Shock Wave

“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 fu

“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 ca

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 ru

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 ru

Four of the men stopped next to the building as the one in the lead came to within a few feet of the Cherokee. Tasker looked at his passenger seat, where the Miami Herald sports page was covering his MP5. He looked through his tinted window, knowing the twenty-year-old white kid couldn’t tell who was inside. He heard the guy in jeans and a plain white T-shirt say, “Yo,” then, after no response, get louder and say “Yo” again. Two of his friends came up to join him. One moved to the passenger side of the car. Tasker smiled thinking of a Discovery Cha

The leader took a step forward and tapped on the window. “Yo, mister.”

Tasker knew that they had a problem with gangs out here. Some preyed on migrant workers, some sold crack. Tasker hoped these might be the bullies who bothered the poor migrants. Rolling down the window, he could’ve made these losers a mile away for redneck dropouts from some high school south of Kendall.

The leader said, “Man, why didn’t you answer me?”

Tasker kept his voice low and calm, “Didn’t know I had to.”

The kid looked at him sideways and said, “Yo, whatchu doing out here? You lost?”