James Born - Shock Wave

“Well, Mr. State Policeman, I didn’t go to no police academy, but I guess so he could drive a big truck.”

Tasker laughed out loud. The redneck was probably right.

Daniel Wells loved making little things like this. In the tiny trailer he rented for four-fifty a month, he’d arranged a pulley system to provide a surprise for anyone who tried to get in the front door unexpectedly. This was his true gift-engineering the unusual out of the usual. If the door handle was turned so it faced down past eighty degrees, it would start one spring working with another, ending with a length of wire pulling a safety off a device hidden on the porch. Following that course of events, a scene of bedlam would develop that would surely ruin someone’s day.

He liked this musty trailer west of Homestead but didn’t completely trust the floor in the bedroom. He went as far as the bathroom in the hallway most of the time. He set the old thermostat to seventy and settled onto the soft couch in the main room, chuckling about his booby trap as he picked up his Popular Mechanics .

The sun was starting to drop to the west as Tasker maneuvered his Monte Carlo through rush-hour traffic. He had avoided the motionless vehicles on the interstate and was now in sight of his destination.

Sutter, in the seat next to him, had been happy to work in the city with Tasker, because he could show him all the wondrous sights and tell him the funny stories about working with Vice the night before.

“Stay in this lane,” snapped Sutter. “People turn toward the arena from the left.”

Tasker obeyed. “I wanna get there before five to talk to the management.”

“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.”

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.”