Finally, at a five-minute recess, Tasker stepped up to Camy and said, “We gotta talk.”
“What’s up?”
“We grabbed the wrong guy. Daniel Wells handed him a possum trap, not a missile.”
She smiled. “Stop fooling around.”
“I’m serious.” Tasker ran down all of his leads as Jimmy Lail walked over.
Jimmy jumped in. “No way, dawg. That gansta is righteous and going down.”
Tasker stopped and looked at him. “Talk to me like you were on the stand.”
Jimmy frowned, straightened his tie and said, “Mind your own fucking business, Tasker. Everyone knows you’d do whatever you could to tarnish the Bureau.”
Tasker decided he liked the urban mode better, but simply turned and explained the entire situation to the assistant U.S. attorney. Five minutes later, the heavy little prosecutor stood and said to the magistrate, “Your honor, at this time, the government would have no objection to Mr. Wells being released on his own recognizance until further investigation is complete.” There were murmurs throughout the small crowd.
Tasker looked up to see Camy and Jimmy Lail scowling at him.
When the magistrate asked what the reversal of request was based on, the AUSA said, “Agent Tasker of the FDLE has uncovered sufficient information as to cast doubt on Mr. Wells’ role in this venture.”
The magistrate banged her gavel and said, “Mr. Wells, you are released based on your word that you will return to this court if required. Do you agree?”
Wells stood and said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
With that, Tasker felt Mrs. Wells’ soft arms wrap around him and a voice too close to his ear say, “Thank you so much.” Tasker looked over to see the Miami Herald reporter furiously scribbling notes and the independent sketch artist looking at him and the defendant’s wife in an embrace. This was going to cause some shit.
It had seemed so simple. So necessary. He had done what he needed to do. They had made a mistake and he’d corrected it by doing what he was trained to do: investigate.
Not everyone agreed with that simple logic. Now, sitting in his supervisor’s office, he was starting to feel the consequences.
“Billy, you made the right decision, no question,” said the special agent supervisor, his gray eyes warm and friendly.
“But I’m effectively cut out of my own case?”
“No, you’ll still testify if it goes to trial.”
“I can’t believe you caved to the Bureau like that.”
“It wasn’t a question of caving. The U.S. attorney said it was best for the case. They were happy that you saved them going after the wrong man, but you still got Bernie Dashett. He’s the right man.”
“That’s the only reason?”
The supervisor paused. “That’s the main reason.”
“What are the other reasons?”
“The Bureau raised hell.”
Tasker sat at his desk, doing the mundane paperwork that every cop complains about. After half an hour, he dialed Camy Parks’ cell phone.
“Hello.” Her bright voice cheered him immediately.
“Camy, it’s Bill Tasker.” Before he could say anything else, she hung up. He just stared at he phone. This was like breaking up with a girl.
He sat there, staring off into space, when a slap on the back brought him back to reality.
“Billy, why so down?” asked Frank Hutcheon, one of the senior squad members.
“Just case problems.”
“Look on the bright side, at least you’re not the target of the case.” He chuckled, but when Tasker didn’t laugh, the older agent added, “Are you?”
After a day during which his friends at the office really did try to make him feel better, with no effect, Tasker went home. Throwing together a salad for dinner, he had the local Channel 11 news on. They had led the charge against him in the media when he’d been suspected of the Alpha National Bank robbery, but he still tended to watch. They really did get the scoops most often.
As he half-listened, he heard the name of the local FBI assistant special agent in charge. His head snapped up and he saw the trim, well-dressed, Latin man talking on camera. Not behind a bank of microphones, like at a news conference, but one-on-one, as if they’d surprised him in public. What he said wasn’t a surprise or off the cuff. The FBI ASAC had a well-prepared statement.
“We at the Federal Bureau of Investigation are a little concerned that FDLE Agent Tasker has allowed his personal feelings for the FBI to influence this investigation.”
Tasker noticed that the administrative creep wouldn’t even refer to him by his correct title, “special agent,” because they felt only FBI agents should be called special agents. Aside from that, the ASAC never even hinted that anyone was worried about arresting the wrong guy based on some ambitious rookie’s incorrect observation. Tasker looked at the TV and wondered who had sent him the photograph of the so-called Nazi summit. Then, as he saw file footage of himself, taken after the Alpha National Bank case against him had been dropped, he realized this was all too similar to his last experience with the FBI.
To gain perspective, Tasker took a drive down into Naranja, just to see the Wells’ house. As he came down the road, he saw the oldest boy in the front yard, kicking a soccer ball. His blond hair was a little longer than his little brother’s. He noticed Tasker and immediately ran inside. Daniel Wells hurried out and waved to Tasker as he walked to the car.
“What are you doing down here?”
Tasker smiled. “Don’t really know. Guess I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”
“Good. At least better than the weekend in jail. The news people won’t leave us alone.”
“I know the feeling.”
Wells smiled. “Come on in. Alicia would love to see you.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Are you kidding? Come on in.” He turned and headed back up the driveway, obviously expecting Tasker to follow.
Inside it was a madhouse, with kids running around, a dog barking, the TV blaring and the lovely Alicia Wells scurrying around the kitchen in tight jean shorts and a tank top. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, making Tasker realize she was even younger than he had first speculated. He guessed that the oldest boy was about Emily’s age, seven or eight. Maybe the lithe and friendly woman was twenty-five, but he doubted it. More like twenty-three. That made Daniel Wells… That made Daniel Wells a criminal. At least it did a few years ago.
Tasker bumped into a suitcase, knocking it into another and then a third, like a row of dominoes. He bent over to pick up the canvas bags, mumbling an apology.
Wells said, “Don’t worry about it.”
Tasker looked at the five matching suitcases, then at Wells.
“Like I said, the news people been buggin’ us, so I’m sending Alicia and the kids to some relatives tomorrow.”
Tasker nodded, surprised at how sorry he was to see Mrs. Wells leave the county.
Wells said, “I’ve got family all over.”
Tasker smiled. “Noticed you didn’t have an accent like your wife.”
“Had one when I was younger. Growing up in Ocala, you can develop a drawl, but my dad was strict about language, and a few years at UF knocked it out of me.”
Tasker nodded. “I know what you mean. I had the opposite effect. Raised down here, I didn’t hear a drawl until I went to FSU.”
“You’re a Seminole? You seemed so smart.”
They both laughed at the familiar rival university jabs. The phone started ringing, adding to the atmosphere of total confusion. Wells made no effort to answer it. Instead he held up a finger to Tasker, indicating he’d be right back. Tasker figured sign language was used a lot in this house. When he jumped at a screeching cat zipping through the living room, he saw Alicia Wells come up to him, smiling.
“Don’t pay no mind to all this. This is a quiet night.” Without warning, she leaned into Tasker and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him square on the mouth. “That was to thank you for everything.”