James Born - Shock Wave

Tasker and Sutter walked up the driveway to Wallace Training Academy. The school’s main curriculum revolved around teaching people how to handle large trucks. From step vans to eighteen-wheelers.

On the walk up the long concrete driveway, Sutter said, “I think Camy is about to switch back to the coed team.”

“What makes you think that?” Tasker could hardly hold back his smile.

“I just know these kinds of things.”

“You know all about women, huh?”

“Enough that I know she’s got a thing for me.”

“What if someone else was already aware of her interest in men?”

Sutter looked at his partner. “You dog. Did you beat me to her?”

Tasker held up his hands. “No, my brother. That fem is out of my division.”

“What? Why’re you talking like Lail?” He froze and put a hand out on Tasker’s arm. “I know you’re not saying that the FBI version of Shaft is hitting Camy?”

“You know everything. You’d know if she was never a lesbian and just never corrected the rumors that circulated about her. You’d also know that she and Lail have been together for five months. You’d also know that she thinks you’re a conceited ass.”

“That’s a little harsh. You’re my partner.”

“I’m just filling you in on what she thinks.”

“The only thing that worries me about her is her judgment. Unless that boy Lail is rich or hung like Wilt Chamberlain, she has no business even talking to that idiot.”

“No argument from me.”

Sutter nodded to himself as they started walking again. “Just a different challenge, that’s all.”

Camy walked to her car from the office of a construction business in Homestead. When they’d split up jobs, she’d taken the one she thought might produce a valuable lead; she was talking to any regular customers of Naranja Engineering. Tasker and Sutter were going around to truck-driving schools, and Jimmy Lail was searching all possible intelligence databases to see if Wells was listed anywhere. He kept saying that the FBI wasn’t allowed to keep that kind of information, but everyone knew they had some indices. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to claim that Wells was associated with a terror group in the first place. Jimmy could also check the county, and they had some big reports on the various crazies. Since they only had to concentrate on Dade County, they put some real effort into creating a broad database on members of extremist groups, and they didn’t have to worry about the Department of Justice looking over their shoulders. This was Dade County; there wasn’t time to worry about outsiders.

This construction company was straight up. They had hired Wells to repair some of the small Bobcat tractors and specially configured trucks. The manager liked Wells because he did good work at half the price of the companies that were certified to repair the Bobcats. Camy just moved down her list to a pressure-cleaning company in Florida City. On the short drive down US 1, she found herself thinking about Billy Tasker. He was a sweet, good-looking guy, but she’d checked around and found out he had two kids. That was a lot of baggage. He did have a good body and those blue eyes. But he had kids.

After a few minutes, her mind wandered to the arrogant, but definitely attractive Derrick Sutter. He was a legend among some of the Miami PD female employees. A gentleman who never had any complaints. And unlike Jimmy Lail, he really was black. Camy smiled, thinking about him as she headed south.

…

FDLE criminal-intelligence analyst Jerry Ristin had eliminated almost all of the phone numbers Daniel Wells had written in his address books. He had found several relatives in Florida and had agents from Gainesville to Fort Pierce on their way to check the addresses. He had a whole bunch of commercial numbers probably associated with the engineering business, and then there were half a dozen numbers he couldn’t identify. These were probably nonpublished. No one had used them on credit applications or mailing lists. A subpoena to Bell South hadn’t come back yet on all of them.

Ristin ran them through the computer again, using general public Web-search sites like Google and Yahoo! Still nothing. Ristin hated being beaten by information. That was his job. While the agents liked to reminisce about shootouts or chases, he always relished a good challenge to find information on the computer.

He looked at one number for a few moments and thought it sounded familiar. He went to one of the undercover phones and dialed the number, knowing the phone he was using would come back as an insurance agency. An answering machine with an electronic voice merely told him to leave a message. He looked at the number again. It appeared to be in a sequence. The last four were 8005. He dialed 8000, and after two rings a female answered: “FBI, may I help you?”

Ristin hung up, thinking, What the hell was that?

Tasker and Sutter pulled up to the last of the five schools listed for teaching the skills needed to drive an eighteen-wheeler. The other four had had no idea who Daniel Wells was and didn’t recognize his photo. They parked Tasker’s replacement car, a gold Jeep Cherokee, next to a sign that read BIG RIG ACADEMY. Tasker didn’t think they would ever get all the CS residue out of his car since Wells had booby-trapped it. Now he had a state car and personal car that were Cherokees. He had been able to slip the Monte Carlo to the dealer and have a buddy there keep his mouth shut. They were washing the interior and if necessary replacing the carpet. Tasker told him he’d pay for it out of his own pocket. It was worth it to keep the events of that day secret from his coworkers.

They walked up to the front desk, which was manned by a tired-looking woman with graying, greasy hair held back with bobbie pins.

“Help you?” she asked as the two cops walked into the small building surrounded by acres of asphalt. Through the glass, Tasker could see two trucks without trailers parked in the corner of the lot.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tasker, flipping open his identification. “We’re looking for a man who may have come here for lessons.”

She took his credentials in one hand as she read them, then looked at his face to ensure he was the right man in the photo. She cut her eyes to Sutter, who didn’t bother to show her any identification. “What’s his name?”

Tasker said, “Wells, Daniel Wells.”

“Name don’t ring a bell. Hold on while I look it up.” She turned to an ancient Tandy SL1000 computer. The old monochrome screen flickered and then displayed a list of names. She scrolled down to the end and studied it for a few seconds. “Nope, no Wells.”

“Can I show you his picture in case he used a different name?”

The woman just looked at him, apparently waiting for the photo. When Tasker handed it to her, she looked at it carefully, then looked at her computer again and said, “Westerly was the name he gave us.”

“When was the last time he was here?”

“You’d have to ask Baby about that.” She looked at Tasker as he waited for her to tell him where he’d find this Baby. “Out back near the trucks. Think he’s eatin’.”

Tasker nodded and followed Sutter out the door, across the lot to the parked big rigs. A monster of a man in a tight T-shirt that said “I Am Not a Fucking People Person” stood next to one of the trucks, eating a bologna sandwich.

“Help you?” he said, eyeing them carefully.

Tasker smiled, saying, “The woman inside said this guy took lessons from you.” He held up the photo of Wells. “If you’re Baby, she said to talk to you.”

“I’m Baby. Why you want to know about him?”

“Just need to ask him some questions.”

“Who’re you?”