Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Pasco unlocked his office, put the toolbox away, and went over to his scrupulously tidy desk. One of his many duties, and the one that he enjoyed the most, was to monitor the building’s security system—a task that not only gave him an excuse to watch the residents but Mr. High and Mighty Jack Dexter, too.

  Pasco didn’t like the Dexters of the world and never had. It was his opinion that while piss ant officers strut around, giving mostly meaningless orders, it’s the professional NCOs who actually run the Navy, Army, Marine Corps, and Air Force. So, given the fact that Dexter had not only been an officer, but a SEAL officer, Pasco felt nothing but resentment for him, an emotion made all the more intense by the fact that the businessman came across as aloof, standoffish, and secretive—especially where his apartment was concerned. Because while the maintenance man had been given keys for all the rest of the units, 6B was the single exception—a fact that not only hurt Pasco’s feelings, but limited the opportunities for petty thievery and served to stimulate his curiosity.

  That was why Pasco not only kept an eye on the monitors located on the wall opposite his desk, but reviewed the security recordings after each absence and kept an eye peeled for Dexter. As the maintenance man opened his lunch bucket and removed a thick, meatloaf sandwich, he hit fast forward. Mrs. Tepper ran out of the building, a Fed-Ex delivery man ran in, and relatives of the couple in 2B seemed to jog through the parking area—all of which was not only boring, but not worth so much as a momentary pause.

  That was when two men carrying what looked like identical hard-sided sample cases arrived in the lobby, where they were met by Jack Dexter and escorted up to 6A. This during a time when Chow and his bodyguards were elsewhere.

  Pasco hit “Stop,” followed by “Play,” and waited to see what would happen next. The answer was nothing. Then, exactly twenty-six minutes later, the threesome emerged.

  The question was why? The men weren’t there to see Chow, and Pasco would have been notified had there been some sort of maintenance problem, so what did that leave? Nothing in so far as the ex-chief could tell—and that piqued his curiosity.

  A tour of Chow’s apartment was in order—followed by a visit to Dexter’s. But how to enter? The maintenance man took a bite, chased the meatloaf with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee, and stared into space. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” That’s what Pasco’s mother liked to say—and it was his experience that she was always right.

  The maintenance man’s cell phone started to play “Anchors Aweigh,” he flipped it open and said, “Pasco here.” Strangely, as if the old woman had the capacity to pick up on her son’s thoughts, the person on the other end was none other than Pasco’s mother.

  It was already dark as Rossi left home, and the fact that hers was the only house on the street that didn’t boast any Christmas lights made her feel guilty. Especially since Missy loved the holidays, the much-delayed sleepover was coming up, and lights were part of the package. But that was for tomorrow, or if not tomorrow then soon. Tonight she was going out on a date. And not just any date, but the first one in five months, and with a guy who wasn’t living with his mother, cheating on his wife, or in rehab.

  Not only that, Rossi thought as she entered her car, but Dex was clearly intelligent, funny, and something else. Cautious? Yes. Scared? Yes. Sad? Definitely. All of which were emotions that the FBI agent could relate to.

  The non-descript white van had been sitting there for hours. Eason and Lopa watched the five-year-old Maxima pull away from the curb and waited for it to get halfway down the block before pulling out to follow.

  The evening rush was over, and traffic was relatively light as Rossi made her way across the Aurora bridge into downtown Seattle. She was running late, so rather than look for on-street parking, the agent pulled up directly in front of the Metropolitan Grill and got out. She gave the parking attendant a dollar along with her keys, wondered if that was enough, and fumbled through her purse for more while he drove away.

  The FBI agent turned toward the door, which opened as if by magic. Once inside she found herself in an orderly universe of dark wood, glittering glass, and white linen. The steady rumble of conversation was punctuated by an occasional burst of laughter, the continual clink of glassware, and a round of applause as the people in the bar celebrated a successful free-throw.

  Rossi had just stepped up to the podium-like structure that served to separate the man in the black suit from his guests, and was about to ask if Dexter had arrived when the maitre d’ spoke first. “Ms. Rossi? Welcome to the Metropolitan Grill.”

  The agent must have looked surprised—because the maitre d’ smiled. “Mr. Dexter told me to expect a beautiful brunette. And, as it happens, a rather well-known FBI agent. Please follow Kim.”

