Snake Eye (12 page)

The ex-naval officer took one look at the tableau, knew what had occurred, and swore a silent oath. He was stupid, stupid, stupid, and there was no getting around it. “It looks like I’m busted,” Dexter said, as he placed a tray on a table. “Would you like some coffee?”

“She’s pretty,” Rossi admitted, as she turned to confront him. “But watching her through a telescope constitutes a crime. Perhaps I should take you in.”

Dexter swallowed. Rossi wasn’t thrilled, he could see that, but she wasn’t angry either. That meant there was still a chance. He offered his wrists. “Cuff me officer…. I deserve it.”

“Maybe later,” Ross replied lightly. “If I don’t like the dessert.”

Dexter felt an enormous sense of relief as the FBI agent sat on the couch, took a cup of coffee, and brought it to her lips. “The pressure is on,” the businessman said meekly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

When the ex-naval officer returned, it was with two generous portions of crème brulee,
which, unbeknownst to him, was one of Rossi’s favorites. “So,” she said, having taken the first delicious bite. “You’re a SEAL, an entrepreneur,
and
a chef.”

“No,” Dexter replied honestly. “The first two batches, which I made early this afternoon, are sitting at the bottom of the garbage can.”

“Well practice certainly makes perfect,” Rossi said as she took a second bite. “That was very sweet of you…. And, as it turns out,
very
good.”

Once the dessert was finished, Dexter found himself where he wanted to be, which was next to Rossi. They talked for a while, trivial stuff mostly, but laden with the sort of details that define lives and are of interest to potential lovers.

Finally, after Rossi finished telling Dexter about her divorce, she took the opportunity to steer the conversation back towards him. “So, what about you? I know you never married…. But did you ever come close?”

Dexter remembered Kristen, the night after he had been released from the hospital, and the look of horror that came over her face when she saw the angry red stump. She had been sorry,
very
sorry, but they had never made love again. More than that,
he
had never made love again, not in the normal manner at least. “Yes,” he replied. “I came close once. But it didn’t work out.”

In spite of his effort to conceal his emotions Rossi could see the pain in the ex-SEAL’s eyes. She took his hand. “I’m sorry, Dex. It was the leg, wasn’t it?”

The direct question caught the ex-naval officer off guard. He pulled his hand back. “It’s that obvious?”

“The leg?” Rossi inquired gently. “Or what happened to your relationship? The fact that you lost a leg in Iraq was in your military file…. Along with a full list of the decorations you received. I guessed the rest.”

The possibility that Rossi had seen his military record had never occurred to Dexter but made perfect sense. That meant she had known about the leg all along! Known, but gone out with him anyway. He opened his mouth to speak—but stopped when she put a finger on his lips. “That’s right,” Rossi said softly. “I didn’t care.”

It felt natural for Dexter to put his arms around Rossi and pull her close. The scent of perfume mixed with soap made a heady combination. It filled Dexter’s nostrils and mind as her lips melted against his.

Meanwhile, sitting within a darkened living room and concealed by yards of fabric, the woman that Dexter called Glass Eye watched through her telescope, ate popcorn, and wondered what would happen next. The man she called “peg leg”
never
had guests, much less female ones, so this was a first. She giggled happily, fumbled for another handful of popcorn, and wished she was younger.

The customs agent was in the process of shaving when his cell phone started to chirp insistently. He picked it up and looked into the mirror. It seemed as though the man reflected there was older than he should have been. “This is Hawkins.”

The voice on the other end was female and sounded thin as if the connection could fail at any moment. “Hawk? Moller here…. We have a problem.”

The customs agent wished he had already had a cup of coffee but hadn’t. Moller and her partner had been detailed to keep an eye on Joe Chow. Problems, if any, could stem from the nature of the assignment, their relative lack of experience, or bad luck. “Okay,” Hawkins said stolidly. “Shoot.”

