Shock Wave

three

Bill Tasker sweated as he cranked the pedals of his Trek mountain bike. He rode on the grass swale while his eight-year-old, Emily, steered her smaller Mongoose on the road next to him. Her long blond hair, in a ponytail, bounced behind her with each stroke of the pedal. Her muscular little body propelled the bike smoothly over the paved road. Another year or two and he wouldn’t have to ride in the grass so that she could keep up.

Tasker’s ten-year-old, Kelly, was in her weekend art class at the Kendall Community Center. He used the two-hour class time to take Emily on little adventures she liked, generally something athletic, in keeping with her attributes. Only having them every other weekend made each visit special. He took any minute he could to spend with the girls. Even if he couldn’t live with them, he wanted them to remember all the fun they had when they did see him. Things like this would keep their mother from saying he was too focused on his job, that work was always his first priority. Real type-A personalities didn’t find time to ride bikes with their daughters. Did they?

They tracked west on Coconut Palm Drive in the Redlands, having to deal with only the occasional car. Emily told him about school and gymnastics and her friends near his old house in West Palm Beach, about an hour and a half north of southern Dade County. Her permanent good mood was infectious, but Tasker was still troubled. He had tried to ask his youngest daughter about her mom’s dating status. His ex-wife had come on strong while he was in the soup with the FBI but had cooled things off when he was cleared. She’d been vague about the reasons, but he knew one of them was a defense attorney named Nicky Goldman. Tasker knew him a little from his days working in West Palm, and he did seem like a nice enough guy, but that didn’t lessen the pain of knowing his ex-wife was dating a lawyer. A defense lawyer at that. At least personal-injury attorneys didn’t risk public safety to win a case. Tasker’s uncle had been a lawyer until he’d become a judge in the mid-eighties. He was a man of integrity and had real disdain for most of the modern attorneys. Tasker respected his uncle’s views and attitudes. Now, with televised trials and million-dollar jury awards, it seemed lawyers had mortgaged their souls for some success. All that was fine until he thought of one of them interacting with his daughters or, worse, interacting closely with Donna.

He pulled his bike onto the road for a minute, coasting next to Emily. Catching his breath, he asked, “How’s your mom doing?”

“Fine.”

That was a hard answer to follow up on. No useful information, but indicating that there was no real problem. Damn. He hit it another way.

“What’s she doing this weekend, since you and Kelly are gone?”

“She said she was going to stay in bed all weekend.”

“She sick?”

“No.”

Damn. He pedaled back onto the grass.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“I’m tired. How far are we going?”

He smiled. “One more block and we’ll turn around after a quick break. How’s that?”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

They turned north on the next block, but Tasker kept them pedaling for a few more houses. Then he saw it. The small, lime-green one-story with a carport and rotting shed next to it. The guy he’d arrested on South Beach, Gene, had given him the name of the man with the Stinger for sale. A little research had turned up this address.

“Let’s take a quick break,” he said, stopping the bike with Emily in front of him so he could see the house but make it look like he was talking to her. He memorized a few details: the location of the house numbers, the shape of the front bay window, the white chipped paint on the latticework by the front door. A pickup truck with a toolbox on the rear and side of the bed was parked on the grass. The door had a faded magnetic sign that had something about large pests written on it.

Then Emily said, “Let’s head back. I need a drink.”

Tasker nodded as he started off and took one more look over his shoulder at the house.

Derrick Sutter let the phone ring six times, then hung up. He hadn’t talked to his friend Slayda “Mac” Nmir in a month. Only once, in fact, since the FBI had transferred Mac without comment to the Boston field division. It was like he had never existed. Mac had been a stand-up guy, and it was his quick thinking that had kept Sutter from being killed. He would have been more impressed with the FBI if it hadn’t been for Tom Dooley of the FBI trying to kill him at the time. He set down his cheap portable phone.

Slouching down into his couch, Sutter looked around his crappy apartment. Sure, it was technically on South Beach, even if he couldn’t see the water. But he couldn’t care less. He didn’t swim. Not after his childhood. He couldn’t afford the prices on a Miami detective’s salary. And the women weren’t as impressed as they once were when he told them he lived on South Beach. He looked around again.

He really didn’t have any regrets. He could always ask his folks for some cash if things got too tight. He let out a laugh. That would never happen.

He stood and stretched as he got ready to go meet Bill Tasker out at the ATF office for this new case. He liked to complain to the straitlaced state cop, but he really did enjoy working these big cases that took him all over the county. He loved Miami but was beginning to see there was a whole wide world out there.

