“Shit, the damn port runs all day and night. If it’s not the cruise lines, the freighters are always coming in.”
“You been there much?”
Sutter shrugged. “Once in a while.”
They drove over the wide bridge that led to the Port of Miami and then through the security checkpoint. Three different uniformed security men had to verify their identification.
No one at the personnel office remembered Daniel Wells, but they had a file and a W-4. Tasker already knew all of the information on the form. Wells hadn’t even listed Alicia, just his address and phone. As a contract employee, he hadn’t received any benefits. His occupation was listed as “welder.”
Sutter looked at Tasker as they handed in the file. “What now?”
“Let’s go down to the terminal and see if anyone remembers him. We’re here anyway.”
Sutter hesitated. “Yeah, but the restaurants are over there.” He pointed toward Bayside.
Tasker nodded, realizing he was getting hungry as well. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
The terminal was slow, with only one cruise ship in port and no one boarding. They asked a couple of the terminal custodians and service people about Wells, but no one had a clue.
Tasker walked up to a thin man in his mid-thirties and said, “Excuse me.”
The man turned and smiled, then said something Tasker didn’t understand.
Sutter stepped up and said, “I’ll handle this.” He faced the man and said, “Hola, mi amigo. Yo soy policía. Quiero hacerme lustrar los zapatos.”
The man stared at Sutter with an open mouth.
Tasker looked at his partner. “Good Spanish there, Derrick. Too bad he’s Italian.”
“How do you know?”
“His name tag says ‘Dominic,’ with ‘Salerno’ underneath.”
Sutter just nodded.
Tasker added, “And you told him you’re the police and you need your shoes shined.”
Sutter looked at his shiny Bruno Magli knockoffs. “Those assholes in Vice told me it meant ‘I need to ask you some questions.’ ”
Tasker couldn’t help but laugh at his partner for falling for the oldest joke ever.
Dominic seemed willing to help, keeping a smile on his face and looking for a translator. He led Sutter by the arm to a similarly dressed man near the opened loading hole.
That man spoke Italian and French, but not much English either.
Once Tasker and Sutter had broken away from their newfound friends and walked halfway back to the car, Tasker stopped and looked back at the big ship.
“What would a suitcase bomb do to a ship that size?”
“Not much. Maybe scare some people, stir up the crew, cause a lot of confusion.”
Tasker nodded, then slapped a hand to his head.
Sutter asked, “What? What’s wrong?”
“I was gonna have dinner with my daughters tonight in West Palm.”
“You need to call them?”
“They didn’t know. It was going to be a surprise.”
“Then they won’t be mad.”
Tasker started to feel guilty again as he nodded his agreement to his partner.
Sutter said, “Let’s go. This was a waste of time.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“How do you figure that?”
“We just met the kind of guy Wells killed in the bombing. Dominic could’ve been the victim just as easily as anyone.”
Sutter looked up at the ship.
Tasker said, “Now I’m pissed off and worried.”
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 someth
ing 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?”
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