  Rossi felt pleased, embarrassed, and suspicious all at once. Was the compliment for real? Or part of a well-conceived plan to get her into bed? And what if it was? Other people had sex—why couldn’t she? Because he’s a witness, she told herself, or could be. Why are you here?

  The question was left unanswered as Rossi was led back between tightly packed booths to a linen-covered table. Dexter stood as the FBI agent approached, smiled, and kissed her cheek. “You look wonderful,” he said sincerely. “May I take your coat?”

  Rossi surrendered her coat. The sleek black St. John’s dress she wore had a V-shaped neckline, was cut in at the waist, and clung to her hips. Gold earrings, a gold necklace, and a diamond dinner ring served to complete the outfit. “Sorry I’m late,” Rossi said, as she slid into the booth, “but I have a lot of excuses.”

  “Excellent!” Dexter replied cheerfully. “I love a good excuse. But first, how about something to drink?”

  After they ordered drinks, Rossi told the businessman about her trip to Port Angeles and was surprised to find that the businessman was interested. It turned out that Dexter had been a certified SCUBA diver before he joined the Navy and knew the San Juan islands well. After Rossi told him about the body, and where it came ashore, he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that makes sense. If he jumped in the shipping channel, and died of hypothermia, the body would wash up on that stretch of coastline. But, assuming there were other illegals, what happened to them?”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Rossi replied, before skillfully turning the conversation away from the investigation and back to her dinner companion.

  The meal went well, or that’s what Dexter thought anyway, which gave him the courage to pop the question. “So, tell me,” the businessman said as their plates were being removed from the table. “Are you armed?”

  One of Rossi’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Yes…Why? Do you want me to shoot the waiter?”

  “No,” Dexter replied lightly. “The service was excellent. However, given the fact that you are carrying a gun, and are therefore prepared to defend yourself, I wondered if you would be willing to have dessert at my apartment. The view is excellent—especially at night.”

  Rossi had enjoyed the conversation, the dinner, and Dexter’s company. But who was he really? One way to find out was to see the inside of Dexter’s apartment. She smiled. “Sure. That sounds like fun.”

  Dexter paid the bill, and having come by cab, accepted Rossi’s offer of a ride. Rather than a by-the-book FBI agent it seemed as if the Maxima belonged to someone else. The center console was home to a couple of half-empty Starbucks cups. A pair of little-girl-sized gym shoes lay next to the businessman’s feet and a stack of dirty clothes occupied half the backseat. “I’ve got to get to the dry cleaners,” the FBI agent said apologetically. “There’s never enough time.”

  Dexter agreed, but knew he was lying, because he had plenty of time. Too much time—most of which was spent by himself. The businessman directed Rossi into the private parking area beneath his building, gave her his key card so she could operate the gate, and guided the agent into one of four visitor slots.

  They got out, walked past the empty slot where Joe Chow kept his
Hummer, and entered the elevator. Five minutes later they were upstairs in Dexter’s apartment. “Take a look around,” the ex-naval officer suggested, “while I make dessert.”

  Rossi surrendered her coat, and left her purse on a small table inside of the front door. She followed a short hall out into a generously proportioned living room that featured high ceilings, pale yellow walls, and gleaming hardwood floors. It was not only nicely furnished but carefully conceived. It wasn’t clear whether Dexter had decorated the place himself or hired someone to do it, but it spoke to his taste either way. And in spite of the black and white photos of Navy SEAL teams and the framed medals that hung on one of the walls, the room came across as masculine rather than macho. An important distinction.

  Then there was the view of downtown Seattle. The high-rise residential buildings were closest, while a concrete forest of hotels and office buildings lay beyond, some of which were draped with Christmas lights. It was all part of an unintended light show that filled the big picture window.

  The bay, which was off to the right, was less spectacular at night, but still worth a look as Rossi stepped up to the tripod-mounted telescope that stood poised in front of the window. As the agent peered through the eyepiece she discovered that rather than being focused on Elliott Bay as she expected it to be, the Nikon was lined up on a high-rise apartment building. Not only that, but on a well-lit living room where a young woman could be seen sitting on her couch. She was fully dressed, but it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to realize that there were times when she wasn’t, and Rossi was still processing that fact when Dexter entered the room.

  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.

  Chapter Five

  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 int
o 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.”