He shut the pump off at ninety-six gallons, including what he’d put in the van’s tank. He checked his wallet. A hundred and sixty-three bucks pretty much wiped him out. He walked toward the cashier, looking over his shoulder at the van. Still no leaks. He had stripped off the sign for his business, but you could still see the outline of the letters. In a couple of hours, that old van would be in a million pieces and no one would care what was written on it.
“We’ve got to make this work even though it’s a desperation Hail Mary,” said Tasker, looking at Derrick Sutter, Camy Parks and the dozen or so agents recruited from FDLE and ATF. Tasker hadn’t briefed them on anything specific, only that Daniel Wells was a fugitive, was armed and had last been seen driving a blue Ford Ranger pickup. They were at the last rest stop on Florida’s turnpike extension near Homestead. Tasker went on: “You’ve each got a grid on the map. We’ve got no specific leads, but with some luck we might spot him. He’s supposed to be moving today, probably in the truck, but you’ve all got photos, too.” Tasker looked at the other cops. “Use the Nextel if you see anything and we’ll all come running. Don’t make a move on your own.” Tasker closed his eyes as his headache from his ride in Wells’ truck came back. Tasker had told the others that he’d fallen off a neighbor’s motorcycle and that it just looked bad. He said he felt fine, which was one of the biggest lies of his life.
“You okay?” asked Sutter quietly.
Tasker nodded. “We go until there’s no chance left. Any questions?”
All of them started for their cars.
Camy walked over to Sutter and Tasker. “He should be in bed,” she said.
“Tell him.”
“Look, I’m fine, I’ll ride with Derrick.”
Sutter said, “I could see the others believed you when you said you fell off a motorcycle.”
“Really?” He brightened a little.
“No.”
Tasker’s head hurt too bad to worry about what rumors might spread about him.
Tasker’s phone rang. He answered it, “Bill Tasker.”
“No bullshit. We gotta meet right now.”
“Who’s this?”
“Bolini.”
“So?”
“What if I said I believe you?”
Twenty-five minutes later, after a harrowing ride up the turnpike, Tasker, Sutter, Camy and Bolini stood near Interstate 95 and downtown Miami.
“You sure?” asked Sutter.
“Look, I heard the horn here and it came over the phone, too. I’m tellin’ you he’s right around here.”
Tasker looked at him. “Either you’ve come to your senses or you think we’re the most gullible cops in the world.”
“No bullshit. He’s here.” Bolini paused. “He gave me some information.”
“What?”
“He told me to stay out of Miami today.”
Sutter said, “Oh shit, we need to get some help out here.”
Tasker said, “We still have no specific leads. If he heads back south, our guys will see him. What if you get your guys at the substation to cover Thirty-sixth Street north and we’ll go from there to downtown?”
Sutter immediately jumped on his phone.
Bolini said, “I‘ll keep trying to get him to answer his pager.”
Tasker nodded, but didn’t want to stray too far from the older FBI man. He still didn’t trust him completely. As he stood there with Camy, a small, tricked-out Honda pulled up.
Camy smiled. “What are you doing here?”
Jimmy Lail said, ”Bolini called me.” He had no accent but his Texas drawl. He wouldn’t look Tasker in the face.
Camy gave him a hug. “I thought you were okay.”
He glared at her. “With you, not with him.”
Tasker nodded. “That’s fair. I’ll get the camera.”
As Camy followed him to his Cherokee, Tasker had to ask, “Why’s he pissed off at me but not you?”
“I’m the one who unlocked him last night. We had a nice talk and he’s feeling a little better about himself and his roots.” She smiled slyly. “I’ll send you the bill from the company that’s going to clean my bed downstairs.”
“He still your boyfriend?”
“He never really was my boyfriend. But now he understands that.”
“Can we trust him?”
She looked over at Jimmy by the Honda. “Sure. He can help. He knows what Wells looks like. What could he screw up now?”
thirty-two
Miami police detective Derrick Sutter was now completely in his element and intended to show the FBI what that meant. Whereas the Feds were just driving around aimlessly hoping to see Wells, Sutter knew who to ask. He’d already called four of his snitches and had them out and about. Now he was checking with the convenience stores and gas stations along Seventh Avenue. They might not talk to most cops but they’d talk to him. And he didn’t have to spend half an hour introducing himself. They all knew him. This was what local cops were paid for: knowing the community and its residents.
The first three places were able to say quickly they hadn’t seen a blue pickup or even a white man anytime during the day. Sutter gave them each his cell number, increasing the number of eyes working for him every time he stopped. If Wells was still in the area, Sutter would hear about it.
Farther south, moving toward a more industrial area, Sutter stopped at a place with a sign that simply said GAS. The clerk was encased in a cement building the size of a port-a-let with one pane of thick bulletproof glass and an old window air conditioner cemented into the side of the building. It hummed and labored in the humid Florida heat.
Sutter tapped on the glass with his open badge case.
The clerk looked at him without moving.
“I need to talk to you,” said Sutter in a loud voice.
“So talk,” said the young black clerk calmly, as he set down some kind of textbook and leaned into a microphone. His hair was braided neatly against his scalp.
“Come on out.”
“Can’t.”
“What d’you mean?”
“No key. Boss locks me in for four hours, then lets me out for a break. That’s how he keeps three stations running.”
Sutter snapped his head back. “Where do you shit?”
“I don’t.”
“What if there’s an emergency?”
“I call his cell.”
“What if you got robbed?”
“Can’t be. No way in and the glass is solid.” He rapped the tinted slab of ballistic glass with the edge of his book.
Sutter scratched his head. This was a new one. “Tell you what, I’m busy right now, but I’m gonna rap with your boss later. That cool?”
“Cool,” said the young man, obviously not a fan of the system.
“Let me ask you about your customers. You been here since eleven or so?”
“Yep, since ten.”
“You see a white guy in a blue pickup?”
“Nope. Only white man I seen was in a big ol’ step van. He bought a lot of gas, too.”
Sutter nodded and started to walk away. He paused and opened the folder he’d carried all day long. He pulled out an eight-by-ten photo of Daniel Wells. “Was it this man?” he asked the clerk, holding the photo to the window.
“That was the man,” said the clerk with no hesitation at all.
Daniel Wells finished his second Cuban sandwich. This was a great little place. He sat at a small patio table under an umbrella somewhere south of where he needed to be. He ate a leisurely lunch, waiting for the afternoon traffic to start to kick in. This quiet lunch place catered to truckers, and he was a trucker-right?
He sat in the cool shade and drank a Coke, satisfied with himself. He’d planned and prepared this huge event all by himself. No sponsors, no extra cash, no cops on his ass, no one to even drive him around. He’d just used his American know-how and ingenuity. This would take some damn Arabs fifteen men to do, and half of them would blab. He didn’t need his own terrorist cell. He could be a damn example to the young people of America. If you use your head, plan and follow through, there is nothing you can’t achieve.