Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  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.

  “Ther
e 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.

  nine

  “Billy, you gotta get back on the horse what threw ya,” said his supervisor, in his typical Long Island take on English.

  “Sure, boss. Just take me a few days to get a handle on something decent.”

  “In the meantime, I got a lead request from our Pensacola office about some fugitive down here.”

  “What’s he wanted for?”

  “Selling some kind of homemade explosive. Got him as part of a RICO on dope smuggling as well as separate charges having to do with an incendiary device. Could be fun.” He handed Tasker a folder with six sheets of paper and a photograph. The wide, dark-haired man had a surfer cut. He looked like he might be thick with broad shoulders and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow.

  “I’ll jump right on it. Do you mind if I let my buddy from the city tag along?”

  “Free manpower, no problem.”

  “He just likes to get out once in a while, and I screwed up his chances on the Stinger case.”

  “Don’t forget, he’s on your badge outside the city. Keep a good eye on him.”

  “Believe me, boss, with Sutter you always keep an eye on him. If you don’t, he’ll have your woman, your money-and still be your friend.” Tasker winked and headed out.

  Derrick Sutter stood outside the Miami Police substation on Fifty-fourth Street, waiting for Tasker to pick him up. He tried to dress down, based on where they were headed. No one in Florida City would appreciate his imitation leather jacket or fine, almost real, jewelry. He’d even changed his shiny Thom McAns for a pair of hiking boots he never thought he’d wear.

  He spotted Tasker’s gold Monte Carlo a block away and moved to the street, looking from one apartment complex to the next. He jumped in, suddenly conscious that he didn’t want anyone from this neighborhood seeing him with a white guy. Even a real decent white guy like Tasker. Was he a racist? He couldn’t care less.

  “Appreciate you taking the brother outta the city for a while,” Sutter said with a smile.

  “How’d you clear it with your boss?”

  “He assigns me all over the place. I’m workin’ with vice four times in the next three weeks. He don’t know I’m not on the missile case. Hell, he probably didn’t even see it on the news. Now what do we got?”

  “Fugitive from the panhandle. Lives in Florida City. Shouldn’t be a problem to find.”

  “I never been to Florida City.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “Furthest south I been is that tittie bar near Kendall.”

  “You love your topless joints,” Tasker said.

  “That a problem?” asked Sutter.

  “Only if you’re short of cash like me.”

  “If Florida City or Homestead don’t have a notable titty bar, then I never been there. In fact, I think the Wells house is the furthest south I ever been and that was just last week.”

  “You had to pass Florida City to get to the Keys.”

  “Never been to the damn Keys. Hate the beach. That’s why I only visit my folks on holidays.”

  “Your parents live on the ocean?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Haitians ain’t the only black folk that came from waterfront property.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I just figured they lived in the City.”

  “Hell, I don’t even live in the City. And just because I live on Miami Beach don’t mean I do it ’cause of the beach. I live there ’cause of the pussy.”

  “Where do your parents live?”

  Sutter folded his arms. He usually avoided this type of conversation. It chipped away at his image as the urban defender of the people. Tasker was a friend. Probably his best friend. He wouldn’t give him a hard time. “They live over on Hollywood Beach.”

  “For how long?”

  “I dunno. Fifteen, eighteen years.”

  “So you lived there too? What, until you were eighteen?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  Tasker broke out in a broad smile. Sutter had noticed that the FDLE agent didn’t smile all that much, so he didn’t mind if it was at his expense once in a while. He waited for the inevitable grilling about his childhood as he took in the scenery, heading south down US 1 after the interstate ended.

  Tasker held off a minute and then asked, “Where were you born?”

  “ Miami.”

  “How old were you when you moved?”

  “Two days.”

  Tasker just looked at him.

  Sutter wanted to move this along. “I was born at Jackson Memorial because my mom was a nurse there and got a good discount. I grew up in Hallandale until I was twelve, when we moved to the condo on Hollywood Beach. Satisfied?”

