“That would be lovely,” Detective Tolley observed. “So, why do I have a feeling that it isn’t going to happen?”
“Because it isn’t,” Hawkins answered somberly. “Not yet anyway. And here’s the problem. As many of you know, Inez and Rossi conducted an interview with a knife-wielding gentlemen by the name of Hector Battoon. He claims that the body that came ashore near Port Angeles originated from a vessel named the South Wind. Which, according to him, took on ten illegals in Hong Kong. But that isn’t the worst of it. The concept of bringing illegals in by sea is hardly new, but most of the people who come in that way are caught soon after they arrive, and the other nine haven’t been. Not so far at any rate, and we don’t have any idea how many more may have arrived before the South Wind shipment, or since. And that’s in spite of redoubling our efforts to find out what’s going on.”
“Okay,” Olman agreed, “but why wait? If you arrest Chow he might be willing to cut a deal.”
“Most people would,” Hawkins replied. “Especially if they were facing murder charges. But Little Chow is likely to be the exception. He was raised to be a criminal, and while there is friction between Joe and his father, we believe they remain loyal to each other nevertheless. The same goes for the Chow family foot soldiers—only more so, since they know that some very bad things could happen to them and their families should they cooperate with authorities. And the stakes are very, very, high. This is more than an immigration issue. There are some very dangerous people who would like to enter the United States—and they have no intention of slaving away in a sweatshop. What if the Chows brought in members of Al Qaida or a similar group via their pipeline? The results could be disastrous. Amy? Would you like to comment on that?”
Haxton remembered her last phone call with Demont, a rather onesided exchange in which the administrator had been careful to offer “suggestions” rather than orders, so that both he and his career would be well-insulated should the SNAKE EYE case go critical. She manufactured a smile. “I think you summarized the situation rather well. The folks in the Department of Homeland Security are concerned that terrorists might take advantage of this particular vulnerability. And, because of that, they want us to figure out how the pipeline works before we shut it down.”
Rossi looked skeptical. “And if Little Chow decides to shoot some regular citizens? What then?”
Haxton sighed. “Then we’ll be sorry. Very sorry.”
“But that’s if things go wrong,” Hawkins commented. “And it’s our job to make sure that they don’t. And we have some new leads. A woman named Letisha Jones was with Pong’s mother when she came in to ID the body. She described herself as a ‘friend,’ but we have it on good authority that she had been one of Pong’s customers, and was his mistress when he died. That raises the question of what, if anything, does she know? I would like Rossi and Inez to follow up on that.”
Both agents nodded. The meeting continued for another hour. Once it was over, Rossi followed Theel and Haxton out into the rain. “So,” Theel said as he held the door for her. “What do you think?”
Rossi thought about the recordings she had listened to over the last couple of weeks. It was pretty clear that Chow was a sadist, if not a psychopath, and very unstable. His father had been able to hold him in check—but for how long? “I think Chow is a grenade,” she answered. “If someone or something pulls the pin he’ll go off. Shrapnel will fly in every direction and people will get hurt.”
“Yeah,” Theel agreed soberly. “It won’t be pretty.”
Haxton looked from one agent to the other and made a wry face. “Thanks. No wonder I have an ulcer. I work with two prophets of doom. Come on, let’s find some lunch.”
It was night, but many predators love the night, and Dexter was no exception as he parked his SUV on the gently winding street and killed the lights. Cars passed on a regular basis, but no one took notice of the 4-Runner, nor was there any reason to. The north slope of Capital Hill was a desirable area and nice cars were the norm. The houses to his right were perched on top of the steep slope and looked out over Portage Bay, which was part of the passageway that linked Lake Union to Lake Washington.
The businessman waited for traffic to clear, got out of the truck, and went around back. Had anyone been paying attention they might have noticed that he was wearing a black jacket, black Levis, and black boots. He pulled the long, soft-sided case out of the rear cargo compartment, brought the hatch down, and touched the remote. Lights flashed and the SUV was locked. Then, walking with the assurance of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, the ex-SEAL faded into the night.
