Snake Eye (11 page)

“Okay,” Foley said, as she reentered the room. “Here’s what we need. If you gentlemen would be so kind as to pull out that drawer, I’ll show you some of the worst dentistry you’re ever likely to see.”

A body bag was revealed as the men pulled the long metal tray out from the wall. The doctor pulled the zipper down far enough to reveal Lok Lee’s face. It was colorless, a bit waxy, and empty of all expression. Foley pried the cadaver’s mouth open, made use of a retractor to keep it that way, and motioned for the visitors to take a look. “Here’s what I was telling you about,” the pathologist said, as she used her ballpoint pen to tap some of Lee’s teeth. “See that? It’s a partial denture. It’s made of plastic. Dentists refer to them as ‘flippers.’ They use them here in the United
States, but only on an interim basis, while a more permanent denture is being prepared.

“But it’s different in China. A lot of people can’t afford the real thing, so they buy flippers and have them wired in place. As you can see from the copper wire, plus all the gum disease, that’s what happened to this man. At least that’s what my dad tells me…and he’s a dentist. I asked him to take a look once I saw the wire.”

Olman looked away, Rossi felt sorry for the floater and Hawkins peered into Lee’s gaping maw. The excitement was easy to detect. “So, let me see if I have this straight…What we’re looking at is characteristic of China? Not Taiwan? Not Korea?”

“Nope,” Foley answered stolidly. “Dad has done volunteer work throughout Asia. The only place he ran into dental work like this was in China.”

“Bingo,” Hawkins said as he straightened up. “We’re going to need a copy of the autopsy report plus statements from both you and your father. A member of my staff will contact you.”

The pathologist looked from Hawkins to Rossi. “So where this guy came from is important?”

“Yes,” the FBI agent replied. “
Very
important.”

“Good,” Foley said as she looked down at Lee’s corpse. “That’s nice to know.”

Retired Chief Petty Officer John Pasco had been a thief for most of his fifty-seven years, which was why he had let himself into unit 4B, and was busy rifling through Mrs. Tepper’s belongings while she was out getting her hair done. The widow was very well off thanks to the investments her husband had made during the previous thirty years. She never bothered to put her jewelry in her safe, however, which was why Pasco had the opportunity to fondle each item before putting it back where it had been.

And it was that natural restraint, the ability to look at high-value items yet leave them alone, that had always been the hallmark of the retired petty officer’s thievery. Because even at the age of seven, when he had first taken to pilfering money from his mother’s purse, the little boy had known better than to take fives, tens, or twenties.

During his teenage years, the young Pasco discovered that one-dollar bills were rarely if ever missed, two cigarettes could be removed from a pack without fear of discovery, and a shot of bourbon could be poured off without his father taking notice—all of which explained why he had been able to steal what he estimated to be at least $100,000 worth of cash and goods over the past half-century.

Now, as the maintenance man plucked the occasional one-, five-, or ten-dollar bill from the hiding places that Mrs. Tepper had established throughout her apartment, Pasco had the satisfaction of knowing that his victim would not only remain ignorant of her losses, but continually refresh the supposedly secret stashes of cash that she kept in bowls, books, and drawers.

Having finished going through the over-decorated bedroom, Pasco checked his watch and saw that only thirty minutes remained before the elderly woman was due back. And, were Mrs. Tepper to return home early, some mechanical mumbo-jumbo, plus the presence of the tool box that the maintenance man had been careful to leave just inside the front door, would not only justify his presence but help ensure a Christmas tip.

Satisfied with his haul, Pasco grabbed the toolbox, and exited the apartment with the surety of someone who had every right to be there. Once clear of the crime scene, he removed the latex gloves that he habitually wore while stealing
and
performing his legitimate duties. An elevator carried the ex-NCO down to the parking garage and his office. A quick glance was sufficient to establish that the yellow Hummer was absent from its usual parking slot, a fact that served to
further improve Pasco’s already ebullient mood. Because while he didn’t care about Chow, the maintenance man had strong feelings about the renter’s bodyguards and the loud hip-hop music they insisted on playing while waiting for their boss.

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.