She may have been a newbie but Moller knew better than to mention names on an unscrambled cell phone call. “The subject took off up Highway 2 towards Stevens Pass. A second vehicle joined him in Monroe. We estimate seven or eight subjects total. There’s no way to be sure what they’re up to but it doesn’t look like a snowboarding expedition.”

“Roger that,” Hawkins said, his mind racing. Chow was a city boy…. So why head up into the Cascade Mountains in the dead of winter? It didn’t make sense. It was interesting though,
very
interesting, and he wanted to know more. “Stick with them,” the customs agent instructed. “And stay in touch.”

“That may be difficult to do,” Moller replied cautiously. “Cell coverage is iffy up here—but we’ll do our best. What if the shit hits the fan? Do we jump in? Or take notes?”

Hawkins eyed the
other him
. It was a tough question. But if Chow planned to commit a violent crime there was no way that his agents could just sit and watch. Even if they were outgunned. Hawkins frowned. “You said
eight
subjects?”

“Yeah,” Moller replied, “give or take. It’s hard to tell without pulling up next to them for a head count.”

“That’s a lot,” Hawkins replied. “I’ll call for help. Maybe the sheriff or the state patrol has somebody up that way. Once the back-up is in place you can intervene if necessary. But don’t bust them for pissing in the snow…. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“Roger that,” Moller replied. “Sorry to call so early.”

“No problem,” Hawkins answered. “Watch your six.”

The call ended after that and the customs agent pressed the razor against his face. It slid smoothly down along his neck, hit a tiny irregularity, and nicked his skin. A droplet of blood appeared. Hawkins swore and attempted to wipe it away, but the cut continued to bleed until he took a tiny piece of toilet paper, placed it over the wound, and watched the tissue turn red. Another day had begun.

Mountains could be seen beyond the helicopter’s Plexiglas windscreen as the KATO 8 reporter turned to look into the camera. Thanks to the extensive violence, and the high body count, the shootout in the mountains was all over the midday news casts. Supervisory Special Agent John Theel watched with considerable interest as the serious-looking journalist told what he knew, or
didn’t
know, since the customs people had the lid on tight. “Authorities won’t say what took place in the parking area,” the reporter intoned, “only that they estimate that fifteen to twenty people were involved, ten of whom were killed in the violence. Those directly involved in the investigation won’t confirm this, but one of the EMTs who responded to the scene told
KATO 8 that two ICE agents were on the scene when he arrived, suggesting the possibility of a drug deal gone wrong.”

“That’s close,” Assistant Special Agent in Charge Amy Haxton observed as she entered the office, “but no cigar.”

Theel realized that his size-twelves were up on his desk and swung them down onto the floor as the ASAC plopped down in one of two guest chairs. “True,” he agreed, “but it’s only a matter of time before they dog it out.”

“Some of it,” Haxton allowed, “but not all. I just got off the phone with Hawkins. Thanks to the fact that his agents weren’t involved in the fire fight, and all of the victims were known criminals, he figures it will be easier to keep the lid on.”

“Maybe so,” Theel agreed doubtfully. But gang bangers or not, Chow
murdered
those people. Why leave him on the street?”

“Because we don’t know how he’s bringing illegals in,” the other agent answered. “And if illegals can enter the country—then terrorists could too. Hawkins believes that if we give his team more time they’ll figure it out.”

“Which brings us to Rossi.”

“Yes,” Haxton agreed thoughtfully. “I’m thankful she wasn’t there. Here’s hoping the media will leave her alone and focus their attention on the sheriff. It looks like he owns the hot seat this time.”

Hawkins grinned. “Along with ICE!”

The ASAC shook her head disapprovingly but smiled as she came to her feet. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that…. Now that we have Rossi’s shooting review behind us, all we have to do is get through Kissler’s, and we’re in the clear.”

“Sounds good,” Theel responded. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

As soon as Haxton was gone Theel dialed Rossi and invited the agent to join him. Rossi had heard about the massacre from Hawkins and hurried down the hall. Haxton was going to freak, or so she assumed, and the agent was ready to lobby for some additional time.