Even though a number of houses had been constructed along the street, there were a number of areas where the clay soil was subject to slippage, and people couldn’t get permits. Having scouted the area two days earlier Dexter knew that one such lot lay directly above his target. That was the good news. The bad news was that good though his prosthesis was, it lacked the flexibility of the original limb, and the steep decent would be difficult. And, due to the fact that it was a hassle to get footwear on and off the artificial leg, he was wearing street shoes, an additional handicap that he now regretted.
Clumps of maple trees dominated the hillside, along with large patches of ivy and isolated bushes. The ex-SEAL had slung the case across his back by then, and a good thing, too, since both hands were required in order to secure temporary grips on the smaller tree trunks, which served to slow him down. Dexter instinctively placed his good leg in next to the hill. A series of small jumps took him steadily downwards. But there was a lot of loose material on the slope, including construction debris that had been dumped there, and it wasn’t long before the ex-naval officer landed on some loose boards. They slid. Dexter lost his balance, and fell. He landed on his butt, skidded for a ways, and collided with a half-rotten stump. The impact hurt, but the pulpy wood was softer than a tree trunk would have been, and brought the slide to an end. The ex-SEAL ignored the pain as he eyed the dwelling below.
John Pasco was a man of habit, and habits get you killed. That was just one of the many pearls of wisdom that Dexter had acquired during his years as a special ops warrior. But the saying was true, since habits made people predictable, and predictable people are easy to hit. Very easy, Dexter thought to himself as he eased his way further down the hill and settled in behind some bushes.
The house nestled into the hillside below him was listed on the tax rolls as belonging to Helen Pasco, John Pasco’s mother, who was still part of his life on Thursdays at any rate, when the retired CPO came over for dinner and she took care of his laundry. The kitchen had windows. The blinds were up and the pair of them were seated across from each other eating. That made them targets, easy targets, that any half-competent marksman could hit. And Dexter was a lot better than that.
The businessman unzipped the case, removed the bolt-action rifle, and screwed the homemade silencer onto the carefully threaded barrel. Not the sort of thing that most people could fabricate—but the ex-naval officer wasn’t most people. He placed the rifle across a convenient limb, brought the Leupold scope up to his eye, and panned the target. The old woman and the middle-aged man were talking at the moment, profiles exposed, with the light behind them. Pasco pretty much deserved to die—but the only crime the old woman had committed was raising a scumbag. Shooting Helen Pasco still made sense though. She would call the police if he didn’t, and given the amount of time it would take the ex-naval officer to climb the hill, the cops would arrive before he could reach the Toyota.
Besides, Dexter thought to himself, Pasco is a dumb fuck. He figured I might come for him, but it never occurred to the stupid bastard that I might kill his mother, too. That would give me plenty of time to combine my closet with the viewing room before the estate goes through probate and some relative opens the box. Then, once the police come by, I’ll open the apartment for inspection. They won’t find a thing. End of story.
Confident that the plan would work, Dext
er worked the bolt and swung the crosshairs onto Pasco. The first shot would break the glass and might even hit the target. The second would kill the ex-chief petty officer if the first didn’t. With him out of the way Helen Pasco would be easy.
Dexter lifted the weapon in order to get a more comfortable grip and brought it back down again. The rifle had been inherited from a long-dead uncle who bought it used. That meant the long gun couldn’t be traced to him unless he left fingerprints or DNA on it. Mistakes he didn’t plan to make.
The trigger mechanism was too stiff for Dexter’s liking, but not worth fussing over since the businessman planned to dispose of the weapon immediately after the hit. As the crosshairs settled over Pasco’s left temple, the unsuspecting ex-NCO took a big bite of mashed potatoes. The trigger was stiff, but eventually gave, and there was a click as the firing pin hit an empty chamber. The ex-SEAL whispered, “Gotcha!” but it wasn’t true. Not really, since in all truth it was Pasco who had him, and by the balls at that.
Which brought Dexter back to the situation at hand. Should he reach into his pocket, remove the necessary rounds of ammunition, and load the rifle? Or haul his ass back up the hill? The internal debate lasted for a good three minutes, but when it was over, the ammo remained where it was.