  “What’d your dad do?”

  “Liquor store robber.”

  “Good money in that, huh?”

  “You moron, he’s an accountant.”

  Tasker slowed so he could look over at Sutter. “So Mr. badass, supercool Miami urban legend was raised on the ocean in Hollywood.”

  “Only since I was twelve.”

  “What about being from the street?”

  “ Ocean Avenue is a street. How do you think we drove home?”

  Tasker kept staring at him. His mouth even dropped open.

  Sutter said, “Now you can stop, you’re giving me the creeps.”

  “So the urban-street stuff is all bullshit?”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Is there another way to look at it?”

  Sutter gazed out at the Dadeland Mall as it sprawled, and simply said, “Not really.”

  Using some information on data sheets that Sutter had never seen as a City of Miami cop, they drove right up to a house that the fugitive, Anthony Mule, probably lived in. At least he’d paid the electric there in the past month. The small concrete-block house sat on the northern edge of Florida City. The place wasn’t in bad shape, with a fairly new roof. Sutter thought about it and realized that every house in Florida City had a fairly new roof, at least since Hurricane Andrew.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Sutter.

  “Let’s ask a few neighbors, to see if he’s around.” Tasker surveyed the street. “You take this one and I’ll go next door.” He pointed at the two small houses sitting in front of them.

  “You crazy? These rednecks’ll think I’m here to do their lawn or that I’m a home invader. You ask, I’ll wait.”

  “You’re a racist. Give these people a chance. I’ve found that no one wants a criminal living next to them. They’ll talk to us.”

  “Okay, Saint Bill, you follow me while I ask, we’ll see who’s crazy.”

  The house next door had a wraparound porch and a small putting green for a front yard. Sutter walked to the door while Tasker stood near the carport, where a three-year-old Buick LeSabre sat. In truth, Sutter really hadn’t had much experience with neighborhoods like this. In the City, areas were bad or ritzy. Nothing in-between. The funny thing was that the bad areas only had a few bad people. Most everyone else treated him, and even the cops in general, pretty good. It was the rich people who were a pain in the ass, always demandi
ng things and treating the cops like servants. This was like a foreign land to him in the south county, with all the trees and plants and pickup trucks.

  An elderly lady, so small she may have been a midget, came to the screen door but didn’t open it. Before Sutter could identify himself or ask anything, she said, “No, I have someone cut my grass already.”

  Sutter threw a look over to Tasker. He turned back to her. “No, ma’am”-he pulled out his badge-“I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  The woman gasped and stepped back. “I’m calling the police.”

  “I am the police.”

  “There is nothing here worth taking.” She put her hand on her chest like she was feeling faint.

  Sutter shook his head. “Lady, I’m not a criminal. Here, look.” He motioned Tasker to the door. “I brought my own white man.”

  As soon as the old lady saw Tasker, she calmed down and stepped back to the door. She eyed them carefully.

  Tasker said, “I’m Bill Tasker with the State Police. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

  The lady sighed and said, “Oh, why yes, of course. What do you want to know?”

  Sutter said, “Well, first off, how come I show you a badge and you think I’m a robber, but he just says he’s with the police and you believe him?”

  “Because you’re black.”

  Sutter was shocked, then a little amused. In this world of political correctness gone bad, this lady just told him the truth. That was better for his soul than all the lying store clerks and lawyers and politicians who said one thing and did another.

  The old lady added, “I’m sorry, son. I just don’t see many colored police officers down here. I was wrong.”

  Sutter could’ve kissed the old lady. She was honest and admitted she was wrong. Maybe these old, ignorant rednecks weren’t so bad after all.

  After a few minutes they learned all they needed about Mr. Anthony Mule. He pronounced it Mule-lay, with an accent on the e. He lived alone. Didn’t talk to the neighbors much. Was up all night and quiet all day. She didn’t think he left the house too much but he had a fair number of visitors. He had an old van and sometimes carried surfboards around in the van.