Rossi, along with Kissler and Qwan, rode in Theel’s sedan. The atmosphere inside the car was subdued, but the fact that Kissler was scheduled to go in front of a Shooting Review Board added to the sense of gloom. Theel made attempts at conversation, but met with little more than grunts of acknowledgement, he soon gave up. Qwan turned on the radio, happened on play-by-play coverage of the funeral procession, and turned it off.
Meanwhile, in the car ahead of them, Amy Haxton had little choice but to listen as her boss, Harley Demont, offered some “impressions.” Nothing overt, nothing that could be construed as an old-fashioned order, but “suggestions” that were binding nevertheless. He was a relatively small man, who though in denial where his incipient baldness was concerned, kept himself in excellent shape. He had flown in the day before—and planned to be gone by nightfall. “So,” Demont continued, “those are my impressions, what do you think?”
I think you’re an overly ambitious asshole who would run over his own mother if she got in the way of your career, Haxton thought to herself, but knew better than to say so. “Yes, the amount of media hype focused on Rossi is likely to have an impact on her near-term effectiveness, but let’s be fair…. She did a great job that night—and she has an outstanding record. Did you look at her file? This is a woman who spent an entire year on an undercover assignment, received an Award for Meritorious Service from the Director, and gets consistently high marks from her boss.”
“As a matter of fact I did pull her jacket,” Demont responded smoothly. “And I noticed something else as well…. Agent Rossi has a degree in Computer Science from Berkeley. A rather significant asset.”
Haxton sighed. “I’m wasting my time aren’t I? The decision has already been made.”
Demont smiled engagingly. “Not true, Amy, it’s your call. The purpose of my comment was to identify an alternative, an assignment that would take the heat off Rossi and allow her to spend more time with her daughter.”
There it was. The dot over the “i” in Rossi. End of discussion. If Haxton continued to argue in favor of retaining Rossi on her team she would appear thick-headed not to mention uncooperative. “Okay,” the ASAC answered reluctantly. “You make some good points. Especially where Rossi’s private life is concerned.”
“Glad I could help,” Demont replied smugly. “Let me know what you decide.”
The better part of an hour passed as the motorcade made its way up onto the north end of Capitol Hill, turned left onto 15th Avenue, and rolled passed the park.
That’s when the cars stopped, and the passengers got out and followed guides into the lush green cemetery. Reporters were present, hundreds of them, but weren’t allowed to enter. The TV crews had long lenses and Rossi could feel them zooming in on her as they took the opportunity to roll the human torch footage one more time.
The cemetery was relatively small as such things go, but enjoyed a commanding view of Lake Union, and had been chosen as the final resting place for Bruce Lee and other notables. A covered platform had been established on a rise.
The mourners wore color-coded name tags that determined how close to the platform they would be allowed to get. They were herded into somberly clad squads, platoons, and companies, all according to their relationship with the deceased. Due to their status as co-workers, Theel, Rossi, Kissler, and Qwan were led up toward the front of the assemblage and invited to sit in the third row of folding chairs.
It was a moving service, complete with bagpipes, hymns, and a series of well-spoken eulogies. As Rossi turned to leave, someone touched her arm. The FBI agent turned to find Holly Nealy standing next to her. Tall and thin, the blonde had a regal quality. Even now, at the center of a media circus, she appeared calm and poised. She wore sunglasses which she removed. Her eyes were red from crying and her voice was brittle. “Christina, just one thing before you go.”
Rossi swallowed. “Of course…. Anything.”
“Val and I wanted you to know how much we appreciate what you did. There isn’t anything that can bring our husbands back—but it helps to know their killers are dead. Thank you.” Then, as her lower lip started to quiver, Nealy turned away.
Rossi knew the other woman meant well, that the message was intended to make her feel better, but she felt empty instead. There were things she was proud of, Missy being the foremost example, but killing people wasn’t one of them.
