Shock Wave

nineteen

Derrick Sutter had covered most of the obvious topless clubs in the city without finding the lovely Alicia Wells. Not that it was unpleasant duty, but he was getting tired. All he could figure was that the doorman at the Tittie Shack had tipped her off and she was long gone.

He pulled his Buick Century, the one issued to him from the now-closed robbery task force, into a spot near the Club Orion off Biscayne near I-395. He still had use of the car until the lease ran out in two months. He was the only guy from the task force left with one. Not that Dooley needed one in jail. As he thought about his former partner, he realized what a crazy few months this had been.

He straightened his tie in his reflection in the car’s window, checked to see if his eyes showed any lingering signs of the Mace attack from yesterday and moved his Glock from his hip to his waist so one of the girls brushing up against him wouldn’t notice it. He stopped in front of the simple entrance to the strip bar, looking up and down the street, trying to figure where the employees might park their cars. Every time someone walked in or out of the bar, a blast of loud music pounded in his ears. The dance club across the street had two uniformed cops at the door. He couldn’t see who they were, only that they were in uniform. Sutter figured he was far enough away that they wouldn’t recognize him.

Just as he was about to walk inside, the door opened and a woman walked out and immediately started up the side street. Sutter wasn’t paying attention but realized it was one of the dancers and saw she was blond. As he started after her, he realized the small lot behind the building held the employee vehicles.

“Alicia,” he called as he closed the gap on the fast-walking woman.

She gave no response.

When he was a few feet behind her, he said, “Alicia Wells,” and reached out for her arm.

She spun toward his touch, and before he could react he had a small canister of OC pepper spray pointed at him.

“No, wait,” was all he got out before she hit the button and covered him with orange spray. He immediately felt his eyes burn. He blinked, but it did no good as he went to his knees. “Jesus, what is it with your family and Mace?”

“Just leave us alone. Daniel didn’t do nothing wrong.” She stared to cry.

He coughed and felt snot pour from his nose. He coughed out, “Just want to talk to him.”

“Bull. He says you’re gonna arrest him.” She started to move away from him. “Please leave us alone.”

One of the cops from the dance club had trotted down the street when he heard both Sutter and Alicia yell. The wide, young black officer saw them on the sidewalk.

Just as the cop arrived, Sutter tried to stand. The cop put his hand on Sutter’s shoulder and said, “Hold on.” Sutter jerked away, not knowing who had grabbed him. Without warning, the cop pulled his own spray. Sutter opened his eyes just in time to realize a cop was with him and he was being sprayed again.

This time the accumulation of different pepper sprays caused him to go to his knees and vomit. He tried to gasp, “I’m a cop,” but it didn’t come out. He heard the cop yell to Alicia Wells, then spit up again.

Five minutes later, he listened to the cop’s apologies after he’d identified himself. Alicia Wells had gotten away without a trace. He was still in distress, but a hose near the parking lot of the dance club had given him some relief.

The young uniformed cop said, “Detective, I didn’t recognize you. I am really, really sorry.”

Sutter didn’t want this incident getting around any more than his earlier Macing. He gathered his breath and said, “If you and your partner can keep your mouths shut, I’ll forget the whole thing. But if someone comes up to me and mentions this, I’ll whip your ass. Understand?”

The young man nodded his head vigorously.

Sutter decided just to head home and call it a night. It had to be close to dawn anyway. As he stood up, his face burned again and he had to reach for the hose.

He thought, What a shitty couple of days.

It had been four or five months since Bill Tasker had been asked to enter the Miami office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. During the time he had worked on the robbery task force, Tasker had been housed in the off-site building a few blocks east. The FBI liked the idea of keeping local cops in a site that didn’t require as much security. The plain FBI building a few blocks south of Northeast 167th Street held a constantly shifting number of agents that nobody ever seemed able to pin to an exact figure.

As Camy parked in the small, tree-lined lot in front of the building, Tasker’s pulse began to rise and he felt a film of sweat forming on his forehead. He just stared at the building, thinking how the occupants had nearly ruined his life just a few weeks before. He’d never been a fan of the FBI, but now he had real anxiety about even going inside.

Camy looked over at him in the passenger seat. “Good Lord, Billy. You look like that kid from The Omen when they tried to take him into a church.” She smiled, but it had no effect on him. “Don’t worry. I want to keep our part in this case as low-key as you do. I think it’s important you come with us when we talk to the profiler. Jimmy says she’s a friend of his.”

