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?”
Tasker flipped out his identification.
Baby leaned over to look at the official credentials. He nodded and said, “You know I had a little trouble with the cops the other night over at the Last Chance Saloon.”
“That’s rough,” said Tasker, then held up the photograph again. “Did this man, Wells or Westerly, ever talk to you?”
“I coulda stayed if ya’ll didn’t have them batons and pepper spray.”
“I’m sure. Now about this man.”
“You two wouldn’t even get my attention other than to make sure one of you didn’t get stuck under my shoe.”
Tasker smiled and said, “You’re probably right. When is his next lesson?”
Baby seemed frustrated in his failure to provoke a fight. As Tasker looked at his partner, so did Sutter. His hand had subtly reached around to the ASP he kept in his back pocket. Tasker shook his head slightly. He already had his hand on his own ASP.
Baby pointed at Wells’ photo and said, “What’d he do, anyway?”
Tasker didn’t miss a beat. “He may have molested a child. That’s why we need to talk to him.”
Baby’s eyes widened. “A girl or boy?”
“Does it matter? It was a child.”
“You’re right, you’re right, it don’t matter. He just left a couple of hours ago, and I don’t think he’ll be coming back. He had no aptitude for this at all.”
“He say why he wanted to learn?”
“Naw, just that it was his dream. If ya’ll wait a minute, I’ll get his file. See what we can find out.” Baby started to hustle toward the office. He looked over his shoulder down toward Tasker and Sutter trying to keep pace. “A child molester, that’s low. I hope you catch that nasty sumbitch. That just makes me sick.”
Tasker felt a little guilty leading the man on like this, but he’d never said Wells did molest a child, only that he may have. Tasker didn’t want to have to fight this guy either, so he figured it all came out in the wash. Now Baby would answer any question they asked.
twenty-one
Nothing was adding up on this case. No matter what Tasker did, Daniel Wells seemed to stay one step ahead of him. This wasn’t some kind of master criminal, either. He had no record. Or maybe that was the mark of a master criminaclass="underline" no tracks. Either way, with the effort and manpower Tasker was putting into looking for this guy, he’d have thought someone might at least run into him at the grocery store. The southern section of Dade County just wasn’t that big. He had people covering every angle but had yet to put his hands on Wells. The Big Rig Academy proved he was still in the area. Tasker and company couldn’t even find his stripper-wife.
Along with the case problems, Tasker felt guilty about leaving the girls alone during the morning. It was so unusual to have them on a weekday. Thanks to a Jewish holiday that the Palm Beach County school system called a “fall break,” he had been able to have them on a rare Thursday and Friday.