Snake Eye (3 page)

Dexter held the door for an elderly woman who he recognized as a regular, grabbed a
Post Intelligencer
off the inside rack, and scanned the front page as he waited in line. It seemed that a bomb had exploded in Manila, there had been some sort of shoot-out at the University of Washington, and Boeing had won a big contract from China. “Are you having the usual today?”

Dexter looked up to discover that the people in front of him had been served. The woman behind the counter was in her late twenties and had blonde hair and a nice figure—something Dexter already knew, had known for six months now, but done nothing about. He had considered making a pass at her but knew that doing so could trigger a series of predictable events. Success would lead to a date, which could lead to a second date, which could lead to sex. Or the
expectation
of sex, which would force the ex-SEAL to undress and show her the leg. Maybe it would turn her off, or maybe it wouldn’t, but how to know? It was a helluva lot easier to simply have sex by himself. “Yes, please,” Dexter replied warmly, and smiled to seal the bargain.

Annie smiled in return and turned to fill a paper cup with drip coffee. A drip, plus a blueberry scone, was what the man with no name ate each morning. He was single, she felt certain of it, but never attempted to make a move on her. Because he didn’t find her attractive? No, that didn’t make sense because she had seen him look at her. So what was the problem? He was tall, had short, sandy hair, penetrating hazel eyes, and even features. He wore nice but non-descript clothes, sported a complicated-looking watch, and walked with an almost-imperceptible limp. Maybe, in spite of all the signs to the contrary, he was gay. Annie made use of a pair of metal tongs to select what looked like the nicest blueberry scone and placed it in a brown paper bag. “Will there be anything else?”

Dexter gave her a five, waited for his change, and dropped a dollar into the clear plastic tip box. Then, oblivious to the way that the barista’s eyes followed him, the businessman took his paper and his breakfast over to what he thought of as table number two. It was back in a corner, where the ex-SEAL could put his back to a wall, but too close to the side door. Table one was perfect, but had already been claimed by a rumpled man equipped with a cell phone, PDA, and a laptop.

Dexter brushed some crumbs off the table, dropped into the chair, and laid out his breakfast. Having swallowed his first bite of scone, the businessman chased it with some black coffee and turned to the classifieds. His ad was under the heading “Downtown.” It read: “View of Elliott Bay! This newly remodeled luxury apartment is located in a quiet twelve-unit complex with on-site parking, a high-tech security system, and 24/7 management. Enjoy three cozy bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a spacious living room with a sweeping view of the bay. $2,500 per month.”

The ad was followed by a phone number,
his
phone number since the complex belonged to him and had ever since his father’s fatal heart attack more than two years earlier. The news that his son had been wounded in Iraq, plus his generally poor health, had been too much for the old man. But Dexter didn’t like to think about his father’s death, or the war in Iraq, and turned to the funnies instead. He chuckled over his favorites, washed the last bite of scone down with some coffee, and eyed the blonde as she carried a bag of trash out through the side door. She was pretty, no doubt about that, and he wondered what she would look like naked.

The mixture of rain and snow continued to fall with the same determination that it had earlier, but Dexter was used to that and enjoyed the cool two-block walk to the only home he had ever known. The apartment house had been forty years old back when his parents bought the building and moved in. There had been twice as many units back in those days, and as time passed, the people who lived there became family—especially after Mrs. Dexter passed away and the residents took turns looking out for the little boy that everyone called Dex, and the father who drank too much.

Rents remained low, a lot of the maintenance was deferred, and the structure began to fall apart—so much so that by the time Dexter returned from the war the complex was in need of a complete renovation. The ex-naval officer felt a distinct sense of pride as he turned a corner and the freshly painted building came into view.

It stood six stories tall, and had a flat roof and big windows. What had been a maze of smallish one-and two-bedroom apartments had been combined into large two-and three-bedroom units designed to appeal to the carriage trade, people who enjoyed the ambience of
living downtown but for reasons that never made sense to Dexter, preferred to rent rather than buy. He was grateful, however, and now that the renovation was complete, the ex-naval officer planned to sit back and relax. And, depending on who took unit 6A, he might be in for some entertainment as well. Dexter smiled, waited for a light, and stepped out onto the street.