But Theel looked relaxed as Rossi entered his office and that was generally a good sign. After listening to the SSA’s account of his conversation with Haxton the FBI agent felt even better. “So,” Theel concluded, “I think you’ll get the time you need. But keep a close eye on Chow. Drug dealers are one thing, but if that psycho sonofabitch were to cap a citizen, then we’re all in deep trouble.”

Rossi agreed and was about to leave when Theel motioned for her to stay. “Hold on for a moment,” the SSA said, as he thumbed through some papers. “There’s something I meant to share. Ah, here it is. It seems that the Wallingford District has a block watch program. Two different people took notice of a suspicious white van and called it in. One of the boys in blue realized that the vehicle in question had been parked near your house and emailed a copy of the report to me. You owe him a doughnut.”

Rossi frowned. “That’s it? A white van? There are millions of them.”

“Yes,” her supervisor responded patiently, “but not parked on your street for extended periods of time. Not only that, but both citizens reported that while the vehicle appeared to be occupied, no one ever got in or out of it. Someone has one helluva bladder.”

“Or a Pepsi bottle,” Rossi replied dryly. “Okay, point taken. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

“Good,” Theel replied. “That’s all I ask. By the way—you look unusually perky this morning. What’s up?”

Rossi shrugged uncomfortably. It was a personal question, but given the fact that she had
been known to cry on Theel’s shoulder from time to time, a fair one. “I had a date. It was fun. Have you got a problem with that?”

Theel grinned. “Not if he’s nice to you. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“His name is Dexter,” Rossi replied. “Jack Dexter. He owns the building where Chow lives.”

Theel’s eyebrows shot straight up. “The building where Chow lives? Is that a good idea?”

“He isn’t a witness,” Rossi said defensively.

“Not yet anyway,” the SSA responded darkly. “Be careful, Christina. You’re walking a
very
thin line.”

Theel
never
used her first name, not unless he was in the parental mode, and Rossi took note. Like it or not her relationship with Dexter could be questionable. And, given her recent controversial past, it was important to be careful. “I hear you, John,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good,” Theel responded soberly. “I’m counting on it. By the way, what, if anything, has your team picked up off the wire?”

“We know that Chow is a Sonics fan, likes a lot of pepperoni on his pizzas, and treats his girlfriend like shit,” Rossi replied. “But we’re hoping for more.”

Theel shrugged. “The bastard is a bastard, but he was raised by a master criminal, and is bound to be cagey. He’ll slip up eventually though—all of them do.”

Rossi wasn’t so sure, but nodded agreeably, and left.

The SSA turned back to the television. It quickly became apparent that there had been a seven-car pile-up on Interstate-5 and with the prospect of good, which was to say
bad
footage in the offing, all of the mechanical vultures had flocked to the scene. Theel turned off the TV, and felt a sense of satisfaction as the screen went black.

John Pasco discovered that it was a lot easier to break into his employer’s apartment than he thought it would be. The solution was to schedule a locksmith for the morning when Dexter typically left to work out, tell the tradesman a convincing lie, and get
him
to open unit 6B. The best part was the fact that Mr. Stuck-Up Dexter would wind up paying the bill! Just the kind of silent “gotcha” that the ex-chief petty officer had specialized in during his Naval service.

Having escorted the unsuspecting locksmith out of the building, Pasco returned to unit 6B. He always took pleasure in surreptitiously entering other people’s homes, but never more so than the moment when he walked into Dexter’s apartment and closed the door behind him. There was the sense of excitement that stemmed from being where he shouldn’t be, plus a wonderful feeling of dominance, as all of his employer’s belongings came under his control.

Pasco hummed to himself as he pulled a pair of disposable latex gloves down over his fingers. Then, as he passed through the open-style kitchen into the living room, his cell phone went off. The maintenance man checked to see who was calling, saw that it was one of three women that he occasionally had sex with, and let the call go to voicemail. Though not especially interested in the nicely framed prints that hung on his employer’s walls or the hardcover books that filled his book shelves, the ex-CPO was immediately drawn to the black-and-white photos of a younger Dexter posed with fellow SEALs.

