Tasker asked, “Did your snitch know Dashett?”
“The FBI doesn’t have snitches. We have informants or sources of information. I didn’t even bother to ask my informant about your mope. This informant is too valuable to taint with this penny-ante shit.”
“So you’re done with the case?”
“If I need something else, I’ll read Snoop Dogg’s 302.” He gave Jimmy Lail a look almost as condescending as he’d given the other agencies involved.
Tasker never understood why all the Feds referred to their reports by numbers. The FBI used 302, the DEA wrote a DEA-6. All Tasker ever wrote were investigative reports. Nothing fancy, but somehow he still managed to make arrests and solve cases.
Bolini patted Tasker on the back and said, “Good luck, kid. Don’t decide to take the money and run.”
Tasker flushed as the older FBI man walked away casually.
Bernie Dashett hadn’t scheduled any work appointments for the morning so he wouldn’t get tied up. The truth was that since more communities were being built in the area, the bigger animals that lived here had all moved west, away from encroaching civilization. Aside from possums, which were still as common as cats, he didn’t get that many calls. He hadn’t even seen a fox in months. Although most of his calls had to do with animals getting inside, like raccoons in the roof eaves or possums in a carport pantry, he had seen a big decline in sightings of wildlife all through Homestead and the Redlands. The one animal he saw more and more of was iguanas. They must mate like rabbits, ’cause they were everywhere. He liked it, too, because aside from the fifty dollars to trap them, he usually could sell them for another fifty. They scared the shit out of little old ladies, so they never bitched about the price to get rid of them. Bernie had even thought about planting some at certain houses. He might keep the next one he trapped and use it to generate a little extra business.
He dressed in his work shirt and headed out to his truck. He had stored the Stinger in a safe place the day after he’d bought it. With Ellie coming into the house all the time, he didn’t want to risk her seeing it. Even though she acted like she was over the divorce, Bernie had heard too many stories of ex-wives causing trouble.
At eleven-thirty, he pulled out of his driveway and drove down toward Coconut Palm. He wasn’t nervous, just a little excited. Maybe this could be a new line of work. International arms dealer. He liked it.
Bernie noticed a few cars on the normally quiet streets but didn’t think about it again. He decided to make a quick stop at the shop where his possum trap was being repaired. Off Newton Road, he pulled behind the little house to the garage behind it. Hopping out of the truck, he saw Daniel Wells sitting at his workbench, fiddling with some contraption.
“You got it?” asked Bernie.
“Right here,” said Wells.
FBI Special Agent Jim Cobb knew there was no way this hillbilly would burn their surveillance. The guy was the only car on the road, and he had that sign on the door. He could’ve followed him by himself. At first he thought the exterminator was going to drive directly to the meeting with the FDLE guy, but he’d made this stop and Cobb knew this might be a big chance for him.
Now, as the only one with an eye on the truck in the back of the house, Cobb saw Bernie Dashett walk into the garage and talk to a white male, about thirty. Cobb made a few notes and then saw the unidentified male walk out to the truck with Dashett and hand him a duffel bag with something in it. This was it. The source of the missile.
Cobb got on the radio. He couldn’t wait to demonstrate how smart he was to the other agents. He only wished Agent Bolini was out here. That was where Cobb wanted to be: counterterrorism. Maybe if he helped make this case, he’d get his chance.
Cobb keyed his radio. “The subject just got the package from this house. I’ll stay here while you follow the subject to the UC location. Copy?”
A female voice came back, “Okay, Jim, we’ll be back when the deal is done. Don’t do anything on your own.”
“Got it. But I saw the exchange. This is definitely where the package came from.” He didn’t want any question about who had made this case.
Tasker was a little nervous. He made sure he could see Derrick Sutter sitting in his Buick Century about five rows over in a line of parked cars. Camy and Jimmy Lail were on the other side of him, about the same distance away. There were five other ATF agents strategically placed in the lot. He felt well protected.
Tasker was still pissed off over Bolini’s comments. He’d beaten the allegations and exposed an FBI agent as the real bank robber, but some people just didn’t want to believe it. Even now, two months later, there were people who thought Tasker had been partners with Tom Dooley. That was ridiculous. Tasker hadn’t been able to stand that racist loudmouth even before he’d been framed by him. Bolini seemed like he came from the same mold. That FBI mentality of superiority died hard. His Nextel beeped. Camy Parks’ voice floated through. “Billy, Dashett is a minute out.”
Tasker waved to her and cut off the speaker on his phone. He rechecked his little Sig.380 hidden in the seat, and waited.
Bernie Dashett pulled into the lot and right to Tasker, like he had no doubts.
“Hey ya, Willie,” he said, hopping out of his truck and walking over to Tasker.
“Bernie, it’s too hot out here, let’s jump in my Suburban to talk.” Without a word, Bernie moved to the side of the Suburban, climbed in the high vehicle and settled into the cool seats.
“This is nice, Willie,” he said, running his hands over the leather.
“Yeah, I like it.” He paused and checked the mirror to see at least two cover cars in position. “What’d we decide on again?”
“You mean on a price?”
“Yeah.” Tasker wanted Bernie to do most of the talking on the tape.
“You said sixty-five.”
“That gets the whole thing?”
“There’s only the one.”
Tasker played stupid. “One what?”
“Stinger, or whatever you call it. I never checked the manufacturer like you wanted.”
Tasker smiled. “That’s okay. You got it with you, right?”
“Yeah. C’mon, have a look.”
Tasker slid out of the high SUV and waited a second while Bernie went to his truck. Tasker wanted the cover surveillance to see him and realize the deal was close. He let Bernie root around in the bed of the truck and then walked over to it.
“Here she is,” said Bernie, looking down at the five-foot missile in the bed of the truck.
Tasker stared at it for a minute. This had been the easiest case he’d ever put together. “Looks like we’re good to go,” said Tasker, as he stretched his arms over his head. He gave both the verbal and visual signals for the arrest team, then moved to the other side of the truck.
The team moved perfectly. Two cars were almost on top of Bernie Dashett before he even noticed them. Sutter calmly opened his door and pointed his Glock at Bernie.
“Police, don’t move,” he said, calmly and professionally.
One second later, Camy came out of her Crown Vic, and Jimmy Lail squealed the tires of his little black Honda, burst out of the door and started screaming, “On the ground, be-autch!” Holding his gun sideways, he shuffled up to Bernie, pointing the gun at his head, still sideways and said again, “On the ground, be-autch.”
Be-autch? Oh, God, it was that gangsta talk again. Bitch. He meant bitch. Tasker shook his head.
After Bernie Dashett was cuffed and in the back of a car, Camy Parks came up to Tasker. “One of the FBI guys saw where he got the missile.”
“No shit?”
“Saw the exchange plain as day. Over in Naranja, not far at all.”
“Let’s go,” said Tasker, jumping into the Suburban.