The weekend had reenergized Tasker. The girls didn’t want to go back the night before, which meant they had had a good time, and he’d slept well for a Sunday night. Now he took the few minutes before the briefing to chat with Camy Parks outside the ATF office. He sat on the rear steps that looked out onto a parking lot while she sorted through some raid clothes in a blue ATF duffel bag. He didn’t mind watching her muscular arms lift and toss old shirts or see her smell socks to determine how dirty they were. It was crude and base, but as long as he didn’t say anything he figured he was safe. He was, after all, a guy.

“You got all the background on this guy you need?” asked Camy. She always seemed to look right into whoever she was talking with. Tasker found the sensation agreeable.

“According to my snitch, Gene, the guy is Bernie Dashett from the Redlands. He has a history for dealing in stolen property and burglary. I took a look at his house this weekend in case we have to do a search warrant. Been some kind of exterminator for large pests the last few years.”

“What’s a large-pest exterminator?”

“It was in an ad for his business. I guess like rats and things like that.” Tasker noticed a black Honda Accord cut into a low rider with silver rims roll into the lot. “Who’s that?”

Camy smiled. “You’ll see.”

Tasker watched a white guy about thirty pop out of the low car and strut toward them. The man had on baggie pants that showed about six inches of his red boxers and a tank top covered by an unbuttoned collared shirt.

Camy said, “That’s one of our partners.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“No, sir. That’s Jimmy Lail, special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Tasker just stared as Lail strutted up to them and said, “Hello, Princess, you lookin’ dope.”

Tasker, still sitting, calmly turned his head in case the man’s blood flew that far. He saw Camy Parks ball her right fist and swing like Lennox Lewis right at Jimmy Lail’s left eye. The fist connected with a sharp smack and Jimmy went to the ground. Tasker didn’t know why she hated her nickname-Camilla Parker Bowles-but she did. It didn’t really mean anything. It was just one of those stupid things a cop says, in this case, making fun of her real name, which was Camilla Parks. But someone had said it and the name had stuck, and it had evolved in turn to “Princess.” Now others paid the price for using it.

Camy went back to zipping up her bag and said, “Bill Tasker, FDLE, meet Jimmy Lail, FBI.”

For his part, Jimmy took it all in stride. He stood casually and offered his hand. “Yo, my dawg.”

Tasker took his hand and just nodded.

Inside the office, Tasker kept his distance from the odd FBI man. He met Sutter at the door, hoping to warn him before he met Jimmy, but it wasn’t possible. As soon as Sutter came through the briefing room door, Jimmy was up to greet him.

“Yo, my brother-Jim Lail, FBI.”

Sutter shook his hand silently, eyeing Tasker for signs of a practical joke. He had to force the young FBI agent to shake in a standard way when he tried to add new modifications.

As Jimmy bopped back to the other side of the room, Sutter turned to Tasker. “What’s that all about?”

“I guess he wants to be black.”

Sutter said, “He’s got a good start with that eye. You do that?”

“Nope. My beef with the Bureau is history.”

Sutter unconsciously fingered the bullet hole on his upper chest under his silk shirt and said, “I’ve still got issues.”

Tasker gave the overview of the case once everyone was seated. The only other significant addition to the group was an FBI agent named Sal Bolini. He worked in some special unit and was supposed to be an expert on terrorism. Tasker eyed the fifty-year-old, clean-cut man suspiciously. His experience with senior FBI men had been marginal at best. At least Lail didn’t seem smart enough to screw him.

Tasker handed out his info sheets on Bernie Dashett and explained that he had a preliminary meeting scheduled with Dashett later in the day.

Camy added, “There won’t be any cash or the missile, so we’re gonna keep the surveillance light.”

Bolini cut in. “I wanna see who shows up. I’m coming out.”

Tasker immediately said, “We set the teams already. I’m undercover with the snitch. Camy and Derrick are cover.”

Bolini didn’t bother to look at Tasker. “Last I checked, the city has no jurisdiction down here, and the Bureau needs to be on any surveillance having to do with this case. After all, this is a federal case.” He cut his eyes to Sutter, then Tasker. “I own this part of Dade. If something goes on here, I know it.”

“I need people I can trust if I’m undercover, and I’m not depending on the FBI to get me out of a jam.”

“You said it was just an introduction. You’ll still have your playmates, but I’m coming, too. I want to know everyone involved. Understood?”

Tasker rose slowly. Camy put her soft hand on his arm and said quietly, “Let it go, Billy. He won’t cause any trouble.”

Tasker relaxed, but had to ask, “What’s your problem, Bolini?”

“I told you, I own this end of the county. And I don’t want some yokel to screw it up.” He paused and said, “And I don’t want you to make the Bureau look bad again.”

Bernie Dashett let the armadillo squirm in his hand until it wore itself out. The extra-thick leather gloves protected him whenever he had to grab some critter like this. He turned from the laundry room where he’d grabbed the ten-pound armored rat.

