Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  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?”

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

  sixteen

  Tasker had driven to work before traffic started to build. Inside the office, he found his reliable criminal-intelligence analyst, Jerry Ristin, staring at his computer screen through the thick, brown-tinted glasses that seemed permanently affixed to his head.

  “Got anything for me, Jerry?”

  “Hi, Billy, I’m fine.”

  Tasker felt embarrassed for not greeting the older man properly. “Sorry, Jerry.”

  “There’s more to life than work, Billy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tasker said slowly, like a kid talking to an adult.

  “Now, what I have that you’d be interested in is simple-two flags on the license plates for your good friend Mr. Daniel Wells of Dade County.”

  “Two hits, no shit?”

  “Yes, shit,” said Ristin in a professional monotone. “One was in Homestead. And one was in the city.”

  “Miami PD?”

  “Yup.”

  “That must’ve been Sutter running him for some reason. He’s working the case with me.”

  “Regardless of Detective Sutter’s work, I can make a few calls and give you an idea of what you may or may not want to follow up on.”

  “Jerry, you’re the best.”

  “Please, tell me something I don’t know.” The older man smiled and winked, as Tasker jumped up to see what else he could find out.

  After a little work on the computer and a few phone calls, Tasker had headed down to Homestead to speak with Officer Mike Driscoll. The diligent Officer Driscoll had apparently stopped Wells last week and ticketed him for speeding. This was the kind of break that blew a case wide open.

  Inside the neat, professional police department, Tasker sat in a conference room with Driscoll. The cop’s blue shirt had every possible insignia in precise rows and perfectly spaced.

  “You got some lapel pins there, don’t you?” said Tasker, trying to loosen the mood.

  “Why have ’em if you don’t show ’em?” He had a slight Boston accent.

  “You look like you know your way around a uniform.”

  “Four years in the U.S. Marines and two as a Connecticut state trooper. No room for errors.”

  Was this guy for real? Tasker looked at the young man. His broad shoulders filled out the uniform well. “You were a state cop in Connecticut? How’d you end up here?”

  “Sir, you ever been to Hartford in February?”

  “No, can’t say that I’ve ever been in Connecticut.”

  “If you had, you’d know why I’m here.”

  Tasker nodded, “I see.” He looked at the officer for any sign of a joke. He decided to get to the point. “You remember writing this man a ticket last week?” He held up a photo of Daniel Wells.

  “Sure, got him doing eighty near the speedway. Happens all the time. Straight road, sight of the track. People go crazy.”

  “Notice anything unusual about him?”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t know. Anything stick out?”

  “Just a redneck in a crappy Toyota. We didn’t chat. I had to jump in a chase down the turnpike.”

  “He’s the key to an investigation we got goin’ on. Could you keep your eyes open for him or the car?”

  “Sure. You want me to grab him if I see him?”

  “Could be dangerous. Just try and figure where he lives.”

  “I doubt if any of these local good old boys could cause me much harm, but if all you want is his address, I’ll try and get it for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Tasker, feeling pretty confident that Daniel Wells was still in the area.

  “You think Tasker is on to something?” asked Jimmy Lail, as he placed the thirty-pound dumbbells back on the old iron rack. He used his ratty FUBU T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

  Camy Parks looked up from her hamstring stretch. “You heard what he said the day he was here. They did the search warrant but didn’t find anything.”

  “You sorry you’re not down with the locals on this caper?”

  She looked at him the way she had to do so often. “Yeah, I wish the bosses weren’t so afraid. I think Billy is trying to do what’s right.”

  “That dawg’s got some drama playing out in south county. He’s close to a sting sheet.”

  Camy stood up, adjusting her tight shorts. “A what?”

  “An arrest warrant.”

  “Why didn’t you say ‘warrant’? Besides, I haven’t heard that.”

  “I got scoop. The FBI makes it their business to know what’s going on.”

  “Please, Jimmy, it’s me. The Bureau is no closer to knowing what’s happening than you are to being a black man.”

  He ignored the comment. People always resented his effort to know other cultures. He liked hip-hop and rap. He actually ate collards. He identified with the African-American experience. Why did people have to judge him? He made sure he slipped back into his original voice and accent from Laredo and asked, “We may need to decide if we have to take this case back.”

