There was a pause while Dexter took a sip of his gin and tonic. “Yeah,” he said soberly. “I served in Iraq. It’s hard isn’t it?”
And that was the moment when Rossi realized that unlike most of the people she came into contact with, Dexter knew how it felt to kill someone. A whole lot of people judging from the medals listed in his file. Something special came into existence between them at that moment—something that her ex-husband would never be able to understand. “Yes,” the agent answered. “It is.”
The conversation turned to more cheerful topics after that, and once it was pretty well established, Rossi told one of her stories about Missy. It had been her experience that the very mention of a child was sufficient to send many men packing, but if Dexter found the revelation troubling, he showed no sign of it.
The next time the FBI agent checked her watch she discovered that more than two hours had passed without working on the paperwork in her briefcase, taking care of the laundry that was waiting at home, or talking to Missy on the phone. She informed Dexter that she had to leave, felt pleased when he looked disappointed, and said “Yes” when he asked if he could see her again. The fact that the businessman was a potential witness in an active case triggered an alarm bell but the agent didn’t want to hear it. Dexter took care of the tab, held the door, and escorted Rossi to her car. It was silly, since she was the one who carried a gun, but it felt right.
Lopa and Eason were parked across the street, just as they had been ever since they had followed the FBI agent from her office to Bell Town, and watched the couple shake hands. There was plenty of traffic and Rossi had a lot on her mind as she pulled away from the curb and headed for the Wallingford district. That’s why she didn’t notice the white van, the two men who were in it, or the fact that they followed her home.
The day had dawned bright and clear. That meant it was cold, and Christina Rossi could see her breath as she locked the sedan and made her way toward the Coast Guard hangar at Boeing Field. Now that an autopsy had been completed, Hawkins wanted to interview Coast Guard personnel who were familiar with the area and learn whatever he could from the local pathologist regarding the body that had washed ashore near Port Angeles.
A petty officer directed Rossi into a hangar that was so clean it resembled a surgical suite. Dale Hawkins was already there. He wore a blue flight suit and had a helmet tucked under one arm. “Good morning! There’s a pile of overalls over there…and you’ll need a brain bucket too.”
Rossi was glad that she had chosen to wear slacks as she selected a flight suit and pulled it on over her street clothes. It took three tries to find a helmet that fit and the FBI agent was carrying it by the chin strap as she went to join the ASAC. Lieutenant Olman had appeared by then—and was clearly pleased to be in his element for once.
Hawkins turned to include Rossi in the conversation. “I was telling the lieutenant that the surveillance team ran into trouble yesterday. They followed Joe Chow to a series of casinos and watched the jerk piss thirty grand down the toilet. Unfortunately the rent-a-cops in the last joint made our team, assumed they were going to rob Chow, and tipped the bastard off.
“He called in some reinforcements, they rammed our van, and the scumbag got away. We don’t know where he and his merry men went from there, but they didn’t arrive in Bell Town until four thirty, so that suggests that they made a stop along the way. Meanwhile the local sheriff got pissy, demanded to know what we were doing on his turf, and I had to kiss his ass for the better part of two hours before he would get off my back.”
Rossi shook her head sympathetically. “That sucks.”
“Yeah,” Hawkins agreed wearily. “It sure as hell does. Fortunately, for reasons we don’t fully understand, the operation seems to be intact. Either sonny boy believes that the surveillance team really were rip-off artists, or he forgot to tell the old man that he was wearing a tail, because it looks like business as usual for the Chow household.”
“I’ll bet Little Chow didn’t want to tell his father about the surveillance team,” Rossi put in. “That would make him look bad.”
“Yeah,” Hawkins nodded. “I agree.”
It all sounded inefficient if not downright incompetent to Olman, who preferred a more disciplined, which was to say “military” approach to problems. “What now?” the Coast Guard officer wanted to know.
“We keep trying,” Hawkins replied steadfastly. “In fact, given our strategy, what took place last night could even work to our advantage. The whole idea is to put pressure on Little Chow—and wait for him to make a mistake.”
