James Born - Shock Wave

“But he didn’t sell the Stinger.”

Tasker smiled. That put it into perspective. He still couldn’t separate the act from the man. He had set this nut loose in South Florida. Then he said, “I appreciate what you’re saying, but I gotta forget the philosophy and ethical standards I may have met and get him off the streets. I may have followed my conscience and the law getting him released, but I’d do anything now to get him back inside.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“A search warrant, for starters.”

“When?”

“Our legal counsel is reviewing it now. I need some info on the explosive from ATF and maybe I’ll have it signed by this evening. We can hit the house first thing in the morning.”

“And ATF won’t be involved?”

“I asked, they declined. I’ll see Camy this afternoon when I get the lab results.”

“If you’re gonna see the princess, then I’m going, too.”

“No comments, okay?”

“Me? Please, I’m a professional.”

“Good. I don’t need the ATF feeling about me like the FBI does.”

“You kiddin’? They should kiss your ass for even telling them about this. They should be sittin’ on Wells’ house right now for us.”

“Once we have him, they’ll come to their senses.”

“You don’t think it’s politics?”

“How do you mean?”

“They don’t want to piss off the FBI. They’re worried about a lawsuit for Wells’ false arrest. That sort of politics.”

Tasker considered this and said, “That’s over my pay grade, brother. We just arrest them. The bosses can work out who’s upset and who’s happy.”

Sutter smiled. “Amen.”

…

Daniel Wells was thirty years old and had only been into the heart of Miami a few times. Once as a kid when his family visited the Miami Seaquarium on Key Biscayne and his dad wanted to show the family what Hell was really like. Once when he worked a welding job at the port terminal. The day he drove to the port to have his suitcase loaded on Krans-Festival’s Sea Maiden. And today. Every time, he saw prostitutes near Biscayne Boulevard. The big park, Bayfront, was immediately east of him. I-95 was to the west.

Now he was alone in his little nine-year-old Toyota Corolla. The rear seat was out, and a sketchpad sat on the passenger seat next to him. He was a few blocks north of the federal courthouse and a little west of where the Miami Heat played. The main streets were all four-laned, but the side streets, the ones running east and west that ended at I-95, were all narrow, two-laned theaters. That’s how he liked to think of areas: theaters. How many spectators could fit in an area, then react to the demonstration? The ultimate interactive performance art. And what a charge he got from the interaction. The rush of seeing people panic. The turmoil caused by people running willy-nilly had actually given him an erection on several occasions.

This place might work if he had the right show planned. It’d have to be big and loud. People from the high-rise offices to the south would be able to see it and then who knows what the media might do to drive it. He had most of his plan mapped out, but he still needed a way to move his traveling show to this area. Maybe a problem on I-95 would divert the cops’ attention. Then he had an idea. Maybe a brilliant idea. He let out a yelp of excitement.

A homeless man approached the little car. The black man’s gray-streaked hair hung over a scarf into his face. His eyes looked surprisingly alert, but as he walked up to Wells’ car his body odor radiated out in front of him. He silently held out a small tin can with the label worn off.

Wells nodded and said, “No thanks, I’m not thirsty.” He drove on west to the interstate. Time to get back to his own kind of neighborhood. As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror and noticed the bum staring at his Corolla.

Tasker and Sutter waited in the small lobby of the ATF building. The receptionist behind the thick bulletproof glass had called Camy Parks ten minutes ago. Tasker hadn’t had the nerve to tell the Miami cop he’d had to stalk Camy just to give her the explosive to test. He was embarrassed enough that she was making them both wait in the lobby for so long. The receptionist didn’t care. From the looks she kept shooting Tasker, she was aware of the entire situation. With a lot of agencies Tasker wouldn’t have cared, but he respected ATF. They were one of the most kickass agencies in the federal government. They were able to tack on real charges to almost any violent crime involving a gun and they weren’t afraid to come out on anything. Now they thought he was an asshole.

After more than twenty minutes, Camy Parks came to the main door. She opened it halfway and stayed in the secure area, blocking their way like she was talking to a vacuum-cleaner salesman at her house and didn’t want to be bothered.

She nodded professionally. “Gentlemen, how are you?”

Sutter spoke up. “Right now I’m a little pissed off you left us pullin’ our puds out here.”

“Sorry, but I’m real busy.” Her gaze shifted to the main door and she smiled.

Tasker turned to see FBI agent Jimmy Lail bop into the lobby, his jeans hanging low and his shirt opened to reveal a white tank top undershirt. He saw Sutter and brightened immediately. “My brother.” He reached out to touch fists with Sutter.

Sutter nodded silently and forced the young man to shake hands instead.

Jimmy looked at Camy. “Yo, beautiful, whazz up?”

He glared at Tasker, squeezing past without a word.

Tasker said to Sutter, “There’s one positive thing out of this mess.”

The Miami cop snickered.

Camy, ignoring the childish behavior of the non-federal agents, turned to Tasker without another glance at Sutter. “The tests on that liquid won’t be done for at least ten days.”

Tasker frowned. “Can they tell us anything? Aren’t you interested in this case? You started it.”

She softened slightly. “Bill, I’ve been ordered not to get involved. My bosses think this is some kind of stunt by you to make up for what you did on the Stinger case. We’re waiting for a major lawsuit from Mr. Wells and this will look like some kind of harassment. So even if it was an exact match, I doubt I’d do much other than note in our case file that you suspect Mr. Wells of the bombing.”

Tasker looked stricken. “You mean the ATF actually thinks that I’m making this up? That I fabricated evidence?”

“We’re not willing to state that publicly, but, yes, that’s about the size of it.”

Sutter broke in: “Bullshit! You don’t want to admit that you guys couldn’t solve the case. If that explosive matches exactly, you’ll have to shit or get off the shitter. You’ll either jump in the case or have to investigate how Billy made it up.”

“That remains to be seen. I’m sure the ATF will do what’s right.”

“It’s right to help us now. Not hide behind some political motive.” Sutter’s voice had grown louder since he started to speak.

She ignored him, keeping both eyes on Tasker. “The preliminary results indicate that it is similar to the explosive used in the cruise-ship bombing. I don’t know if that will help, but it’s all we have.”

Tasker nodded. “Thanks, it might give me enough for a warrant.”

Sutter leaned in between them. “Listen, Princess, when you get off your high-fucking-horse and see my man here didn’t do nothin’ wrong, you’re gonna sing a different tune. You should save us all some time and accept it now.”

She smiled. Not a dainty, radiant smile like Tasker had seen so many times, but an evil, almost threatening smile that some street predators let out before they slash your throat. “First,” she started slowly, “you call me Princess again and you’ll be picking some of that gold in your mouth out of your shit.” Her eyes cut into him like a laser. “Second, I am not on any kind of horse, and I don’t have to explain anything to you. And third, I know all about you, Mr. I-can-have-any-woman-I-am-so-cool-and-smart-and-slick. So you can save the lectures for one of your little hoes on South Beach.”