Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  “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.

  But such considerations would have to wait. The first thing Pasco wanted to do was to exit Dexter’s apartment before the ex-SEAL returned. Because even though he had sufficient leverage to prevent the businessman from calling the police, the ex-CPO wanted to occupy the psychological high ground when the confrontation took place. With that in mind Pasco withdrew, closed the panel behind him, and pulled the clothes back into place. Three minutes later the maintenance man was in the elevator and on his way down. Mrs. Tepper entered the car on four, nodded politely, and wondered why Pasco looked so happy.

  Had there been someone there to see it, and missed the blood-matted white hair on the back of Mrs. Pello’s skull, they might have assumed that the elderly woman had simply fallen asleep in her rocking chair. But the eighty-six-year Block Watch Captain and mother of three was starting to smell. And that made sense because it was warm inside her Craftsman-style home—and she’d been dead for more than twenty-four hours.

  Lopa didn’t like the odor of rotting flesh and wanted to move the corpse down into the basement, but Eason wouldn’t have it. The assassin thought the three-person tableau was hilarious. He delighted in addressing comments to the deceased woman and didn’t seem to possess a sense of smell, all of which served to confirm what Lopa should have known all along: Eason was crazy.

  Mrs. Pello had been responsible for her own death. That’s the way the eco-terrorist saw it anyway, since the old biddy not only insisted on watching everything that went on in the neighborhood through a pair of antique opera glasses, but occasionally went out onto her porch for a better angle.

  And it had been then, while staring at the white van, that the nosy bitch attracted Eason’s attention. It took less than fifteen minutes to drive around the end of the block, cruise up the alley, and pull into the empty slot next to Mrs. Pello’s 1986 Dodge Diplomat. Then, with the surety of someone on a legitimate errand, the assassin walked up to the backdoor and knocked.

  There was a prolonged period of fumbling while the old lady undid all three of the locks that protected the rear entrance of her home and opened the door. Only nice people knock—or so she assumed. Eason smiled pleasantly, stepped inside, and whacked Pello on the head. Then, having carried the frail body into the living room, the assassin insisted on posing the corpse in front of the television.

  All of which struck Lopa as unnecessary, until police cars began to cruise by on a regular basis, and it became obvious that Mrs. Pello had reported his van. Still, justified or not, the murder posed a problem. Judging from all the photos ranked on top of her pump organ, Mrs. Pello had a lot of friends and relatives, any one of whom could walk up and knock at the door. With that in mind, both men agreed that it would be stupid to wait any longer. The results of their research were clear: The best place to hit Rossi was in her home—and the best time to do it was at night.

  “Take a look at this,” Eason suggested, as he peered through the antique binoculars. “Rossi has a boyfriend.”

  Lopa stepped up to the lace curtains, accepted the opera glasses, and brought them up to his eyes. It was dark outside but the combination of streetlamps and Christmas lights provided plenty of illumination as a man with a bouquet of roses climbed the stairs to Rossis porch. “Damn,” Lopa said disappointedly. “There goes our plan.”

  “Really?” Eason countered. “Why do you say that? If the boyfriend leaves before midnight he lives. Otherwise we cap him too. A second body would help to confuse the cops.”

  The plan made sense and Lopa said as much. “Good,” Eason replied as he returned to the burgundy-colored couch and patted the worn spot where Mr. Pello had once spent his evenings. “Take a load off. The three of us will watch TV and have a bite to eat. I don’t know about you—but Mrs. Pello and I are getting hungry.”

  Lopa looked at Mrs. Pello and felt nauseous, but he needed Eason, for the next few hours at least, so he forced a smile. “Sure, that sounds good.”

  There was something about dying, about feeling his lifeforce start to leak out of his body, which granted Eason a nearly miraculous ability to access the minds of those around him. That’s how the assassin knew that the eco-terrorist would attempt to kill him. Eason felt the couch cushions give as Lopa sat down. He lifted the remote and began to click through the channels. There were at least eighty of them—but Eason knew it would be hard to find something that all three of them liked.

  Rossi was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” Missy yelled, and was already pulling the front door open when the FBI agent made her way out into the small living room. She had cleaned the house in honor of Dexter’s visit, and added more Christmas decorations, but knew the interior fell well short of the expensive decor that her guest was used to. Not that it made a heck of a lot of difference, since the whole purpose of inviting the ex-SEAL over was to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to spend any more time with him, not until the Chow investigation was complete, and that would take months if not more. Yes, Dexter could wait if he wanted to, but how likely was that? Not very, which was why Rossi had already begun the process of sealing what she felt for him into an emotional box as she headed for the door.

  “Hi!” Missy said, as she opened the door and spotted the red roses. “Are those for my mother?”

  “Yes,” Dexter responded. “They are. Except for this one…which is for you!’

  Rossi watched her daughter accept the single yellow rose and felt a sense of warmth. It was a thoughtful gesture, which made her task that much more difficult. “Look, Mom,” Missy said. “I got one, too!”

  “Yes, you did,” Rossi said as she came forward to receive her roses and a kiss on the cheek. “Dex, this is my daughter Missy.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the ex-SEAL said gravely, as he extended his hand. He noticed that the little girl had her mother’s dark brown hair and big brown eyes but a slightly rounder chin. Dexter was impressed by the youngster s firm handshake.

  “Glad to meet you,” Missy said formally. “And thanks for the rose.”

  “Why don’t you put it in a vase?” Rossi suggested. “You can take it home with you.”

  “Okay!” the ten-year-old said brightly, and
departed for the kitchen still clutching her prize.

  “Her step-mom is going to pick her up in half an hour,” Rossi explained. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  Dexter indicated that he would, accepted the seat that Rossi offered, and took a moment to survey his surroundings. Something smelled good. As with the interior of her car, the living room spoke volumes about the other Rossi, the one who liked over-stuffed furniture, owned mismatched bookcases filled with worn paperbacks, and was reluctant to dispose of Missy’s old artwork.

  “Here you go,” Rossi said, as she handed Dexter a glass of chilled wine. “It should have been red, since we’re having lasagna for dinner, but I forgot to buy any.”

  “No problem,” Dexter responded easily. “I like white wine better anyway.”

  Rossi sat down on the other end of the couch and the twosome chatted until a horn sounded and Missy peered out through the front window. “Vanessa’s here!” she announced, and went to find her belongings.

  It took the better part of five minutes to cram everything back into the little girl’s backpack, get her coat on, and see her out onto the porch. Meanwhile, on the other side of the street, Eason peeked between Mrs. Pello’s lace curtains. He was holding a peanut butter and jam sandwich in one hand and the opera glasses in the other. “There she is,” the assassin said, as he watched the FBI agent appear in the brightly lit doorway. “Too bad I don’t have a rifle. I could pop the bitch from here.”

  “Yeah,” Lopa agreed from his place on the couch. “What about the man? Is he leaving too?”

  “Nope,” Eason said with his mouth full. “Too bad for him.”

  “Yeah,” the eco-terrorist agreed, and turned back to the only program that the three of them had been able to agree on: The Forensic Files.

  Rossi waved goodbye. Then, cognizant of Theel’s warning, the FBI agent took a moment to scan the street. There were cars, lots of them, but no white vans. Satisfied that all was well she reentered the house.