“Exactly,” Rossi agreed. “And the fact that he doesn’t know who was watching him will add to the uncertainty.”
“Which brings us to the body,” the ASAC said. “My grandpappy told me that there’s at least a hundred ways to skin a cat. Who knows? Maybe dead men can tell tales.”
Rossi raised an eyebrow. “Your grandfather went to Yale—and made a living as an investment banker. I doubt he spent much time skinning cats.”
Hawkins grinned and turned to Olman. “Did you hear that? She pulled my file! I wonder what she knows about you?”
“He wears boxers,” Rossi said calmly. “Size thirty-four.”
The information wasn’t in the Coast Guard officer’s file, but the FBI agent was correct nevertheless, and the expression on Olman’s face confirmed it. Hawkins laughed and the lieutenant was grateful when the helicopter’s rescue diver gave the passengers a flask of hot coffee, three Styrofoam cups, and an invitation to board.
They climbed into the HH-65A Dolphin and strapped themselves in while the crewman pulled the door closed. The helicopter wobbled slightly as if took off. A few minutes later they were out over Elliott Bay on a straight, level course for Port Angeles. They could talk via the intercom system, but it was noisy, and the pilots weren’t cleared for information pertaining to the operation. That left them to comment on the scenery, sip coffee, and pepper the rescue swimmer with questions about his job. The chopper arrived over Port Angeles thirty-one minutes later.
Rossi had been to the city on previous occasions, but had never seen it from the air, and never ventured out to the far end of the Ediz Hook where the Coast Guard station was located. It included a cluster of low-lying buildings, a communications tower, and a good-sized cutter moored in the lee of the hook. The Strait lay north of the station and Rossi could see the dark smudge that was Canada’s Vancouver Island.
As the Dolphin turned and settled in for a landing, the FBI agent got a quick look glimpse of the harbor, the picturesque town of Port Angeles, and a busy waterfront. Having exited the helicopter, the passengers were invited to enter another scrupulously clean hangar. Then, having removed their flight gear, they were led across a small parking lot to the station’s headquarters building. A retired thirty-foot Surf Rescue Boat sat cradled out front, not far from a white-washed flagpole.
Once inside Olman led the agents up a flight of stairs, through a wardroom, and into a well-equipped conference room. The long, glass-topped wooden table was surrounded by blue upholstered chairs. As Rossi took her seat, she could look out the window opposite her and see the short runway that World War II carrier pilots had practiced on, the blue water of the Strait, and the city of Victoria, Canada, in the far distance.
Thanks to some advance work by Olman C. & G. S., charts 6300 and 6401 had been taped to the large white board that dominated one wall and a chief warrant officer was present to brief them. His name was Cummings, and once everyone had been seated, the presentation began. He tapped a couple of computer keys and a chart filled the wall screen. “As you can see,” Cummings said, “approximately four thousand ships pass through the Strait each year. That’s a lot of vessels to keep an eye on—but we do pretty well. The Vehicle Traffic Service Center in Seattle tracks any vessel over one hundred thirty feet in length—and our Canadian friends watch everything over seventy feet.”
“We’re here,” Cummings said stabbing one of the charts
with a laser pointer, “and the body that you’re interested in came ashore at the Salt Creek campground west of Port Angeles. The water temperature was approximately fifty degrees, but the victim was wearing a suit, which suggests the man survived for at least two hours before he succumbed to the cold. Given the weather on the night in question, plus the prevailing currents, I would hazard a guess that the victim entered the water right about here. Give or take ten miles in every direction. “
Hawkins uttered a low whistle. “That’s a lot of give and take.”
“Yes,” the officer agreed apologetically, “it is. But that’s the best that we can do.”
Rossi eyed the chart. “Assuming that you’re right, it looks like the point of entry was out in the main shipping channel.”
“Correct,” Cummings replied. “Not that lesser vessels don’t pass through there too…. They do. However, had this man fallen off a fishing boat, or jumped into the water because his yacht was taking on water, you’d think someone would have reported that. Or issued a distress call. No one did.”