It took the better part of an hour for Dexter to work his way up the street above, wait for a break in the traffic, and aim the remote at the 4-Runner. The lights flashed as he crossed the open area, opened the rear hatch, and eased the case into the back. The businessman drove away two minutes later. The Pasco problem remained, but he hadn’t made it any worse, and there was reason to hope. If he did all the right things, if he found a way to put the wrong things right, maybe God, the fates, or good karma would allow him be with Rossi. The hope of that, the possibility of that, put a smile on his face.
Chapter Seven
The temperature had dropped well below freezing the night before, which meant that the entire cemetery was covered with a layer of frost. That, plus a ground-hugging layer of ectoplasmic mist combined to create a sense of other-worldliness as Rossi steered her car through a series of gentle curves and marveled at how many markers there were. Not just hundreds, but thousands, each signifying a life lived. She wasn’t old, not yet, but the seemingly endless rows of headstones served to remind the FBI agent that she wasn’t getting any younger either.
“It kind of brings you down, doesn’t it?”
Rossi glanced at Inez and nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
The ICE agent examined the map on her lap. “Take the next right…and watch for the canopy.”
Rossi did as she was told. Where was her last will and testament anyway? In her desk at home? Or the beat-up suitcase in her closet? It hadn’t been updated in quite a while, not since the divorce, and probably should be. Missy was older now—and there was college to consider. And what about Dexter? No, the FBI agent told herself, it’s too early to even think about that.
“I want to be cremated,” Inez said, as she peered out through the half-fogged window. “My family has instructions to scatter my ashes in Nordstrom’s.”
Rossi laughed out loud. She had never been teamed with a female agent before—and the more time she spent with Inez, the better she liked the woman. “In Point of View or Lingerie?”
“Neither one,” the ICE agent replied. “I have a thing for shoes.”
“There it is,” Rossi said. “Up on the right. Just past those cars.”
Inez looked and saw that the FBI agent was correct. Mo Pong had been in charge of the triads who had been slaughtered up in the mountains and his tomb was commensurate with his rank. It stood about six-feet high, was made of highly polished granite, and clearly weighed a couple of tons. “That’s a lot of monument for a drug dealer,” Rossi observed, as she pulled over to the curb. “Especially one who pulls such a small group of mourners.”
“Yeah,” the ICE agent agreed. “But it makes sense. You can bet that Pong’s triad paid for the monument, both as a sign of their respect, and as a way to recruit new gang members. Yeah, it’s a strange incentive plan by our standards, but their employees like it. As for the mourners, don’t be fooled. A lot of Pong’s friends are wanted, so they can’t attend, but a banquet will be held somewhere in Seattle or Vancouver.”
Rossi turned off the engine. “How come you know all this stuff?”
“The DEA folks deal with them, too, but ICE bumps up against the triads on a regular basis, so you learn things,” Inez said modestly.
“Good. Maybe you can teach me how to use chopsticks,” Rossi replied, as she got out of the car. “Lord knows I need the help.”
The grass was short. The frost made it slippery and both agents were wearing pumps. But, by watching where they placed their feet, both women were able to reach the top of the slope without falling. To justify their presence the agents went to a neighboring grave. Rossi had purchased some flowers, which she lay next to a weather-worn headstone.
Now that she was closer, Inez could see that Pong’s box-shaped tomb was supported by four well-carved tortoises, each of which symbolized immortality and life after death. At least thirty wreaths, each representing one of the deceased’s relatives, friends, or associates, had been hung around the sides of the stone container, as if to embrace it. Six mourners were present, and thanks to the description that Hawk had provided, Rossi recognized Letisha Jones. She had coffee-colored skin, and a truly massive bosom. She wore a long fur coat, an above-the knee black skirt, and a pair of shiny patent leather boots. An Asian woman stood next to her. Pong’s mother perhaps? Yes, the FBI agent thought so.