  “What do you mean, we?”

  “I’m only good for certain cases, but not the big ones?”

  “Jimmy, you’re not even good on regular cases, but you do what you’re told. That makes you useful.” She shot a blinding smile at him as she walked into the ladies’ locker room.

  Jimmy Lail shrugged. He’d heard worse over at his own office. He smiled at the sight of her perfectly formed, firm butt disappearing behind the door. Maybe that was one thing in which he wasn’t down with the African-American community: he liked small butts, and on that he could not lie.

  “So how is Nicky?” asked Tasker, looking into the sea-blue eyes of his former wife.

  She smiled. “Nicky is fine, why?”

  “Just curious how the good counselor is feeling. I’d hate for him to catch a virus like cancer, or maybe Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

  “Although we haven’t discussed his last checkup, he looks fine and seems to be getting by all right for a thirty-eight-year-old man.”

  “He’s that old? Wow, and it doesn’t embarrass you to be out with him?”

  “I hadn’t really thought of five years being that big a deal, but since you asked, I’m not embarrassed to be seen out with him.”

  Tasker smiled. “I didn’t mean because of the age difference, I meant because he’s an attorney.”

  Donna laughed at that. He knew that she had no more use for attorneys than he did, so he’d already figured out that Nicky Goldman had to be a pretty good guy to overcome that stigma. He also should have backed off, because she was doing him a favor by bringing the girls all the way down to his town house. He’d been hesitant to ask, but he was so tied up trying to find Daniel Wells that he needed the help so he could spend a few days with the girls uninterrupted.

  Donna said, “Can you get them back by six on Sunday? Emily needs some time to settle down for school.”

  “Whatever you want.” He smiled.

  “Billy, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the nice act. What’s going on?”

  “No act. I appreciate you bringing them down, and I’ll be happy to get them back when you want.”

  Her face straightened. “Okay, what do you want?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Billy, if you don’t tell me, without any bull, in the next ten seconds, I don’t want to hear it.”

  Man, did she know him. “Okay, okay. I need you to use your contacts and see if some kids are registered in school anywhere north of here.”

  “What kids?”

  “Their name is Wells and their dad is a fugitive.”

  She frowned. “You really don’t change. It’s always job first, isn’t it?”

  “I’d love to debate this with you yet again, but I don’t have time. Donna, please, look for these kids.” He handed her a sheet of paper with all the identifying information on it. “I
t’s important.”

  She took the paper. “I won’t know until Wednesday or so. You know I’m still expected to teach occasionally.”

  He hugged her. “You’re a champ. This is such a help to me I’ll let you have sex with me real quick while the girls settle in.”

  She giggled. “Believe it or not, that’s tempting. But I gotta go.”

  “Your loss.”

  “You wish.”

  She really was the most exciting girl he’d ever known.

  Sutter waited in the lobby of the headquarters of the City of Miami Police Department. He usually worked out of the substation on Sixty-second Street, but he liked coming to the main building. The sense of history and tradition in the department was one of the few things that made him sentimental. He was proud to be a Miami cop because, overall, the Miami cops had done a great job in a tough place. There were a few high-profile incidents, but the day-to-day life of a cop in this city could be pretty satisfying.

  He’d told Tasker to meet him here so they could talk to an undercover cop Sutter knew. Johnny Tatum worked the streets like no one else. He got down and dirty and blended in like a building or tree. Sutter didn’t think he’d ever been burned, the way he dressed like a street person and wouldn’t shower for a few days at a time. When the FDLE had found out that Daniel Wells’ car tag had been run by Miami PD, and that the FCIC terminal was in the Street Crimes Unit, Sutter found out that it was Tatum who had run the tag.

  Sutter decided this would be a good time to tell Tasker about his sighting of the beautiful, and naked, Alicia Wells. He knew his state partner would say he was wrong and that she wouldn’t do something like that, so he’d have to convince Tasker.

  Sutter spoke for a few minutes with the old communications sergeant who ran the front desk, until he saw Tasker coming through the front doors. So many people passed through the doors, it seemed more like a mall than a police department.

  Sutter was so comfortable with this FDLE agent he hardly even greeted him anymore. He just cocked his head in a direction and Tasker followed in behind.