There had been a time when the forty-year-old, two-bedroom frame house had seemed too small for a man, woman, and child, but not anymore. Now it felt big and empty. The place where Rossi went to have a Lean Cuisine, watch some television, and grab some sleep. She had considered selling it and using the proceeds to buy a condo, but there was Missy to consider, including the need for a yard to play in.

The FBI agent went to the front window, pushed a blinds slat up and out of the way, and peered out onto the street. She could see two news vans and knew that others lurked nearby. The attack on Rigg Hall and the resulting homicides would have been news under any circumstances. But the fact that the ELA had taped the entire incident and sent copies to the local television stations had raised the ante. The footage of the first terrorist wrapped in a fiery embrace, and of Rossi shooting his companions, had been played countless times during the last twenty-four hours. And not just locally, but nationally, until she was sick of looking at it.

Should the networks have run the extremely graphic footage or shouldn’t they? Pundits were still debating the issue. Not that it mattered much since the networks
had
run the footage,
had
granted the terrorists the significance they wanted so badly, and
had
trashed Rossi’s life. In addition to the reporters camped outside, various media outlets had literally filled the FBI agent’s voicemail with requests for interviews. Additionally, one of her ISP’s employees had leaked her email address and her inbox was filled to overflowing with hundreds of messages. Some supportive—some filled with hate.

Meanwhile, she was on administrative leave while the Bureau assembled a shooting review team and prepared to judge one of their own. Not that there was much to talk about, not in Rossi’s opinion, since nobody seemed to dispute the fact that the eco-terrorists had murdered two FBI agents, attempted to kill a grad student, and shot Professor Posada in cold blood.

Still, one member of the Seattle City Council, an individual with a longstanding dislike for the Seattle Police Department (SPD), had actually gone so far as to question the agent’s decision to fire on the second and third suspects, saying “Why shoot for the head? Couldn’t this Rossi person just kneecap them?”

That in spite of the fact that Aspee’s female victim died of a heart attack shortly after he wrapped his arms around her, while
he
, ironically enough, managed to survive the flames and was on life support at Harborview hospital. There was a sudden flurry of activity out front as an unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up in front of the house. Its flashers came on and the media types converged on it.

Rossi turned away from the window, grabbed her briefcase off a side table, and walked back through the bright yellow kitchen. The refrigerator was plastered with photos of Missy, the drying rack was full of dishes, and the phone rang in steady bursts. Rossi opened the back door, checked to ensure that the lock was set, and made use of her right foot to keep Snowball from slipping outside. The cat issued a plaintive meow as the door swung closed.

Some of the video vampires had been camped in the alley, but the stir caused by the sedan had been sufficient to pull them around front, and none were in sight. Rossi crossed her tiny backyard, opened the gate, and realized that she had forgotten to put the garbage out the day before. The truck wouldn’t come for another week, which meant that she would have to live with
the results of her own forgetfulness.

The maroon sedan, the twin of the one out front except for the color, sped up the alley, paused just long enough for Rossi to jump in, and accelerated away. Supervisory Special Agent (SSA) John Theel glanced in his rearview mirror. He was a big man, about six foot three, with wide shoulders and a taste for well-cut suits. He had salt and pepper hair, mocha colored skin, and intelligent eyes. He grinned. “Pretty slick, huh?”

“Very. Who played decoy?”

“Kissler. Hold on while I turn him loose.”

Theel activated the two-way radio feature on his Nextel cell phone, said, “We’re in the clear,” and received Kissler’s acknowledgment.

“So,” Theel said, pointing to one of two paper cups resting in the center console. “One latte…extra hot. Did I get it right?”

“Yes,” Rossi lied, “thank you. That was very thoughtful. So, what’s on the agenda?”

“First we have a cup of coffee while I bring you up to date…then we head down town. The AS AC will do the best she can to deal with the brass from Washington D.C. while you meet with the inspectors.”

