“When? After you had your coffee?”
“What is this shit, anyway?” He started to calm down and tried to roll down his window.
”Relax there, Mr. Surveillance. It’s just plastic.”
Jimmy pulled the handle, then shoved open his door, ripping the plastic. Tasker followed his lead. In thirty seconds, they had all the plastic off the Honda, then Tasker followed Jimmy to the shade of the old market’s overhang.
Jimmy sighed and said, “That was pretty funny. I always heard you didn’t have much of a sense of humor.”
“I didn’t have time with your guys on my back. But I couldn’t pass this up.”
Jimmy nodded, taking a deep breath. “I musta just dozed off. You’re pretty stealthy.”
“You just dozed off like Adams was just president. You were out for a while.”
Jimmy just glared at him. “Long night. You seen my squeeze.”
Tasker nodded. He’d seen her up close. He looked down the road toward the house. “Anything happen? At least while you were awake?”
“Not much, but I bet we give this a few days and our man will show.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Dunno, just do.”
Just when Tasker was getting used to his almost pleasant Texas drawl, Jimmy added, “I’ll leave it with you, aiiight? I got other peeps to check out.”
Tasker just nodded, then asked, “You ever check with Sal Bolini on any info on Wells?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Why?”
“He’s always yappin’ about his great sources. I thought he might come up with something. Probably just all talk.”
“No, man, he’s for real. He made a couple of solid terror cases. The man grabbed the two Jordanians who were going to blow up Turkey Point.”
“That was Bolini’s?”
“For true. He also stopped some homegrown terror boys when some local Nazi tried to destroy a Metro bus.”
Tasker nodded. “No shit, I remember that, too. Guess I just thought Bolini was another empty FBI suit.” He looked up at Jimmy, forgetting for a second who he was talking to. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” Tasker watched as Jimmy Lail slowly started for his car in silence. “Hey,” Tasker called out. “That’s a good surveillance car.”
That stopped him. “Seizure. No one else wanted it. Can you believe it?”
“You’re a lucky man.” Tasker watched him squeal out of the lot and head north up Krome. He looked up at the sun and stretched. It was going to be a long Saturday.
twenty-four
Jimmy Lail kicked his little supercharged Honda in the ass and shot north on the turnpike extension toward Pembroke Pines. A quick, surprise booty call on Camy might be just the trick to straighten out her attitude. He decided not to mention Tasker’s prank. He got the feeling that Tasker didn’t do shit like that to brag, just for his own entertainment. He’d find out on Monday.
He cranked up the bass on his DMX CD and eased back into the seat. He hit the fifth speed dial on his cell phone, barely able to hear the numbers beep over the thump of the bass.
“Hello.” The male voice was short and to the point.
“Hey, it’s working like you said.”
“What?”
He raised his voice. “I said, it’s working.”
“Jimmy, cut that rap bullshit off if you want to talk to me.”
Jimmy hit the mute button on his stereo, shocked by the sudden silence. He spoke back into the phone. “I said, it’s working.”
“Told you. Sorry you have to do it but we need the time.”
“No sizzle off my shinizzle.”
The phone went dead as the man hung up.
Jimmy shrugged and hit the number-one speed dial.
“Hello,” a female voice said.
“Hey, my lady. Just finished my five-O duty and thought we might share some lunch.” He laughed, then said, “And then eat.”
“Who’s this?”
Jimmy sat up straighter. “Whatchu mean? Camy, it’s me, Jimmy.”
Her giggle carried over the phone. “Really. How was I supposed to know that?”
Jimmy relaxed. “Everyone’s in a funny mood today.”
“Anything happen on surveillance?” she asked.
“Wells didn’t show yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Tasker is on it the rest of the day and night.”
“That was nice of him to take two weekend shifts.”
“Why not? Whole thing’s his fault.”
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“Check it out, awright. I arrested Wells and he sprang him.”
“You didn’t arrest him for the bombing. We arrested him for something he didn’t do.”
Jimmy sighed. “That’s just work, baby. What about it? I’ll be to your crib in thirty minutes.”
“Sorry, Jimmy. I can’t see you today. Got too much going on.”
“More important than me?”
“ ’Fraid so. Sorry.” The line went dead.
Something was up with that girl, and he didn’t like to think what it could be.
…
Tasker settled into his surveillance like most any cop looking at a sixteen-hour stint: slowly. He pulled his Cherokee back a few feet to catch the shade of the empty building’s overhang as the sun slid west across the sky. Even though he knew he could leave the area for food or a bathroom break, he was prepared and had packed two sandwiches, though more out of economic need than dedication to duty. His little cooler held four canned Cokes, and his empty Gatorade bottle was on the seat next to him. The big bottle, or as the drug guys call them, the “portable John,” eliminated the need for repeated runs to the nearest gas station, which in this case was ten minutes away. Tasker asked his neighbor to save the bottle since he wouldn’t buy Gatorade. Being a Florida State alumnus, he had an aversion to anything developed at the University of Florida. He had bought Powerade for years before the commercial showing the origins of Gatorade began airing. Keith Jackson aside, he had no reason to be reminded of anything worthwhile coming out of Gainesville.
The day was uneventful, with several more cars than usual visiting the house. From his current position, with the help of binoculars, Tasker could clearly make out faces coming and going at the old, run-down house. None of the drivers coming up or down Krome even seemed to notice him. No pedestrians walked past. That was the only way to tell his Cherokee was running. He had his fanny pack with a Beretta model 92-the.40 caliber-and two extra magazines in his belly bag. To be on the safe side, he had pulled his Heckler & Koch MP5 nine-millimeter machine gun and put the short black weapon on the front seat with an extra thirty-round magazine next to it. It seemed like overkill. He wasn’t what some cops called a “gun queer.” He just thought that if something happened way out here in the middle of nowhere he should be prepared. He had just been issued the.40-caliber Beretta to replace his old nine-millimeter. Between the two guns he had almost a hundred rounds in case of trouble.
The hours passed, until the sun finally set over the Everglades and he stepped out of the car to stretch. He turned off the engine and leaned against the warm hood, twisting one way, then the other. In a matter of seconds, he felt first tiny gnats, sometimes called “no-see-ums,” then the bigger, louder mosquitoes started to land and attack his ears, neck and exposed arms. He tried to brush them off a few times, but they landed in greater force each time. Finally he retreated back into the Cherokee and slammed the door, cursing the tiny bloodsuckers. He cranked the engine and then spent ten minutes killing all the mosquitoes that had followed him into the vehicle. The small incident turned his mood sour and focused the frustration of the case. In fact, he felt frustration at this surveillance. There had to be a better use of his time. How had he gotten talked into it? As he tried to recall the chain of events that had him sitting next to a swamp watching an old man’s house with seventy-five mosquitoes at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, an old Chevy Caprice rumbled into the lot and parked near the rear edge, about a hundred feet from Tasker. His lights were off, but the engine was running. He kept an eye on the vehicle as five young men poured out of the lime-green, beat-up car. They huddled around the hood talking for a few minutes, then, almost in a single-file line, started slowly strolling toward Tasker’s car.