Rossi turned, hurried to catch up with the others, and was just about to enter Theel’s sedan when Haxton appeared. Demont was at her side and they wore matching smiles. “Christina! Just the person I was looking for. Are you in this afternoon? You are? Good. Could we meet at 3:00 p.m.? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
Rossi promised to be there and entered the car. She wanted to ask Theel if he knew what the ASAC had in mind, but the fact that other agents were present kept her from doing so, and her supervisor performed a quick fade the moment they arrived at the office. The morning was over, there was plenty to do, and time passed quickly. Haxton was already at her desk when Rossi followed Theel into her office. The door closed with a definitive “click.” Rossi eyed Theel but the SSA refused to meet her gaze. That’s when her suspicions were confirmed. Something was up and John knew she wouldn’t like it.
Haxton said, “Let’s sit somewhere more comfortable,” and headed for the eight-foot-long couch that one of her predecessors had installed against the long wall. A few moments later Rossi found herself sinking into the couch’s floral embrace, while wishing that she could sit on a regular chair. Haxton smiled serenely. “Well, I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about, so I’ll cut to the chase. You did an excellent job on the ECODOOM case, everyone agrees on that, but we have a new opportunity for you. A case that will not only take advantage of your degree in Computer Science—but allow you to spend more time with Mary.”
Rossi frowned. “The terrorist thing is starting to heat up, I haven’t worked on computers for years, and her name is Missy. But that doesn’t matter does it? You want me off ECODOOM.”
Haxton sighed. Damn it to hell…Why couldn’t Demont do his own dirty work? Because he didn’t want to that’s why. She leaned forward. “That isn’t true Christina…I don’t want you off the case. But, perhaps I should. For your sake as well as the team’s. Let’s be honest. You can’t buy a pair of socks without television crews following you to the store—not to mention your influence on the other agents.”
Theel winced. He had warned Haxton not to go there and now she had. It was like launching a gob of spit into the wind. The whole mess was about to smack the ASAC in the face. “My ‘influence on other agents?’” Rossi demanded coldly. “What are you talking about?”
Haxton looked at Theel. “John?”
Theel looked down at his tasseled loafers and back up again. It required effort to turn and meet her eyes. “The Shooting Review Board is coming up in a couple of days. Kissler had to meet with the shrink. It turns out that he may have been trying to make an impression on you when he shot Brenner.”
There was a moment of silence. Rossi broke it. Her voice had a steely quality. “Let me see if I understand. Kissler wants to get in my pants, so he shoots someone, and I get the boot.”
“No” Haxton said emphatically, “it isn’t like that. A number of factors came into play and Kevin was one of them. This is a good opportunity, a case where they really need your help, and you can make a difference.”
Theel nodded. His concern was plain to see. “Amy’s right, Christina. We need you on the case. You won’t be sorry.”
Rossi looked from one superior to the other. “The case…what is it?
“We call it SNAKE EYE,” Haxton answered.
“Which refers to?”
“Which refers to the people who specialize in bringing illegal aliens into the country from Asia,” Theel replied soberly. “A slimy bunch commonly referred to as snakeheads.”
“Except that you’re going to be part of an interagency team going af
ter the snakehead,” Haxton put in. “A naturalized citizen named Sam Chow.”
Rossi frowned. “The guy who funds the big New Year’s Eve fireworks display every year?”
“That’s the one,” Theel acknowledged. “He also owns a trucking line, a fishing fleet, and a lot of real estate. The problem is that his other business activities aren’t so pretty. Like human trafficking, extortion, and murder.”
“Okay,” Rossi said as she came to her feet. “Is there anything else?”
Theel looked at Haxton and back again. “No, I guess there isn’t. I’ll put you in touch with your team leader tomorrow morning.”
“Understood,” Rossi said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The other agents watched her leave. “So,” Haxton said brightly, “that went well, don’t you think?”
Theel tried to come up with a tactful response and failed. He rose from the couch. “Amy, for an intelligent woman, you sure are stupid sometimes.” And with that he left the room.
