Tasker thought about the lovely Alicia for a second.
“How bad is TATP, I mean what will it do?”
“Little unstable, but like I said, has a good punch. He bought enough to blow the shit out of a few things.”
“Could you make a bomb in a suitcase with it?”
“Easy.”
Tasker thought about what this meant and mumbled, “Oh shit, what have I done?”
ten
Daniel Wells jerked the old parachute off his Toyota Corolla. When he climbed into the car, he realized the silk chute hadn’t kept out much water. The mildew smell made him feel like fungus was growing in his sinuses. He had spent the morning cleaning things up around the shop. Trashing old containers he didn’t need anymore. Keeping track of old accounts payable to collect. He just had a feeling his life was about to change, and the media calling him had not stopped, so he thought it was best to send Alicia and the kids away for a little while.
He had plans that had to be set in motion. Big plans. It was really all he could think about anymore. Even while he sat in jail over the weekend, his mind worked out the details that would make him a success. He’d put on a show that everyone would remember. That’s what he lived for anymore-putting on the shows. Although he had been setting small fires and playing pranks since he was five, the real urge, the feeling that kept him sane, had kicked in during his senior year in high school. After filling a milk carton with black powder and then leaving it at the table the jocks took every day, whether someone was sitting at it or not, Wells used an old garage-door opener to detonate the device. The noise and smoke were enough to give him shudders of delight. The fact that two of the star football players suffered permanent black powder marks and scars on their faces only gave him a sweet reminder every time he passed them in the halls. And he had never told a soul. He learned that when you tell someone, you get caught.
Then a year later, the same trick at the Tri Delta house at the University of Florida. This time it had detonated prematurely and set a small fire, which the sprinkler system took care of. He read in the paper about a “prank” gone bad and the subsequent editorials about how someone could have been killed. That’s when it hit him. What if someone died during one of his shows? At first it concerned him, then it excited him. The thought never really left his head.
Too bad his attempt to set off a quarter-stick of dynamite under the visiting Florida State bench a year and a half later had gotten him thrown out of school. Old Bobby Bow-den would’ve shit in his pants if that baby had gone off. His story-that he came home to help his sick dad-still held up to this day. Unless he was talking to someone who was at the game that day.
Considering all the shows he had either put on or helped others put on during the years, it was amazing that the baggage handler on the cruise ship was the first person ever killed. At least that Wells knew of. He had built remote bomb devices for a couple of people and didn’t know what had happened those times. The local Nazis, the ones that called themselves the American Aryan Movement, had a pretty good plan to blow up a Metrorail People Mover bus. The problem was they didn’t want anyone in it when it happened. Wells had built them a nice, clock-operated, dynamite-based, flammable bomb, but the cheap bastards had stiffed him on the thousand-dollar payment. That was just plain uncool. He’d gotten them back, but still figured they owed him some cash. That was something he’d see to as soon as he had the time.
Now he had to get serious about his new idea. This one would get some attention, and he might even brag about it, but only after he was out of the area.
Bill Tasker and Derrick Sutter booked Anthony Mule into the Dade County jail after promising they would talk to the prosecutor about his assistance. Tasker was much more interested in verifying that information. As soon as he had the hairy surfer in the can, he had jumped in his Monte Carlo and raced back toward Naranja. Sutter had a previous commitment and was skeptical about the bomb-maker’s information. He had argued, probably correctly, that it could easily wait until tomorrow. After all, the crime had been committed almost two years ago. But Tasker couldn’t wait.
He still hadn’t decided what to do as he neared the house. Should he talk to Wells? Should he arrest him? Would he be cutting in on Camy Parks’ case? He decided that just making sure Wells was still at the house would satisfy him for now. Then he’d get ahold of Camy Parks and see where to go from there.
He turned onto Wells’ street and saw that there were still vehicles in the driveway. The step van was back toward the garage, and the station wagon was by the house. When Tasker turned onto the street that ran on the side to the rear of Wells’ lot, he saw a third car. One he had not noticed before. Behind the garage was an old Toyota Corolla with damage across the front roof section. It seemed familiar, too; then he remembered the photos in Camy’s file. He couldn’t tell if it was the same car, but it was one hell of a coincidence.
Three blocks away from the house, his hands shaking, Tasker pulled off the side of the road and picked up his Nextel. He hit the speed dial with Camy’s cell-phone number.
“Hello,” said Camy.
“Camy, it’s Bill.” Immediately he lost the connection. Or did she hang up? He tried again. This time there was no answer.
This was unlike any surveillance Tasker had ever been on. He was in a car-that was not unusual. In Miami, watching an office building-that was still normal. But watching another law enforcement office, waiting for a fellow cop to come out-that was new to him. He sat across Fifty-eighth Street, looking at Camy Parks’ issued Ford Crown Vic. Unlike at some of the federal agencies, the ATF agents tended to put in some long hours. Along with investigative responsibilities, they handled some regulatory duties with gun dealers. The agency was traditionally grossly understaffed. He wasn’t surprised she was still at the office near seven o’clock, but he had to see her. She hadn’t returned his calls and the secretary wasn’t taking messages from him anymore. Finally he saw her at the side door to the building, dressed in workout clothes. Even from this distance he could make out the muscles on her legs.
As he pulled closer, he saw her shorts and sweaty T-shirt. The ATF could use her as a recruiting poster, as long as they didn’t include too many details about her personal life. He pulled his car directly behind her parked Crown Vic. She looked up as she came closer, taking a second to register who had blocked her in.
He stepped out of his Monte Carlo and met her at his hood. “You’re tough to track down.”
“I’m pretty sure our case is done. At least half of it.”
“I know you’re pissed but I gotta talk to you.”
“Billy, I’m not really mad. I did feel like you stabbed us in the back, but after reflecting on it, I suppose you had your reasons. I saw her, too. She is a hell of a reason.”
Tasker looked at her. “Who is a hell of a reason?”
“Wells’ wife. She could tempt anyone.”
“Please tell me that’s not what you think. I couldn’t live with grabbing the wrong guy. That’s it. I had no other motive.”
“But the FBI agent, Cobb, said he saw the handoff.”
“He saw the possum cage handed off. The missile was already in the truck.”
She looked like she was considering it, then said, “Why does it matter? I can’t work with you again anyway.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because my bosses think you’re unstable. The FBI bosses spent a few hours over here yesterday making sure everyone had the same opinion. You are not to be involved in another FBI or ATF case ever again.”
“That’s a lot of administrative effort spent on one guy. If they concentrated that energy on crime, I wouldn’t have to lock my door.”