Snake Eye (13 page)

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.

Rossi was a traditionalist where lasagna was concerned, and in spite of the fact that she didn’t consider herself to be much of a cook, she enjoyed preparing it, partly because the process was satisfying, partly because lasagna tasted good, but mostly because it reminded the FBI agent of her mother, a woman who
really
knew how to cook and had done so every day of her adult life.

The recipe called for pork sausage mixed with ground beef, chopped onion, garlic, diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, dried Italian seasoning, black pepper, dried lasagna noodles, an egg, and lots of ricotta, Parmesan, and mozzarella cheese. It had been in the oven for thirty minutes by then and was bubbling nicely as she took the casserole dish out and placed it on top of the stove. “We need to let that cool,” Rossi announced. “So, let’s have another glass of wine. And then, assuming that you are properly inebriated, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Uh, oh,” the businessman replied gloomily, as he poured some wine into her glass. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“We’ll see,” Rossi said, as she sat down at the small dining room table. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll thank your lucky stars.”

“I doubt it,” Dexter replied as he joined her. “But, go ahead. If there’s a problem let’s deal with it.”

“Okay,” the FBI agent agreed. “Here’s the situation. You are a witness—or a potential witness. That means I should never have gone out to dinner with you.”

Dexter felt his spirits plummet. “So, you’re dumping me?”

“No,” Rossi said gently. “How could I? We barely know each other. But
if
we want to see each other again it will have to wait.”

Dexter took a sip of wine. “How long?”

“That’s hard to say,” the FBI agent responded. “At least two or three months. Maybe as long as a year.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes,” Rossi admitted soberly. “It is.”

“And there’s no way around it?”

“No. My supervisor as much as told me that he felt if I haven’t already stepped over the line then I’m darned close.”

Dexter was silent for a moment as he looked into her
eyes
. “You invited me over because of the leg didn’t you? So I wouldn’t go crazy and blow my brains out.”

“I certainly didn’t want you to think that your leg was a factor in my decision,” Rossi admitted. “But there was another reason as well. And a rather selfish one. I thought it would be nice to see you again.”

The ex-SEAL searched her face. “Really?”

Rossi smiled. “Really.”

“Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’ll be waiting when the case comes to an end. Do me a favor though….”

Rossi’s eyebrows rose. “Yes?” Wrap it up soon.

Rossi laughed and dinner was served shortly thereafter. Dexter was easy to talk to and the time flew by. Finally, once the dishes had been cleared away, the couple returned to the couch. The ex-SEAL had a fire going by then, and having kissed Rossi once before, did so again.

Rossi intended for it to end there, see Dexter to the door, and call it a night. But one pleasant thing led to another, and about the time the agent should have been removing her make-up she was being carried into her bedroom instead. It was wrong, but enjoyable, and she gave into it. What illumination there was spilled into the bedroom from the hall. Dexter laid Rossi on the queen-sized bed, helped remove the last of her clothing, and took pleasure in the way her hair fell across the pillow. He took a moment to admire the stark whiteness of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, and the long taper of her legs—not as an object viewed through a lens, but as a
real
person, waiting for him to touch her.

The reality of that should have made him hard,
would
have made him hard, except for one thing. In order to make love to Rossi the ex-SEAL would have to remove his artificial leg
before
he could remove his pants. Then, once he got the pants off, his stump would be exposed. The reality of that, and the possibility of how the woman in front of him might react, froze Dexter in place.

Rossi noticed the moment of hesitation and reached up to pull him down. “This is the leg that
I’m
interested in,” the FBI agent whispered, and got a firm grip on the member she had in mind. The reaction was nearly instantaneous, and once Dexter removed the prosthesis, the rest was easy. They spent some time getting to know each other, but the moment came when Rossi couldn’t wait any longer, and pulled Dexter in. The climax came quickly after that, swept the lovers away, and left both of them exhausted. Eventually, after everything that could be said had been said, they drifted off to sleep.

Having set a fire in Mrs. Pello’s basement and positioned the van in the alley behind the FBI agents house, Lopa and Eason were ready to complete the Rossi sanction, a murder that would recapture the headlines and prove that the ELA could strike any target that it chose.

Lopa had agreed to enter through the front door while Eason took care of the back. The terrorist heard the old wood creak as he mounted the front stairs. Once on the porch he paused. There was no noise other than the whir of the neighbor’s heat pump, the drone of a distant plane, and the sound of his own breathing.

A quick check confirmed that the fire that would eventually consume Mrs. Pello’s home, the woman herself, and at least some of the forensic evidence was still contained. But it wouldn’t be
for long, which meant that they needed to break into the house and kill the people inside before a passerby called 911.

Then, assuming that things went well, Lopa planned to pop Eason on the way out. Of course there was the distinct possibility that the assassin had similar plans—which was why Lopa wore body armor under his street clothes. Satisfied that the conditions were right, Lopa pressed the key on the Motorola walkie talkie and whispered into the mike. “I’m ready.”