More than twenty years earlier, Pasco had taken a shot at the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) program, where he battled his way through four weeks of brutal Phase One training before hitting the wall. Never had Pasco felt such a sense of shame as the moment when he placed both feet on the painted frog footprints and rang the brass bell three times. There was no disgrace in quitting, that’s what people told him, but Pasco knew differently.
He wanted to take the photos off the wall and smash them on the floor. But Pasco had never allowed himself to give into such impulses nor would he now.

Having turned his back on the photos, Pasco spotted the powerful telescope and the gray day beyond. He went over to peer through the Nikon and found it was focused on the bay.
Trust Dexter to look at something boring
, the maintenance man thought to himself, and swiveled the scope over to the nearest buildings.

But there wasn’t much to see, and the clock was ticking, so Pasco made his way out of the living room and into the master suite, the place where people were most likely to leave a big mess
and
hide their valuables. Not Dexter though. His bed had been made with military precision, the underwear in his dresser was so tidy it could have passed an inspection, and the lowest drawers were empty.

The generously proportioned bathroom was equally empty of clutter—although it quickly became apparent that Dexter preferred to purchase his toiletries only once or twice a year. One drawer contained nothing but Crest toothpaste, another was half-filled with boxes of roll-on deodorant, and the space beneath the his-and-hers sinks was crammed with toilet paper. All of which was efficient, but something less than satisfying, since Pasco was looking for loose cash rather than toiletries.

But it isn’t over until it’s over
, the maintenance man assured himself, and made his way into the closet, a place where all manner of goodies were frequently kept. Except that Dexter didn’t
have
any goodies, or if he did, he had stashed them elsewhere, because outside of the clothes that hung against one wall and some neatly aligned shoes, the closet was practically empty. There was what appeared to be a gun locker however, plus a safe, and an artificial leg.

Frustrated by then, and conscious of the need to get out of the apartment before his employer returned, Pasco was about to leave when he noticed the section of maple paneling that was half-concealed by Dexter’s clothes. Though not unusual in and of itself, the wood grain caught Pasco’s eye because it was the
only
maple paneling in the apartment house. And that raised a question. Had the buildings owner simply given himself an additional amenity? Or, was there something more to it than that?

Pasco felt a rising sense of excitement as he pushed the clothes out of the way and placed both of his hands on the paneling. It gave, the retired chief petty officer pushed it to one side, and a puff of cold chemical-scented air kissed his face.
Bingo
! the maintenance man thought to himself as he stepped through the opening into the space beyond. He noticed that the tiny enclosure was furnished with a standing lamp, a side table, and a comfortable chair. Then, much to Pasco’s surprise, he found himself looking into still
another
room—a bedroom, which according to the way the apartments were laid out, belonged to Joe Chow. But how? And
why
?

The ex-petty officer’s brain had just begun to wrestle with the questions when a light came on and Chow’s mistress came into view. She wore a red silk robe and carried a lap top computer under one arm. When she coughed Pasco was startled by how loud the sound was and made a note to be careful.

The girl placed the computer on the bed, sat cross-legged in front of it, and opened the lid. Thanks to the fact that the building was equipped with a wireless network the young woman could access the Internet from wherever she chose.

That was when Pasco remembered the huge one-of-a-kind mirror that dominated one wall of the neighboring apartment and knew he was looking
through
it. And the reason was obvious…In spite of all appearances to the contrary Mr. High and Mighty Dexter was not only a creep but a dyed-in-the-wool pervert! Not that the ex-CPO could blame him since the woman in the next
room was incredibly hot. Pasco felt a sudden sense of excitement as he came to appreciate the full import of what he had uncovered. The possibilities were mind boggling! What should he ask for? Part ownership of the building? No, petty theft was safer. A nice raise perhaps, or better benefits.