Snake Eye (25 page)

Once inside the house Rossi realized that it was a red year. She knew from previous experience that Vanessa owned two sets of Christmas decorations. And, since the green and gold decorations had been on display the previous year, it was time for the red and silver. All of the
home’s furnishings had been placed with care, went with each other, and combined to create a sense of well-integrated comfort. Ed rose from his highly prized Eames chair to greet Rossi and came forward to plant a formal kiss on her cheek. It was hard to believe that this slightly balding, somewhat fussy male was the same man who once made love to her in the bed of an old pick-up truck.

Rossi returned the kiss, put the rest of her gifts under the tree, and surrendered herself to the carefully scripted afternoon and evening that Vanessa had planned for them. There were drinks to accompany the carefully managed conversation, genuine laughter as Ed lost at Monopoly, and some delicious moments with Missy.

Later, over dinner, the FBI agent found herself surreptitiously eyeing her hostess. Vanessa had perfect skin, green eyes, and full lips. A carefully coiffed fall of strawberry blonde hair served to frame her face and emphasize her beauty. And it was then, as Ed told one of his long, boring stories and Missy experimented with her new MP3 player, that their eyes met and Vanessa winked. It was a small thing, but a precious thing, because it spoke to everything they had in common: Ed, Missy, and a female perspective. The gesture brought a smile to Rossi’s lips and warmed her heart at the same time. Somehow, without really deserving to do so, Ed had spun life’s roulette wheel and won. An hour and a half later, Rossi left with a shopping bag full of things that Vanessa thought that she should have. A man on a motorcycle followed her home.

The first hint that something unusual was about to happen took place when a HH-65A Dolphin helicopter with Coast Guard markings circled the sleepy little town of Coupeville, hovered over the field above the Ebey’s Landing, and sent fifteen seagulls flapping into the air as it touched down. Lt. Tom Olman was aboard the chopper, as was Hawkins, Rossi, and Inez. The SNAKE EYE team members were barely on the ground, and still making their way over to the bluff when the Coast Guard cutter
Cuttyhunk
emerged from the off-shore mist and took up station a half mile out. And she wasn’t alone. White water broke around their blunt bows as two black-over-orange Foyle Class rigid inflatables roared in from the west. Both carried light machine guns and boarding crews.

The occupants of the C-Dory that had harassed Dexter on Christmas Eve took one look at the incoming boats and tried to flee. But the Coasties were ready for that and moved to cut the snakeheads off. After warnings from the radio and bullhorn were ignored, a single burst of machine gun fire across the bow brought the suspicious boat to a stop. Two men were taken into custody. Once the area was secured a tubby forty-one-foot utility boat chugged in and positioned herself over the wreck. She was carrying a force of SCUBA divers who would be central to the raid.

It all made for quite a display—but the invasion had only begun. Even as the SNAKE EYE team followed a narrow track along the edge of the bluff a procession of police vehicles came down Ebey Road from Coupeville. There were ten sedans and SUVs and their lights were flashing as they appeared at the top of the hill. Those in the lead belonged to the Island County sheriffs department. They were followed by a parade of marked and unmarked Crown Victorias loaded with State Troopers and more representatives from the FBI, ICE, and the DEA—the latter being latecomers who had joined the task force subsequent to the Mo Pong ambush. A bus-sized mobile command post brought up the rear.

The SNAKE EYE team paused at the top of the trail that led down to the beach. “Damn,” Rossi said. “Look at all those people. Don’t they have anything else to do?”

The cowboy hat made Hawkins look a little out of place. He smiled philosophically. “Every
single agency represented here today will claim credit for busting the snakeheads and request a larger budget. And that includes mine. I sure hope Mr. Dexter is correct about that underwater habitat, however—because we’re going to look
real
stupid if the float he ran into was attached to a crab pot. Come on, let’s get down to the beach.”

As Rossi followed Hawkins down the muddy trail she felt a variety of emotions. Anger about the way in which Dexter had betrayed the man he could have been, guilt about her handling of the confrontation in the restaurant, and a touch of wonder as well. Because loony though it was—the FBI agent knew he was doing it for
her
.

