Pulling onto the 836 expressway headed toward the office, he barely noticed other cars as they whipped past him or slammed on the brakes. He just wrapped his head around the thought of raising his girls right. He’d start today. After a short day at the office, he’d surprise them with a quick trip to the house in West Palm Beach. Maybe take them out to dinner. He immediately felt the change in his mood as he became more determined to complete this simple act by the end of the day. By the time he pulled into the front lot of the FDLE Miami Regional Operations center, he actually had a smile on his face.
Five minutes later, Tasker sat next to the criminal-intelligence analyst in his squad bay. He looked down at the pile of paper which contained all kinds of information on Daniel Wells. He had past addresses, even one from Gainesville when Wells had attended the University of Florida. The printouts also showed that Wells might have been married once before Alicia. There was so much information it was daunting, but still nothing pointed to where the former engineering student had disappeared to so completely.
The analyst, Jerry Ristin, looked up from his computer screen, his thick, tinted glasses obscuring his eyes. “Well, kiddo, you got a lot to work with, but nothing that jumps out. He had a lot of jobs.”
“I thought he owned his own business.”
“He did. Looks like he contracted out as part of his business.”
“Anything interesting?”
“He worked at the Port of Miami for three weeks about two and half years ago.”
“Yeah, I knew that. When I have time, I’ll check it out. I’m planning on canvassing his old neighborhood today, see if anyone has anything to add. We didn’t do it the day of the warrant because we were hoping he’d come back.”
Ristin asked, “The couple of times you talked with Wells, did he ever say anything that might tip off where he’d go? I know you had to think of this, but I’m seeing if I can jog your memory.”
Tasker had gone over that question in his head a thousand times. “I remember him saying something about sending the kids away, and maybe Tennessee. Shit, he could be anywhere.”
“True, but you can look anywhere.”
Tasker smiled at the older man’s confidence. He’d been around a long time and had cracked a lot of cases that other people got credit for over the years. “Got any suggestions?”
“I knew you’d ask.”
“I’m ready, let’s hear ’em.”
“Call someone over at the FBI. See if they have anything on him. See if they can contact agents in Tennessee to follow up the lead there.”
Tasker frowned.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it, but it needs doing.”
Tasker said, “You’re right, but I’ve already been thinking about it. I just need to decide who to call. I’m not sure the Great White Hope will talk to me.”
“Who’s that?”
“Jimmy Lail-just some young agent who was born in the wrong culture.”
Ristin shrugged. “Do what you need to do. I know you want this guy. I’ll check his phone books and see if they lead us anywhere.”
Tasker sat for a minute, looking at the printouts and watching the analyst attack his computer. Ristin had saved him once with that thing. Tasker hoped he could do it again.
Tasker was eager to finish talking to the people in Wells’ neighborhood, so he could start his ride to West Palm and the girls. He’d even decided he’d ask Donna to go to dinner, too. Screw Nicky Goldman.
The afternoon sun kept the temperature a little over ninety as Tasker stood in front of the small wooden duplex next door to Daniel Wells’ house. He had spoken to two neighbors so far, and neither had any useful information. They agreed that he was a good family man, always rough-housing with his boys out front. The only problem seemed to be that the kids were a little wild. The family had lived there about a year and a half, and Alicia didn’t say much to the neighbors.
The warped door squeaked open and a man of about forty, in shorts and a Marlins T-shirt, assessed Tasker. “Help you?” asked the man in a clipped Florida-cracker drawl. His thin neck and protruding Adam’s apple marked him as at least third-generation redneck from the area.
Tasker produced his badge and said, “I need to ask a few questions about your neighbors next door, the Wellses.”
“Saw you guys going through the house last week. What’d he do?”
“We’re looking into a couple of things. No big deal.” He’d learned to keep things low-key and not give out more information than he got.
“I saw you arrested him for the wrong thing a few weeks ago. You just sore he beat the charges?”
“No, sir. Just need to find him. Mainly to ask him a few questions. Got any idea where he might be?”
“Nope.”
“Know anything might help me find him?”
“Nope.”
Tasker looked over the slim man’s shoulder into a fairly clean house. “You know Mr. Wells at all?”
“Talked to him once in a while. He fixed my lawn mower after one of his boys set off a big-ass firecracker under it.”
“That’s it?”
“I know he had a serious piece of ass for a wife.”
That was something Tasker was already aware of. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
The man thought about it, then said, “Probably the night before you guys searched the house.”
“Is there anything you can think of that might help me?”
“Naw. Daniel, he’s a pretty good guy. Smart as a whip, too. Can fix anything. Learning to drive a big rig. Does all kinds of stuff.”
“Learning to be a truck driver? Where?”
“No idea.”
“Why?”
“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.”