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.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dexter replied politely. “So, who’s in charge?”
“That would be Lonny. He’s running the place for Scotty’s widow. You’ll find him up on the bridge.” The man pointed up toward the white superstructure.
Dexter said, “Thanks,” and turned away. The path to Lonny’s lair led between a couple of rusty cargo containers, past a pile of old netting, through a maze of enormous propellers, and terminated in front of some metal stairs. They made a clanging noise as the ex-SEAL climbed the equivalent of three stories and arrived in front of a sign that read, “Office. Watch your step.”
There was no point in attempting to knock on solid steel so Dexter opened the hatch and stepped over the raised coaming. In a marked contrast to the rest of the operation, the interior of the wheelhouse had clearly been painted within the last few years, and the office furniture looked relatively new. There were three desks but only one was occupied. Lonny, if that was who the man was, appeared to be in his forties. He was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of tasseled loafers sans socks. He eyed his visitor but continued to talk on the phone that was half-concealed under a whiskered jowl. “Hey, it’s up to you,” the man said. “You can do the work now, or wait until the engine goes belly-up in Alaska and pay twice as much there. Personally, I’d take care of it now.”
Dexter turned to look out through the windows and realized that Lonny had an excellent view of both the yard and the ship canal beyond—or would have had someone taken the time required to clean the filthy glass. “Well, screw you, and the horse you rode in on,” Lonny finished, and slammed the phone down. “He’ll come around,” the shipyard operator predicted. “We’re cheap compared to the assholes up in Anchorage. So, what can I do for you?”
Dexter noticed that the big man hadn’t made any attempt to introduce himself or shake hands. “I’m looking for some information about a ship,” the businessman replied. “A vessel called the Zhou Spring.”
“Never heard of it,” Lonny replied loftily. “But that’s not surprising. Hundreds, if not thousands, of vessels have come through this yard since the place was founded back in thirty-four.”
“According to the Seattle PI, this yard carried out an extensive refit on the Zhou Spring about three years ago,” Dexter explained. “Then, on her
way north, she sank off Whidbey Island.”
Lonny frowned. “So, where do you come in? Because if some two-bit insurance company is trying to shift the liability to us you can forget it! Our attorney will cut your balls off and serve them to you for breakfast.”
“No,” the businessman responded patiently. “It’s nothing like that. I represent a group of investors who might want to raise the Zhou Spring. But, before we sink our money into a salvage operation, we want to learn everything we can about the ship.”
“That makes sense,” Lonny admitted grudgingly, “but you’re out of luck. There was a fire back before I joined the company. The office was gutted. Damned near all the files were destroyed.”
Dexter took another look around. The relatively new paint suddenly made sense. “A fire? How did it start?”
Lonny shrugged. “Beats me. Burglars I guess. They came looking for cash, didn’t find any, and torched the place.”
It didn’t sound likely, not to Dexter at least, but how to know? Perhaps the Chows had arranged for the fire—or maybe it was a coincidence. “So, how ‘bout your employees? Could I talk to one or more of them?”
“No, all our people are newer than that. There was a lot of turnover after Scotty died.”
That left Dexter with no place to go, so he said, “Thanks,” and was halfway to the hatch when the shipyard operator stopped him.
“Wait a minute. There is one possibility, assuming he’s alive that is. His name is Willy. Scotty liked the old geezer, lord knows why, and kept him around. I hear he was a pretty good ship fitter back in his day, but he was drunk most of the time, so I let him go.”
The businessman felt a renewed sense of hope. “Do you have an address for Willy? Or a phone number?”
“Yeah,” Lonny replied, and proceeded to rummage through a drawer. He called once looking for some of his tools. I think he wanted to hock them. Here you go.”
Dexter accepted a scrap of paper, saw that a phone number had been scrawled across it, and tucked the information away. “Thanks. I’ll give him a call.”
The phone rang and the shipyard operator waved prior to picking it up. “This is Scotty’s Marine. George? I thought you’d call back.”
