James Born - Shock Wave

Daniel Wells cringed as he squished the last cone under the wheels of the big tractor-trailer. Counting the two garbage cans before he’d even entered the course, he had hit twenty-two objects. He didn’t figure that to be a passing score. He looked over to the fifty-year-old heavyset instructor.

The older man said, “Mr. Westerly, that was god-awful.”

“Don’t pass yet, huh?”

“I’m not sure you should be allowed to drive a car. ”

“I just need to get a feel for the distance from the driver’s seat to the bumper.” The big Freightliner Coronado made him feel like he was driving from the second floor of a building.

“No offense, but I seen fellas drunk on moonshine calculate distances better than you. Once, for a prank photo, we put a monkey behind the wheel. I believe he did a better job than you.”

“Need more practice, that’s all.”

“Mr. Westerly, I don’t usually say this, ’cause the school needs students and the income, but you been coming for lessons a long time and you ain’t ready to drive a pickup, let alone a semi.”

Wells nodded. The only thing he’d done right at this school was use a fake name and answer to it when someone addressed him. “Just let me work on cornering and some narrow lanes and I’ll be happy.”

The big driving instructor hesitated.

“I’ll pay the full tuition again. Start from scratch.”

The instructor shrugged. “Okay. I think you’d do better finding other work, but we can try again.”

Wells slapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you. This is all part of my dream.”

Bill Tasker threaded his Monte Carlo through the typical Kendall-north-to-Miami traffic with his mind never once registering what he was doing. A hundred other things seemed to press in on him as he tried to get control of his life. He needed to figure out exactly what he wanted. What would it take to be happy? The answer kept coming back to his girls. He needed to spend more time with them and less time worrying about the million things a police job can throw at you.

Pulling onto the 836 expressway headed toward the office, he barely noticed other cars as they whipped past him or slammed on the brakes. He just wrapped his head around the thought of raising his girls right. He’d start today. After a short day at the office, he’d surprise them with a quick trip to the house in West Palm Beach. Maybe take them out to dinner. He immediately felt the change in his mood as he became more determined to complete this simple act by the end of the day. By the time he pulled into the front lot of the FDLE Miami Regional Operations center, he actually had a smile on his face.

Five minutes later, Tasker sat next to the criminal-intelligence analyst in his squad bay. He looked down at the pile of paper which contained all kinds of information on Daniel Wells. He had past addresses, even one from Gainesville when Wells had attended the University of Florida. The printouts also showed that Wells might have been married once before Alicia. There was so much information it was daunting, but still nothing pointed to where the former engineering student had disappeared to so completely.

The analyst, Jerry Ristin, looked up from his computer screen, his thick, tinted glasses obscuring his eyes. “Well, kiddo, you got a lot to work with, but nothing that jumps out. He had a lot of jobs.”

“I thought he owned his own business.”

“He did. Looks like he contracted out as part of his business.”

“Anything interesting?”

“He worked at the Port of Miami for three weeks about two and half years ago.”

“Yeah, I knew that. When I have time, I’ll check it out. I’m planning on canvassing his old neighborhood today, see if anyone has anything to add. We didn’t do it the day of the warrant because we were hoping he’d come back.”

Ristin asked, “The couple of times you talked with Wells, did he ever say anything that might tip off where he’d go? I know you had to think of this, but I’m seeing if I can jog your memory.”

Tasker had gone over that question in his head a thousand times. “I remember him saying something about sending the kids away, and maybe Tennessee. Shit, he could be anywhere.”

“True, but you can look anywhere.”

Tasker smiled at the older man’s confidence. He’d been around a long time and had cracked a lot of cases that other people got credit for over the years. “Got any suggestions?”

“I knew you’d ask.”

“I’m ready, let’s hear ’em.”

“Call someone over at the FBI. See if they have anything on him. See if they can contact agents in Tennessee to follow up the lead there.”

Tasker frowned.

“I knew you wouldn’t like it, but it needs doing.”

Tasker said, “You’re right, but I’ve already been thinking about it. I just need to decide who to call. I’m not sure the Great White Hope will talk to me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Jimmy Lail-just some young agent who was born in the wrong culture.”

Ristin shrugged. “Do what you need to do. I know you want this guy. I’ll check his phone books and see if they lead us anywhere.”

Tasker sat for a minute, looking at the printouts and watching the analyst attack his computer. Ristin had saved him once with that thing. Tasker hoped he could do it again.

Tasker was eager to finish talking to the people in Wells’ neighborhood, so he could start his ride to West Palm and the girls. He’d even decided he’d ask Donna to go to dinner, too. Screw Nicky Goldman.

The afternoon sun kept the temperature a little over ninety as Tasker stood in front of the small wooden duplex next door to Daniel Wells’ house. He had spoken to two neighbors so far, and neither had any useful information. They agreed that he was a good family man, always rough-housing with his boys out front. The only problem seemed to be that the kids were a little wild. The family had lived there about a year and a half, and Alicia didn’t say much to the neighbors.

The warped door squeaked open and a man of about forty, in shorts and a Marlins T-shirt, assessed Tasker. “Help you?” asked the man in a clipped Florida-cracker drawl. His thin neck and protruding Adam’s apple marked him as at least third-generation redneck from the area.

Tasker produced his badge and said, “I need to ask a few questions about your neighbors next door, the Wellses.”

“Saw you guys going through the house last week. What’d he do?”

“We’re looking into a couple of things. No big deal.” He’d learned to keep things low-key and not give out more information than he got.

“I saw you arrested him for the wrong thing a few weeks ago. You just sore he beat the charges?”

“No, sir. Just need to find him. Mainly to ask him a few questions. Got any idea where he might be?”

“Nope.”

“Know anything might help me find him?”

“Nope.”

Tasker looked over the slim man’s shoulder into a fairly clean house. “You know Mr. Wells at all?”

“Talked to him once in a while. He fixed my lawn mower after one of his boys set off a big-ass firecracker under it.”

“That’s it?”

“I know he had a serious piece of ass for a wife.”

That was something Tasker was already aware of. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

The man thought about it, then said, “Probably the night before you guys searched the house.”

“Is there anything you can think of that might help me?”

“Naw. Daniel, he’s a pretty good guy. Smart as a whip, too. Can fix anything. Learning to drive a big rig. Does all kinds of stuff.”

“Learning to be a truck driver? Where?”

“No idea.”

“Why?”