Even so, Rossi wasn’t ready for the fact that Dexter was already on the beach when she arrived, having been brought in by one of the sedans that were parked up on the road. Uniformed personnel were all over the place, and the ex-naval officer had just finished describing what he and Hank Stanton had seen on the evening of December 24 to a state trooper when he spotted the FBI agent. Their eyes met, and even though Rossi was determined not to, she felt the now-familiar flutter in the pit of her stomach. Dexter’s expression was bleak. “Hello, Christina.”

“Hello, Dex.”

“How was Christmas?”

“Pretty good, all things considered. And yours?”

Dexter shrugged. “I spent most of it with Agent Hawkins over there—followed by dinner with friends.” There might have been more had it not been for the deputy who arrived to take Dexter down to the water where some Coasties were waiting to speak with him. After the initial flurry of activity, everything slowed to a crawl. More than an hour passed before a team of armed divers went down to place lights, and cameras, and survey the wreck. Mission completed, they returned to the surface where they briefed a
second
set of divers.

Then, just as the second team of divers was about to enter the water, a lawyer representing the insurance company that owned the wreck demanded to see a search warrant. He was in New Jersey, which made communication all the more difficult, and the better part of two additional hours passed while the government’s attorneys consulted with each other. Unable to find any case law to support the insurance company’s request, they gave the task force permission to proceed.

It was raining by that time, which forced groups of officials and reporters to huddle together under a few multicolored umbrellas as the SCUBA divers splashed into the cold gray water. Thanks to the cameras placed earlier that day, officials were able to watch as the divers entered the lock and vanished from sight.

A full forty-five minutes elapsed before the first of what turned out to be a total of two SCUBA-equipped illegals were escorted to the surface. Then, even as they were being taken ashore, two snakeheads were brought to the surface as well. Neither one of them was Joe Chow, or would even admit to knowing him, although that was likely to change once the plea-bargaining process began.

Still, the raid had been a tremendous success, and Demont was in an expansive mood when he ducked under Rossi’s umbrella. “You see?” the SAC demanded rhetorically. “The transfer from ECODOOM to SNAKE EYE was good for both you
and
the Bureau. You’ve had your critics but there’s nothing like success to put the weasels in their place.”

If not a weasel himself, Demont was certainly related to the slippery breed, and if anyone deserved credit for locating the habitat, it was Dexter. Rossi was about to say as much when Haxton intervened. “All’s well that ends well,” the ASAC said sweetly, as she pulled the agent away. “Come on, Christina. There’s coffee at the command post. Let’s get some while we can.”

The two women were only halfway to the command post when what sounded like a distant swarm of angry bees was heard. One of the approaching choppers belonged to the federal government—but the rest were loaded with reporters. Someone must have been in charge because the helicopters dropped onto the field above one at a time. Rossi frowned. “Who invited the press?”

“Demont did,” Haxton answered, as she shaded her eyes. “This raid is going to play pretty well back in DC.”

Everyone was looking up into the rain. Rossi scanned the crowd, but the face she was searching for was nowhere to be seen. The raid was a success and Rossi knew she should be happy, but something was missing, something important, and there was no way to get it back.

Night had fallen and it was cold on the streets of what had once been called Chinatown. Traffic lights, neon lights, and Christmas lights glowed everywhere that Lena Ling looked but none offered the possibility of sanctuary. Not only was she an illegal, but a person of interest in a high-profile murder case, and even more sought after as a result. And that wasn’t the worst of it, because Ling was being pursued by something far worse than the police. She was on the run from Joe Chow.

Ling knew that even though Little Chow had been born in the United States, he had been raised in his father’s version of Chinese culture, and could be expected to behave accordingly. By running she had not only been disrespectful but defiant—and such behavior could not go unpunished lest Little Chow lose face.