An elderly lady jumped back. “How’d it get in there?”

He concentrated on the tiring armadillo and said, “Mrs. Vorse, you might have left the door ajar one night. Possums and such love to explore carports, and a room like that is awful inviting.”

“Well, Bernie, thank you for coming over so quick. I’ll tell your mama what a big help you are.”

He stopped at the rear of his truck and slid the armadillo into a metal cage. “Thanks, Mrs. Vorse. It would have been easier if my trap was working, but I’m having it fixed.” He secured the cage and headed for the driver’s door. Hopping in, he said, “Call me if you have any other problem. I’ll tell Mama you said hey.”

The older woman waved as he backed out onto the road and headed toward the east. He was meeting Gene Antero over at the mall in Cutler Ridge and didn’t want to be late.

He had bought and sold guns with Gene over the years and trusted him as much as he trusted anyone from New York. The guy usually paid up and always seemed to have cash on hand to buy whatever old piece-of-shit pistol Bernie could find. This was different. A whole new level, but he figured if Gene had connections and had come through before, why not now.

Gene had told him he’d bring along his buddy named Willie. He vouched for him and said he had plenty of cash. When Bernie asked him why this guy Willie needed a Stinger, ’cause he didn’t want someone to kill a bunch of Americans with it, Gene told him that Willie was just a collector. That was good enough for Bernie. He was going to ask sixty-five hundred and would take five grand. That was pretty good profit for only paying two thousand in Tampa. The National Guardsman who’d sold it had wanted cash so Bernie had to sell off some of his fishing gear and an old pop-up camper. Now he’d be able to buy all new stuff.

As he came north on US 1, he saw the Sears a few blocks away. The mall had been a landmark in the Perrine and Cutler Ridge area since he was a boy. He’d figured it was as good a place as any to meet.

Gene had said they’d be in a brand-new Suburban and park back in the lot directly in front of the Sears. Bernie saw them sitting inside the big SUV alone in the rear of the almost empty lot.

They came out of the Suburban to greet him. Gene, in his usual shiny pants, talking quick, and the other guy, Willie, about six foot and pretty solid.

“Hey, Bernie, how’s it going?” asked Gene, and then before he could answer, “This here is my pal Willie. He’s the man with the cash.”

Bernie shook the man’s hand. He looked at his casual appearance and sandy hair, trying to get a feel for the guy. Nice-looking, early thirties, nothing about him looked like a cop. At least none of the cops who had locked him up in the past.

Willie said, “You ready to talk business, or do we have to waste time bullshittin’ for a while?”

Bernie liked someone so direct who didn’t sound like a New Yorker. He smiled and said, “What kind of business we talkin’ about?”

Willie frowned and looked at Gene. “You didn’t tell me we’d have to play games with this fella.” He looked at Bernie, then at the driver’s door of the Suburban. “Let’s go.”

Bernie was just trying to be mysterious, like they were in the movies. Now he said, “No, no wait.”

Willie stopped and looked at him.

“We can talk about the missile. I know Gene, so I know you must be okay.”

Willie nodded and Gene started to talk. Before he got out a full word, Willie held up his hand and said, “Shut up, Gene. Let Bernie talk.”

Bernie smiled at the courtesy. “I was lookin’ for about eight large for it.” He thought, Why not go for it.

Willie thought about it and said, “Who manufactured it?”

Bernie just stared at him. “I guess the U.S. Army.”

“That’s who owned it. What company made it? It’ll be on there somewhere.”

Bernie said, “I honestly don’t know.”

Gene started to speak, but again Willie shut him down. Bernie had never seen anyone do that to Gene before.

Willie said, “Eight grand is a little high, especially if I don’t know who made the damn thing.”

“How much was you thinkin’?”

“If it is what you say it is, maybe sixty-five.”

Bernie almost jumped up and down. That was exactly what he wanted for it. “We might could work that out.”

“Where’d you get it?” asked Willie.

“Just came by it. You know, knew the right people.” In fact, he’d only met the National Guardsman through a friend and didn’t even know his last name. He had been very careful who he told about it.

“Where is it now?” asked Willie.

“It’s safe. No kids or nothin’ could get to it. I was savin’ it for a collector like you.”

For the first time, Willie smiled, showing white straight teeth. “Okay, Bernie, sounds like we can do some business.”

“I’ll go get it right now if you want.”

“I need a day to get the cash. What about tomorrow, noon, right here? Won’t take five minutes. I’ll even take you to lunch after if you want.”

Bernie smiled and said, “Count on it.”

Willie let Gene say goodbye, and they were gone. Bernie was gonna have some cash soon. He felt like a million bucks, or at least sixty-five hundred.