Rossi made her way to her cubicle, retrieved her things, and headed for the elevators. Other people were in the area but none of them yelled insults from the far side of the office or ran up to ask questions as they usually did. That was because word of Rossi’s reassignment had already spread, and being unsure of how she would react, her peers were laying low. The elevator bonged, the agent entered, and the door closed. And how am I going to react to the assignment? Rossi asked herself as the car began to descend.
In spite of Haxton and Theel’s best efforts to make the SNAKE EYE case sound important, it probably wasn’t. Not compared to ECODOOM. But so what? People received new assignments every day. Some of them were happy and some weren’t. They managed to deal with it and so would she.
The agent continued to think about the situation as she entered the garage and got into her car. Here was the sort of thing that she and Ed would have spent hours discussing back when their relationship was intact. And that was what she missed most, having someone to share things with, someone who cared. The FBI agent was still making her way through downtown traffic when her cell phone chirped. She picked it up. “Rossi here.”
There was a moment of silence followed by the sound of screams and gunshots. It was confusing as first, then the FBI agent recognized the sounds and knew she was listening to audio from the shootout at the University of Washington. There was an audible click as the recording ended followed by the sound of dial-tone. She might be finished with the ELA—but it seemed as if they weren’t done with her.
Dexter s office was located just off the brand new lobby. It consisted of a small waiting area, a desk for the secretary/receptionist that he hadn’t hired yet, and a glassed-in area for himself. With his back to some nearly empty bookcases and a custom-made credenza, he could look across the surface of his gleaming rosewood desk to a pair of very expensive guest chairs and the window beyond. The blinds were open, which meant that he could see out onto the street where pedestrians battled a stiff breeze. Most were dressed in brightly colored REI parkas, heavy overcoats, and puffy ski jackets. Not a good time of year for girl watching.
The door to the outer office sung open, but rather than one of the tenants, the man who entered was Dexter’s only employee. His name was Pasco, John Pasco, and his job was to keep the newly remodeled building in tip-top shape. The retired chief petty officer had silvery hair, a matching mustache, and wore khakis similar to those he had been required to wear in the Navy. The noncom had been in charge of maintenance for an entire hospital prior to wrapping up his twenty five-year career—which meant he had more than enough expertise to keep the Bayview Apartment complex going.
The problem, if there was one, had to do with Pasco’s personality. He was rarely seen without a cell phone nestled next to his ear and had an unfortunate tendency to be both evasive and nosy. Or were such judgments premature? Good maintenance people were hard to find—and it would be best to wait and see. Pasco had just completed a telephone conversation as he entered the inner office. He flipped the phone closed and returned the device to his belt with all the panache of a gunfighter returning his pistol to its holster. The chair sighed as it accepted his weight. Dexter nodded. “Good afternoon, Chief…How’s it going?”
In spite of repeated invitations to address his employer by his first name, Pasco insisted on calling the ex-officer “sir.” His eyes made contact with Dexter’s and slid away. “Pretty well, sir. The plumbing contractor is here…and he needs access to 6A.”
Up until that point Dexter had insisted on letting workmen into 6A himself, lest someone accidentally discover the two-way mirror, but that was silly. The only way to access the other side was via the closet off his bedroom. And, judging from the other man’s demeanor, Pasco was getting curious. The maintenance man had keys to all die other units…What made 6A so special?
Dexter opened a side drawer and rummaged through a box of carefully tagged keys. “Here,” the businessman said, as he slid a key across the surface of his desk. “Add this to your collection.”
Pasco looked slightly surprised, as if he expected some resistance, but was quick to recover. “Yes, sir. Can I meet with you later? I have invoices for you to sign.”
The outer door opened to admit an Asian couple. Dexter nodded. “Sure, chief…How does fourteen hundred sound?”
That’ll be fine, sir,” the retired petty officer said, and turned to leave.