Tasker just nodded silently.

“C’mon, relax.” She reached over and placed her hand on his shoulder. “What’re they going to do, arrest you?”

“They tried that once.”

“Believe me. No one is even gonna recognize you.”

Tasker sucked in some air for a good sigh. When he first became a cop, he never thought he’d be afraid of the FBI. In the academy, he had even thought about joining the storied outfit. It wasn’t until after he worked the streets that he realized how they operated. While most of the agents were generally good guys, the politics of the agency left him wondering how anything ever got done. He looked up at the plain building. “You think Lail is parked in the back yet? I don’t want to wait.” Tasker had sent the young FBI agent with his own building pass ahead so he could walk them through the front door.

“Billy, you need to move past all this. I bet most people inside don’t even know who you are. They’re so wrapped up in politics and media they couldn’t care less what we do.”

He nodded and followed Camy slowly from the car, his anxiety staying steady. He’d purposely left his gun in the car. He didn’t know how he might react if he saw the wrong person or someone said something insulting. They entered the small waiting area with the receptionist behind a thick sheet of ballistic glass. No Jimmy Lail.

“May I help you?” asked the middle-aged woman at the desk.

Camy stepped up and showed her ID. “Agent Lail is taking us to see someone in behavioral science.”

The woman smiled, looking at Camy’s credentials. “And you, sir?”

Tasker looked up, “What?”

“Identification?”

Tasker stepped to the glass and held up his FDLE credentials.

The woman looked up and copied down his name, then cut her eyes to him with more interest. “Oh, Mr. Tasker, I didn’t recognize you.”

The tone said it all. Tasker felt heat surge through his body. He looked at Camy, who just shrugged, then sat in one of the small plastic chairs facing the receptionist.

After several minutes, Jimmy Lail stuck his head out the door. “Yo, peeps, ready to talk to the shrink?”

They followed him to the elevator, then up to the third floor. Tasker felt several sets of eyes on him during the short trip, and he didn’t think he was imagining it, either. Camy gave him a reassuring look once in a while. Jimmy Lail, typically, was oblivious. Tasker noticed that no one really acknowledged the FBI agent, either.

After clearing another security point, Jimmy led them into a small set of offices with one shared window in the common conference room. Stacks of magazines and papers sat on the floor and several of the desks. A poster for the movie The Silence of the Lambs hung on the main open wall. A woman in a precise business suit, about thirty-five, with her hair pulled back, walked out to greet the visitors.

“Hi, Jimmy, these must be the people you told me about.” She held out her hand limply, reminding Tasker of an old-time school marm. “I’m Alice Quills, FBI agent and Ph.D.”

Camy giggled at the self-introduction as she took her hand. “I’m Camy Parks, ATF agent and B.A.”

Agent Quills was visibly annoyed, so she turned her attention to Tasker and extended her hand again.

“Bill Tasker, FDLE.” He reached for her hand as she suddenly withdrew it.

“Oh my, the Bill Tasker.”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“I’m sorry, I just meant that I’ve already been involved in two of your cases.”

“Which two?”

“I profiled the Stinger seller at Jim’s request.” She looked at Jimmy Lail with something approaching lust. “And I actually profiled your case. I mean the case where you were charged.”

“I was never charged.”

“You know what I mean. The case…”

“The one where I was framed?” Tasker kept her gaze so she couldn’t weasel out of a response.

“The Alpha National Bank robbery case.”

Good recovery, thought Tasker. He felt his senses returning to normal. Maybe this was the kind of therapy he needed.

Agent Quills said, “Jim tells me you are interested in my profiling of the cruise-ship bombing from a couple of years ago.”

Camy said, “I didn’t know that case was ever profiled.”

“Oh yes, right after it happened. Then I did an update a year later.”

“Why didn’t I know about it?”

“It was for the case agent.”

Camy narrowed her eyes. “I am the case agent.”

“The FBI case agent.” The woman took a stern tone with Camy. Watching her look at Jimmy Lail, Tasker wondered if she had a thing for the white shadow.

Camy came right back at her. “There was no FBI case agent. I tried, but the Bureau wouldn’t work the case with me.”

“I can’t be sure, but I thought someone in counterterror asked me to look at it. It doesn’t really matter, if you’ve got a suspect.” She looked around at the three agents’ faces and continued. “Shall we get down to business?”

