These chicks keep their own schedule.” He curled into the fetal position, whimpering like a sick dog.

“You better make a good guess, unless you want a matching cast on your other hand.”

He stuck both his hands between his legs so Sutter couldn’t get to them. “I’m for real. She usually comes in second shift, but I know she works a club in the city, too.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t know, man.”

“Guess there’s no way you won’t tell her I was asking about her?”

The man just stared at him, tears still in his eyes.

“Next time you be polite to customers. We all know you’re big. You don’t have to scare us. Understand?”

The man nodded furiously as Sutter slowly strutted back to his car. Tasker was never gonna believe this.