The service was in Chinese but the mother’s grief didn’t require translation. Jones bent over, as if to whisper a few words of comfort, as she took Mrs. Pong’s arm. Both women went forward to place flowers on the tomb.
Satisfied that they had accomplished their mission, the agents went back to their vehicle. They were pulling away from the curb when a forlorn looking six-man band appeared ahead of them and a rhythmic Thump! Thump! Thump! was heard.
The musicians wore black bowlers, black overcoats, and represented a variety of ethnicities. The music had a discordant quality, to Rossi’s ears at least, and seemed to have three distinct components: The steady Thump! Thump! Thump! of drums, a sort of bleating sound that was reminiscent of bagpipes, and the occasional seemingly random blare of horns. “Don’t tell me,” the FBI agent said as the car passed the men. “The burial plan includes a band.”
“Bands are a regular part of Chinese funerals.” Inez confirmed.
“Terrific,” Rossi replied sarcastically as the band fell away behind them. “Let’s hope they have one waiting for Pong when he arrives in Hell.”
Letisha Jones was living in the house that she shared with Pong prior to his death. It was located in the Central District (CD). Not the part that was increasingly gentrified, but the area to the south, which had long been plagued by a high crime rate. It was dark by the time Rossi and Inez entered the neighborhood. Rather than drive the Crown Vic, which looked like the cop car that it was, Rossi was behind the wheel of her Maxima.
“There it is,” Inez commented, as the car rolled past a two-story frame house. “The one that doesn’t have any Christmas lights.”
The FBI agent nodded, saw a parking spot, and pulled in behind a decrepit pick-up truck. The outside air was cold, and Rossi’s breath was visible as she followed the broken sidewalk. A narrow path led up to the house. A pair of very aggressive pit bulls charged the cyclone fencing to the right of the house and barked madly as the agents made their way up concrete steps and onto the front porch. A rotting couch sat to the left of the door next to a broken bicycle. As the FBI agent knocked on the door she noticed that iron bars covered the windows. A must-have for drug dealers and regular citizens alike.
The agent heard the sound of footsteps, followed by a moment of silence, and knew she was being eyeballed via the peephole. Finally locks rattled, the door swung open, and Letisha Jones pe
ered out at them. She wore a pink turban, pink bathrobe, and matching flip-flops. Her manner was belligerent. “Didn’t I see you two at the cemetery?”
Rossi nodded. “Yes, you did.” “So you’re cops,” Jones concluded contemptuously.
“My name is Christina Rossi, and I’m with the FBI,” the agent replied, and held her credentials up for Jones to see. “This is Olivia Inez. She’s with ICE.”
Jones looked from one agent to the other. “So,” she said, “what you want with me? I ain’t done nothing.”
“That’s true,” Inez replied soothingly. “If you don’t count possession of crack cocaine, shoplifting, and prostitution. So, given that you’re such a good citizen, I’m sure we can count on your help. May we come in?”
Though not thrilled with the idea Jones knew that it wasn’t a good idea to talk with the police out where everyone could see. She stepped to one side. “Yeah…You can come in. Watch your step though. One of the dogs crapped on the floor and I ain’t had time to clean it up. There ain’t no dope in the house if that’s what you’re after.”
Once in the hallway there was no invitation to go further so the agents stopped where they were. “We’re glad to hear that,” Rossi replied. “But that isn’t why we came. It’s like Agent Inez said, we could use your help.”
“What kind of help?” Jones inquired suspiciously.
“Mr. Pong was murdered,” Rossi replied. “As were a number of his associates. We’re looking for the people who did it.”
“Really?” Jones asked skeptically. “Why? He was a drug dealer.” “That’s true,” Inez put in. “But there are laws against murdering people. Even drug dealers.”
“Okay,” Jones said cautiously. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the simple stuff,” Rossi answered. “Like who killed him?”
Jones opened her mouth as if to speak, apparently thought better of it, and closed it again. Then, after taking a moment to consider the question, she spoke. “I don’t know who killed Mo. But there’s a good chance that his previous girlfriend would. Her name is Tina, Tina Nafino, and I heard she was there when everything went down.”
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