Agent Quills pulled out some notes as they all sat around a cluttered round conference table. “My profile said that the person responsible for the bombing was a male, twenty-one to fifty-nine, white or possibly foreign-born, with a persecution complex resulting in a need to act out.” She looked around the table. “That sound like your suspect?”

Jimmy Lail said, “On the money, honey.”

Camy and Tasker exchanged looks. Then Camy said, “It sounds like every suspect I’ve ever arrested. Is that really all your profile consists of?”

“Profiling is not an exact science, nor is it easy.”

Camy said, “I’ll agree with the not-exact part.”

Tasker stepped in to keep it from going nuclear. “Can you tell us more about the motivation?”

“Not really. People who commit violent acts like this generally are acting on some type of urge or need to feel control. They’re simply acting out on immature emotions.”

Tasker said, “So our thirty-year-old suspect, who is white, fits your profile?”

Agent Quills replied, “To a T.”

“But so do I, and so does Agent Lail here.”

“Except for the psychological component.”

Tasker nodded, asking, “Would that component be readily apparent?”

“Only to a counselor or therapist working with the subject.”

“So how does this profile help a cop looking for the suspect in a case?”

“The profile matched your suspect, didn’t it?” She seemed quite satisfied.

“But it didn’t help us identify him.”

“But he matches it.”

“Yes, but it didn’t help find him.”

“Mr. Tasker, I could play word games here with you all day, but everyone knows you’d never accept anything anyone from the Bureau offered you in the way of assistance, so, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

Now Camy piped up. “Like creating profiles for the gangs in Overtown. Let me help. Black male, twelve to sixty, doesn’t like the police.”

Agent Quills stood up and turned to Jimmy Lail. “Jim, perhaps you should show your friends the door. I’m sure they have some little crime to solve.” With that, she turned and marched into one of the small offices and shut the door.

Jimmy said, “She’s smart.”

Camy and Tasker just stared at him.

Sutter made Tasker and Camy drive over to South Beach to meet him in a little restaurant he liked off Collins. He couldn’t see the beach, but the food was seventy-five percent cheaper. He wanted them to come over the bridge because he’d spent the morning clearing his eyes and face of the pepper spray Alicia Wells and the cop had zapped him with the night before. This was the modern stuff that was easier to rinse away, but it still stung. To make matters worse, as soon as he had arrived home, around dawn, he had tried to relieve the effects by going into the ocean, for the first time in the three years he’d lived on South Beach. The salt water had aggravated the condition until he had finally parked himself in his shower and run cold water over himself until he shivered uncontrollably. Now only his red eyes burned as he sat in the booth, waiting for his partners. He saw them pull up outside in Camy’s Ford, appreciating the movement of Camy’s lithe little body. Tasker and the others might think she’s gay, but Sutter knew better. The little glances she stole at him. The red-faced anger he could cause. She was no dyke, and she had an eye for him.

He stood as they reached the booth.

“You up all night?” asked Tasker. Camy was silent as she slipped in next to Tasker.

“I was up and, no, wasn’t drinking.”

“You look like shit.”

“I ran into Alicia Wells.”

“Great, where is she? What’d she have to say?”

Sutter was quiet as he gathered his thoughts.

Camy said, “You did question her? Find out where she lives, didn’t you?”

“It’s a long story.”

Camy kept up the pressure. “Can’t be that long. What happened?”

He started slow, avoiding eye contact. “I saw her outside the Orion. She ignored me, and when I caught up, she, she…”

Camy said, “I can’t wait to hear this. She what?”

Sutter narrowed his eyes at Camy. “Back off, girl. I’m not happy about it, either. She gave me the slip.”

Tasker said, “Alicia Wells outran you?”

“After she pepper-sprayed me.”

There was ten seconds of dead silence, until both of his partners broke out in a wild fit of laughter. He waited, then said, “Are you done?”

That question was answered with more laughter. Suddenly, Sutter wasn’t hungry. He stood to leave, but Camy reached across the table, taking his hand. She squeezed it and said, “C’mon, Derrick, we’re just kidding. It’s funny. Stay and we’ll figure out where we’re going on this thing.”

Sutter sat back down, with Camy still holding his hand and wondered what thing she meant. This investigation or this thing between them. Either way, he was interested.