Snake Eye (18 page)

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, Dexter 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.

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 peered 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.”

Rossi frowned. Jones knew something, or thought she did, but what? “Don’t lie to us Ms. Jones. Mr. Pong and his associates were killed. No one survived to tell you anything. That means you have reason to believe Ms. Nafino was there.”

Jones shrugged. “Mo had something going with Tina back before I came along. Then, when Mo dumped Tina, she was pissed. She knew about the load—and how he planned to bring it in. People were waiting for it.
You
figure it out.”

The agents spent another ten minutes trying to wring additional information out of the woman, but it soon became apparent that either she didn’t have any more to give, or didn’t want to. They thanked Jones, returned to the Maxima, and drove away. The car hadn’t traveled for more than a block when Inez wrinkled her nose. “Something smells.”

Rossi sniffed, recognized the odor, and swore. “Somebody stepped in some dog shit.”

“I think you’re right,” the other agent replied, “and given your recent history, it’s bound to be
you
.” They laughed—and it felt good.

The road that followed along the north edge of Lake Union was a narrow two-lane affair that had been built to service the many businesses that had once flourished there. Thanks to the Chittenden Locks, boats and ships had been able to access the fresh water lake since the 1930s, and there had been a time when the north shore had been almost entirely industrial. But that was back before the railroad tracks had been paved over to make way for the Burke-Gilman Trail, the Gas Works had been transformed into a lake-front park, and dozens of small boat yards, commercial docks, and marine outfitters had been forced to make way for condos, restaurants, and marinas. Someday, in the not-too-distant future, Dexter figured that the entire shoreline would be gentrified. But, for the moment, there were still pockets of commercial activity along the muddy shore.

The businessman paused at a four-way stop, waited for a garbage truck to turn in front of him, and followed the winding street west. The objective was simple enough. The sooner Rossi’s case was closed the sooner he could see her. And, truth be told, he didn’t have a whole lot to do. The apartment house was a part-time endeavor, and now that Pasco felt free to invade his
employer’s apartment any time he chose, the ex-SEAL no longer felt comfortable there.

So, rather than sit around and feel sorry for himself, Dexter had chosen to launch his own investigation into the Chow family’s business activities. And, once it became apparent that Samuel Chow owned fishing boats, tugs, and barges, the naval officer in him was intrigued. That led to online research, a visit to the downtown branch of the Seattle Public Library, and a growing interest in the 150-foot long
Zhou Spring
, a factory trawler which sank after being sideswiped by a mystery ship off Whidbey Island. The subsequent investigation found that the collision opened a forty-foot long gash in her hull, which compromised three different water-tight compartments and allowed tons of seawater to enter—so much seawater that the
Spring
went down within a matter of minutes. In spite of the Coast Guard’s best efforts, the second ship had never been identified.

Once the fuel had been pumped out of the factory ship’s tanks, the story faded away. But questions remained, lots of them, which was why Dexter had gone looking for members of the
Zhou Springs
crew. One was dead of natural causes, another was serving a long stretch in prison, three had moved on to parts unknown, and the two who remained in the Seattle area refused to meet with him. That was one of the reasons why the ex-SEAL was determined to visit the shipyard where the ill-fated vessel had undergone repairs prior to her final voyage. Perhaps the people who worked there would be more forthcoming.

If Dexter hadn’t been paying attention, Scotty’s Marine would have been easy to miss. There was only one sign and it was so faded that the white-on-blue letters were nearly impossible to read. Perhaps that was because the yard had fallen upon hard times, Scotty’s customers arrived via the lake, or he didn’t give a damn.

There wasn’t any parking in front of the boatyard, so Dexter left the 4-Runner on the right side of the street and crossed over. A low, one-story building fronted the road, and while the outer wall boasted a row of grimy windows, there was no door. That left the businessman with no choice but to follow the structure west to the point where a driveway slanted down to the yard. The entryway was secured by a half-open gate, an unmanned guard station, and a sign that proclaimed “No unauthorized personnel allowed.”

Beyond that lay what could only be described as a jumble of equipment, salvage, and just plain junk. The driveway continued straight out to where a huge orange crane presided over the pier like an insect preparing to consume its prey. The left, or east side of Scotty’s Marine was dominated by what had once been the superstructure of a small merchant ship that now served as office space. A modern tug sat directly in front of that, within the rusty embrace of a dry dock capable of handling a ship twice its size. The west side of the pier was home to a seventy-five-foot-long fishing trawler. Judging from appearances, and the barge loaded with scrap metal snuggled up to it, the fishing boat hadn’t left her slip in many years.

Dexter decided to ignore the sign. He passed through the gate and was twenty-five yards out onto the gear-strewn pier before a man wearing a yellow hard hat, plaid shirt, and greasy coveralls emerged from a blue sanikan. “Hey, mister! Who you looking for?”

“I’m looking for Scotty,” the businessman replied. “Where would I find him?”

“Heaven would be your best bet,” the ship worker replied sagely. “Or maybe Hell. He died about a year ago not five feet from where you’re standing. One minute he was standing there, screaming at the crane operator, and the next minute he was dead. I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”