Theel had turned onto Stoneway by then. He followed it south to Lake Union, pulled into a parking lot, and killed the engine. They could see the back end of a marina, rows of expensive yachts, and the gray wind-ruffled waters of the lake beyond. Further away, beyond the south shore, the Seattle skyline shot upwards, with the Space Needle off to the right. Most of the wet snow that had fallen the previous day had melted.

Rossi took a sip of her drink. It warmed her hands but did nothing to counter the cold emptiness in the bottom of her stomach. She had nothing to hide, not in her opinion, but that didn’t make the process any less frightening. “Fair enough…. I’ll do my best. So, what’s the buzz? Was it a good shoot?”

Theel stared out through the windshield. Rivulets of moisture zigzagged down across the safety glass. “The board will make that determination and they haven’t finished their investigation yet.”

“Don’t bullshit me, John. I’m not asking what the
board
thinks—I’m asking what the folks in the office think.”

Theel looked her way. The agent’s face was so pale that her lipstick looked unnaturally bright. Judging from the deep circles under her eyes she hadn’t slept very well and was struggling to look normal. He knew the question had many levels. Rossi wanted to know if she was in trouble, but more than that, she wanted to know how the rest of the team felt about Enger and Nealy. “They were grown ups, Christina, experienced agents who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not only that but you arrived on the scene ten minutes early. The fact that you did saved at least two lives. Everybody knows that…and everybody supports you.”

“Even Val?” Rossi asked bitterly, referring to Enger’s wife, “and Holly?”

“
Especially
them,” Theel replied evenly. “They didn’t like the risks, but they knew about them and chose to marry the kind of men who were willing to take them. And, while it might not be politically correct, they’re grateful for what you did.

“No, they blame the ASAC. They know you warned Haxton and that she refused to request more resources, so they figure the ambush was
her
fault. The only problem is that they’re wrong. Even if the ASAC had alerted the entire planet, odds are that Enger and Nealy would still be dead. They knew the kind of people they were after, or should have, and chose to sit on their weapons. It sounds harsh, hell, it
is
harsh, but they could have been more vigilant. Anyway, no
matter how you cut it, there’s nothing more you could have done.”

There was silence as Rossi took it in. “Thanks, boss. That helps.”

“No problem,” Theel said, glancing at his watch. “I hate to do this, but there’s a couple things we need to talk about before they run you through the red, white, and blue wringer.”

Rossi nodded. “Shoot.”

“You prepared a signed statement?”

“Yeah, the chief inspector has it. You’ll find a copy in your email.”

“Good. Everybody’s seen the tape about a million times and we have statements from at least a dozen witnesses, not to mention one very grateful campus cop, but it’s important to make sure that your account squares with theirs. Speaking of which, did you hire a lawyer?”

Rossi frowned. “Why? Do I need one?”

Theel sighed. “Don’t get defensive, Christina. It’s SOP. You know that.”

“Sorry, I’m feeling a bit paranoid right now. Yeah, I talked to the counsel for the Agents Association, and she hooked me up with an attorney here in Seattle. Some guy named Paul Gregory. He reviewed my statement and said it was fine. He’s supposed to meet me at the office.”

Theel started the car, looked back over his shoulder, and backed out of the spot. “Excellent. Gregory has a good rep. He was a cop once…and he bleeds blue.”

“So, fill me in,” Rossi demanded. “What have we got on these people?”

“You’re on administrative leave.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why I am in this car? On my way to the office? On a Saturday?”

Theel laughed. “Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me. You knew about McDonnel, hell, you predicted that the psycho bitch was up to something. And, having sifted through the stuff in her apartment, it looks like she became interested in Buddhism, did a whole lot of reading, and stumbled across some material on self-immolation.

“It turns out that until recently all Sinitic monks and nuns were burned as part of their ordination ceremonies, and some of them, like the monks who lit themselves on fire to protest the Vietnam War, practiced ‘shao shen,’ a term that originally referred to cremation but was subsequently extended to include the willing incineration of living flesh as part of a sacrifice or protest.”