That was why Ling felt sure that the snakehead and his men were looking for her and was careful to keep to the shadows as she walked the mostly empty streets. The International District was a bad place to spend time, Ling knew that, but it was hard to resist because she knew her way around it and some of the locals spoke Mandarin. A black limo turned the corner ahead and the young woman ducked into a doorway and stayed there until the vehicle had passed. A hot bath: That’s what Lena Ling wanted more than food or a safe place to sleep. But, with only $12.62 left from her hoard, there was scant chance of getting that.

Ling shivered in her thin leather coat, stepped out of the doorway, and continued to look for some temporary warmth. Buses were one of her favorite places to spend time. It was her experience that they were inexpensive, safe, and warm. Earlier that day she had enjoyed a truly magnificent ride from downtown to West Seattle and back, a journey that consumed the better part of three hours.

Other favorite haunts included 7-11 convenience stores, shopping malls, and the downtown branch of the Seattle Public Library. Not only did the modernistic building provide the illegal with an opportunity to use the ladies room, it stocked some Chinese books. Her favorite thus far was
Meiguo sheng huo shiyong hui hua, or Encounters in America
. The other book she liked to curl up with was
Xiao shi sheng huo Mei yu
, or,
Say it in American English
. Something she was getting better at all the time.

“Hey, come here for a minute. I want to ask you a question.” The voice was male and originated from a Monte Carlo that had been seized in a drug raid three months earlier. It wasn’t the first time Ling had been propositioned during the last few days, and the illegal knew that prostitution was an option. Perhaps a reasonable option given her circumstances, but the illegal had promised herself that she would never submit to sexual slavery again, even if that meant death. She refused to make eye contact with the man and hurried away.

The plainclothes cop in the Monte Carlo shrugged, rolled the window up, and passed a five-
dollar bill to his partner. “You were right, Rita. She wasn’t a whore. I guess I’m slipping.”

Rita kissed the fiver, stuck it into her bra, and turned a corner. “You got that right, Pat. But what else is new?” The cops laughed as a Volvo with stolen plates passed headed in the opposite direction, turned a corner, and disappeared.

Having spent a good portion of the day watching the government take possession of his underwater way station, not to mention illegals worth sixty thousand each, Joe Chow was in a bad mood. And, making matters worse, was the fact that Ling was missing. And not just
missing
, as in arrested by the police, but missing as in run off. The snakehead knew that because he knew the police and their tendency to brag. If they had arrested Ling at the Prospector’s Palace, they would have called a press conference to trumpet their accomplishment the next morning.

That being the case, Chow had put the word out for people to keep their eyes peeled for Ling, and sent his men to visit some of her favorite places, all without success—until twenty minutes earlier when a cell phone registered to Paco’s dead aunt chirped and a tip came in. Ling, or a woman who looked very much like her, had entered a convenience store and purchased a cup of green tea. The proprietor attempted to stall her, or that’s what he claimed, but the illegal grew suspicious and left. Now, in spite of the fact that every cop in the state of Washington was on the lookout for him, Chow was determined to find his mistress. “Slow down,” he told Paco. “And pay attention. I want that bitch—and I want her
now
.”

Ling had just crossed a street and was eyeing a well-lit apothecary shop when she heard the screech of tires. A quick glance over her shoulder was sufficient to confirm that a car was cruising up the street. It might have meant nothing, but that was a chance the illegal couldn’t afford to take. She ran, saw the cleaners up ahead, and turned in. The Chinese proprietress looked up from her sewing machine as the door opened and was just starting to formulate a protest when Ling bolted past the counter. Plastic garment bags swayed back and forth as the illegal pushed her way through. They were still in motion when Skinner burst into the shop.

Ling heard a man shout as she emerged from the forest of clothes, passed through a cloud of warm steam, and found herself in a large kitchen. The fluorescent ceiling fixture gave the scene a bluish cast. A woman with a heavily seamed face looked up from a bowl of soup as the illegal rushed in and circled the table in order to reach the back door.

And that’s where Ling was, fiddling with the lock, when the snakehead entered the room behind her. “Hold it right there!” Skinner ordered, and was halfway around the table when the crone extended her aluminum cane. The gang member tripped and went down hard.