James Born - Shock Wave

They tracked west on Coconut Palm Drive in the Redlands, having to deal with only the occasional car. Emily told him about school and gymnastics and her friends near his old house in West Palm Beach, about an hour and a half north of southern Dade County. Her permanent good mood was infectious, but Tasker was still troubled. He had tried to ask his youngest daughter about her mom’s dating status. His ex-wife had come on strong while he was in the soup with the FBI but had cooled things off when he was cleared. She’d been vague about the reasons, but he knew one of them was a defense attorney named Nicky Goldman. Tasker knew him a little from his days working in West Palm, and he did seem like a nice enough guy, but that didn’t lessen the pain of knowing his ex-wife was dating a lawyer. A defense lawyer at that. At least personal-injury attorneys didn’t risk public safety to win a case. Tasker’s uncle had been a lawyer until he’d become a judge in the mid-eighties. He was a man of integrity and had real disdain for most of the modern attorneys. Tasker respected his uncle’s views and attitudes. Now, with televised trials and million-dollar jury awards, it seemed lawyers had mortgaged their souls for some success. All that was fine until he thought of one of them interacting with his daughters or, worse, interacting closely with Donna.

He pulled his bike onto the road for a minute, coasting next to Emily. Catching his breath, he asked, “How’s your mom doing?”

“Fine.”

That was a hard answer to follow up on. No useful information, but indicating that there was no real problem. Damn. He hit it another way.

“What’s she doing this weekend, since you and Kelly are gone?”

“She said she was going to stay in bed all weekend.”

“She sick?”

“No.”

Damn. He pedaled back onto the grass.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“I’m tired. How far are we going?”

He smiled. “One more block and we’ll turn around after a quick break. How’s that?”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

They turned north on the next block, but Tasker kept them pedaling for a few more houses. Then he saw it. The small, lime-green one-story with a carport and rotting shed next to it. The guy he’d arrested on South Beach, Gene, had given him the name of the man with the Stinger for sale. A little research had turned up this address.

“Let’s take a quick break,” he said, stopping the bike with Emily in front of him so he could see the house but make it look like he was talking to her. He memorized a few details: the location of the house numbers, the shape of the front bay window, the white chipped paint on the latticework by the front door. A pickup truck with a toolbox on the rear and side of the bed was parked on the grass. The door had a faded magnetic sign that had something about large pests written on it.

Then Emily said, “Let’s head back. I need a drink.”

Tasker nodded as he started off and took one more look over his shoulder at the house.

Derrick Sutter let the phone ring six times, then hung up. He hadn’t talked to his friend Slayda “Mac” Nmir in a month. Only once, in fact, since the FBI had transferred Mac without comment to the Boston field division. It was like he had never existed. Mac had been a stand-up guy, and it was his quick thinking that had kept Sutter from being killed. He would have been more impressed with the FBI if it hadn’t been for Tom Dooley of the FBI trying to kill him at the time. He set down his cheap portable phone.

Slouching down into his couch, Sutter looked around his crappy apartment. Sure, it was technically on South Beach, even if he couldn’t see the water. But he couldn’t care less. He didn’t swim. Not after his childhood. He couldn’t afford the prices on a Miami detective’s salary. And the women weren’t as impressed as they once were when he told them he lived on South Beach. He looked around again.

He really didn’t have any regrets. He could always ask his folks for some cash if things got too tight. He let out a laugh. That would never happen.

He stood and stretched as he got ready to go meet Bill Tasker out at the ATF office for this new case. He liked to complain to the straitlaced state cop, but he really did enjoy working these big cases that took him all over the county. He loved Miami but was beginning to see there was a whole wide world out there.

The weekend had reenergized Tasker. The girls didn’t want to go back the night before, which meant they had had a good time, and he’d slept well for a Sunday night. Now he took the few minutes before the briefing to chat with Camy Parks outside the ATF office. He sat on the rear steps that looked out onto a parking lot while she sorted through some raid clothes in a blue ATF duffel bag. He didn’t mind watching her muscular arms lift and toss old shirts or see her smell socks to determine how dirty they were. It was crude and base, but as long as he didn’t say anything he figured he was safe. He was, after all, a guy.

“You got all the background on this guy you need?” asked Camy. She always seemed to look right into whoever she was talking with. Tasker found the sensation agreeable.

“According to my snitch, Gene, the guy is Bernie Dashett from the Redlands. He has a history for dealing in stolen property and burglary. I took a look at his house this weekend in case we have to do a search warrant. Been some kind of exterminator for large pests the last few years.”

“What’s a large-pest exterminator?”

“It was in an ad for his business. I guess like rats and things like that.” Tasker noticed a black Honda Accord cut into a low rider with silver rims roll into the lot. “Who’s that?”

Camy smiled. “You’ll see.”

Tasker watched a white guy about thirty pop out of the low car and strut toward them. The man had on baggie pants that showed about six inches of his red boxers and a tank top covered by an unbuttoned collared shirt.

Camy said, “That’s one of our partners.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“No, sir. That’s Jimmy Lail, special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Tasker just stared as Lail strutted up to them and said, “Hello, Princess, you lookin’ dope.”

Tasker, still sitting, calmly turned his head in case the man’s blood flew that far. He saw Camy Parks ball her right fist and swing like Lennox Lewis right at Jimmy Lail’s left eye. The fist connected with a sharp smack and Jimmy went to the ground. Tasker didn’t know why she hated her nickname-Camilla Parker Bowles-but she did. It didn’t really mean anything. It was just one of those stupid things a cop says, in this case, making fun of her real name, which was Camilla Parks. But someone had said it and the name had stuck, and it had evolved in turn to “Princess.” Now others paid the price for using it.

Camy went back to zipping up her bag and said, “Bill Tasker, FDLE, meet Jimmy Lail, FBI.”

For his part, Jimmy took it all in stride. He stood casually and offered his hand. “Yo, my dawg.”

Tasker took his hand and just nodded.

Inside the office, Tasker kept his distance from the odd FBI man. He met Sutter at the door, hoping to warn him before he met Jimmy, but it wasn’t possible. As soon as Sutter came through the briefing room door, Jimmy was up to greet him.

“Yo, my brother-Jim Lail, FBI.”

Sutter shook his hand silently, eyeing Tasker for signs of a practical joke. He had to force the young FBI agent to shake in a standard way when he tried to add new modifications.

As Jimmy bopped back to the other side of the room, Sutter turned to Tasker. “What’s that all about?”

“I guess he wants to be black.”

Sutter said, “He’s got a good start with that eye. You do that?”