“Which suggests that he arrived on one of the larger vessels,” Hawkins observed. “Could this man have been a crew member who jumped overboard in a vain attempt to swim ashore?”
“There’s no way to rule that out,” Cummings answered soberly. “Many captains would be reluctant to admit that a crewman was missing out of fear that an investigation would delay them and cost their company money—especially when they could report the disappearance to a more forgiving government. But I think that scenario is unlikely. Most members of the international merchant marines are either satisfied with their nationality—or have other options should they wish to enter the country illegally. Why jump overboard if you can simply walk off your ship and never return?”
“Okay,” Hawkins said thoughtfully. “So he’s Asian, jumped off a large ship, and wasn’t part of the crew. Inez is running his prints but odds are that we’ll never find out who he was. That leaves us with the following question: Was this guy Chinese? Because if he was, then it’s my bet that he was part of a larger group, which probably got through.”
The agents thanked Cummings, piled into a van that Olman had borrowed from the station, and made their way into Port Angeles. They passed the 110-foot Island Class Cutter Cuttyhunk on the left, paused at the gate, and followed the road down the hook and between the buildings that went to make up the garishly painted Nippon Paper plant. The road curved to the east after that, giving Rossi a look at a large marina, a busy log yard, and the enormous ship Prince William Sound.
Then, having passed through downtown Port Angeles, Olman turned right onto Lincoln and drove past the county court house. “Clallam County doesn’t have a morgue,” the Coast Guard officer explained. “All of the autopsies take place at local funeral homes.” Judging from appearances the building that housed the Canthy Funeral Home had been constructed by an early lumber baron or a successful fishing family because it occupied the equivalent of four city lots. Olman pulled into one of the slots intended for the funeral home’s customers. A walk took them to some stairs that led to a spacious front porch. The front door opened into a large hallway where they were met by an employee who took the visitors down into the mansion’s basement. A narrow hall led to a small, sparsely furnished office. “Please wait here,” the employee requested. “Doctor Foley will be along in a moment.”
The office was obviously shared and had very little personality outside of the framed homilies that hung on the walls, a nineteenth-century teaching skeleton that stood in one corner, and a Dell computer station. Hawkins came to his feet as the door opened to admit a woman in her early thirties. She wore a white lab coat over a T-shirt and jeans. Pale blue eyes stared out over rimless glasses that were perched on the end of a freckled nose. She smiled. “Good morning. I’m Doctor Foley…. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem,” Hawkins assured her. “We’ve only been here for a minute or two. My name is Hawkins. I’m with ICE, Special Agent Rossi is with the FBI, and Lieutenant Olman works for the Coast Guard. We’re part of a task force assigned to end human trafficking. Thanks for taking the time to see us.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the forensic pathologist replied, and shook hands all around. “I’m not sure that I will be of much use, however…. Outside of the fact that the man in the survival suit was young, Asian, and died of hypothermia, there isn’t very much to tell you. He broke his arm at some point during his teens, was suffering from mild malnutrition at the time of his death, and had very heavily callused feet. All of which is in my written report.”
Hawkins frowned. “Is there some way to tell whether he was Chinese rather than Korean, Japanese, or something else?”
Foley looked thoughtful. “There are features we can look at, but while they might tell you something about where his ancestors came from, that doesn’t say anything about the man himself. Not these days. There can be other indicators, however—“
Hawkins looked hopeful. “Such as?”
“Such as their dental work,” the pathologist answered. “Come on, I’ll show you what I mean.”
The visitors followed Foley down a hall, through a pair of double doors, and past a sign that read: “Authorized personnel only.” The air was cold and reeked of disinfectants. Foley led the threesome past a row of three operating tables and into a smaller room. The entire right-hand wall was occupied by stainless steel compartments, each of which bore a name card. “Here’s the one we want,” the pathologist said cheerfully. “Hold on while I fetch an instrument.”
As the three of them stood there, waiting for Foley’s return, Rossi noticed that Olman looked a little green and could imagine why. Both she and Hawkins had been forced to examine dead bodies from time to time but the Coast Guard officer had been more fortunate.
“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 M
rs. 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.
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