Dexter was on his feet by then and followed Pasco out to meet his prospective tenants. The man was tall, well put together, and wore casual clothes—expensive stuff that the ex-naval officer would never have been willing to try on much less buy. The woman looked younger, wore very little for such a cold winter day, and could only be described as beautiful. A quality that made her perfect for the viewing room. “Hello!” Dexter said as he extended his hand. “My name is Jack Dexter. I own the Bayview.”
“Chow,” the other man responded economically, giving the businessman’s hand a single rather unenthusiastic pump. “Joe Chow.”
The name was delivered with a very slight emphasis—as if Dexter should be familiar with it. The ex-naval officer wasn’t but that didn’t stop him from pretending to be. “Yes! Of course! You’re here to look at unit 6A.”
Since Chow hadn’t seen fit to introduce his beautiful companion Dexter assumed they weren’t married. Even though she was dressed like a street whore the woman was surprisingly asexual. The businessman thought it best to be courteous and extended his hand. “I’m Jack Dexter, and you are?”
“She doesn’t speak English,” Chow stated brusquely.
“Yes, well, please take a seat,” Dexter responded awkwardly. “I have some literature for you to take a look at…plus a lease if you’re interested.”
Both guests had taken their seats by the time Dexter made it around to the other side of the desk. The woman lit a cigarette, only to have it appropriated by Chow, forcing her to light another. Dexter didn’t like smokers, but knew $2,500 per month was steep, and that people with that sort of money didn’t want to hear the word “no.” He opened a drawer, removed the candy dish that he’d been meaning to fill, and pushed it across the desk.
The girl’s skirt was so short that it barely hit mid-thigh when she was standing and went even higher when she sat. The ex-officer caught a glimpse of red panties as she crossed her legs and looked up to discover that Chow was grinning. “She looks good, doesn’t she?” the snakehead observed.
It was a strange thing to say, and since the girl’s expression remained the same, Dexter assumed that she hadn’t understood. “Yes,” the ex-naval officer admitted uncomfortably, “she does. Here’s a copy of the floor plan, a copy of our standard lease, and a list of the building’s amenities. We have underground parking by the way—that’s a big plus downtown.”
Chow exhaled a column of smoke but left the paperwork untouched. “No offense—but why stare at a floor plan if we can see the apartment?”
“Why indeed,” Dexter said agreeably. “
Let’s go up and take a look.”
The businessman followed his prospective tenants out into the lobby and pushed the elevator button. There was a chime as the polished metal doors parted. “It requires a key card to enter the building after 6:00 p.m.,” Dexter explained. “And you need the same device to operate the elevator. We have cameras on every floor—and they are monitored around the clock.”
“That’s good,” Chow allowed, as he dropped his cigarette onto the elevator’s highly polished floor and stepped on it. “We had a burglary at my present apartment. They broke the door down…. We’re looking for something more secure.”
“You won’t have that sort of problem here,” Dexter assured him. “Our doors are made of metal—and they’re fireproof to boot.”
Chow uttered what might have been a grunt of approval as the elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors parted to reveal a marble-topped table that bore a handsome flower arrangement. The snakehead exited first, followed by Ling, and then Dexter. While it was true that the young woman’s knowledge of English was less than perfect, she had been honing her linguistic skills by watching daytime television, and was momentarily hopeful. Ling hated the Chinatown apartment and hoped Chow would move into something better.
Two doors were visible—one at each end of the short hall. “That’s 6A,” Dexter said, pointing to the right. “It has a wonderful view of the bay.”
“Who lives in the other apartment?” Chow wanted to know.
“I do,” the businessman replied, “which means that the person who takes 6A will have a good neighbor.”
It was meant to be a joke but Chow didn’t laugh as he allowed himself to be ushered into the apartment where Pasco and a plumber were hard at work in the kitchen. It featured top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, dark granite counters, and maple cabinets. The first Instahot water heater had broken down within a matter of days so a second unit was being installed. “We’re still adding a few finishing touches,” Dexter explained, “but the apartment will be available by Friday.”
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