Dexter left the office, made his way back across the street, and unlocked the Toyota. The visit to Scotty’s Marine had been less than satisfying, and if that was how FBI agents spent their time, the businessman was glad to be in a different line of work.
It was as he pulled out onto Northlake Way that Dexter realized how close Rossi’s home was. He shouldn’t go there, he knew, but the impulse was too strong to resist. A right turn put him on Stoneway, another took him into the Wallingford district, and a left turn carried him up the street the FBI agent lived on. It was a weekday, so Dexter felt sure Rossi wouldn’t be there, and he slowed as he neared her house. The burned-out remains of Mrs. Pello’s home was already in the process of being torn down. And there, on the other side of the street, sat the little yellow house with the scruffy yard. Just the sight of it made Dexter feel better and worse. Okay, Willy, the businessman thought to himself as he pulled away. If you’re out there then I’m going to find you.
Dozens of Chinese males had checked into Seattle’s Fairmont Olympic hotel during the preceding two days—so there was no reason to pay particular attention when two more arrived. Even if one of them was confined to a high-tech wheelchair. And, because Samuel knew the hotel so well, it was he who led the way with his oxygen mask hanging down onto his chest. Like his son, the elder Chow was dressed in an expensive business suit and looked every inch the successful entrepreneur. Bodyguards weren’t allowed, not at the sort of event that they were attending, so Kango and Hippo were left in the lower lobby. They looked like guests at a party that they should never have been invited to. Meanwhile their superiors followed the signs towards the shopping arcade and the elevators would that carry them up to the main lobby.
Joe Chow hated such occasions, but knew they were important to his future, and struggled to look interested as his father launched into one of his rants. “The hotel was built in nineteen twenty-four,” Big Chow began. “So it was only twenty-three years old when I came ashore. I knew some English, so I was able to get a job washing dishes in the kitchen, and I slept in one of the storage rooms.”
“Which is how you saved enough money to open a laundry,” Joe Chow added. “And by dint of hard work, grand larceny, and no small amount of luck, Chow Enterprises came into being.”
It was a good story, no a great story, and Samuel Chow didn’t like having his son cut it off. “I know you’ve heard it before,” the older man commented as they entered an elevator, “but it wouldn’t hurt for you to hear it again. A great deal can be gleaned from the past. Remember, our family once ruled a significant portion of China!”
“Yeah, and we could again,” Joe Chow said flatly as the elevator doors parted and an elderly couple stepped out.
“Yes!” Samuel Chow insisted when they were gone. “And, assuming that things go well, our plan to reestablish our family on the Chinese mainland will take a great step forward this afternoon. In order to succeed we will need to rely on our quanxi, our network of relationships, and that is where the Lung Tik Chuan Ren come in. Then, once in place, we will take what we want.”
Little Chow knew that the Lung Tik Chuan Ren, or Descendants of the Dragon, more commonly referred to as the Dragon Society, had been established during the middle 1800s “…for the purpose of advancing Chinese culture in the west.” Or so its newly arrived members claimed. But, as had been explained to him ad nauseum, the farsighted founders had other ambitions as well. Now, after more than a hundred years of evolution, the exclusively male society was part fraternal brotherhood, part business association, and part political alliance.
Every male who was of any importance to Chinese society belonged, and not just in the United States where the Lung Tik Chuan Ren had been founded, but all around the world. That made the organization powerful, and very influential, which was something the younger Chow could relate to. Because while different from each other in many respects, both father and son shared a common lust for power, and that bound them together.
Samuel Chow took air from the mask as his son touched a button. The doors closed and the elevator jerked into motion. “I hear you, Pop,” Joe Chow said lightly. “We need to hook it up, plug it in, and get it on.”
Big Chow looked up at his son, and was just about to object when he saw the familiar grin. The old man laughed, and for that brief moment in time, the Chows were one. Once the elevator came to a stop the twosome made their way into the Parliament Room, which was already half-filled with people. Security was tight and no members of the press were allowed as the general session began. It was boring. Especially the keynote speech, which focused on the question of Taiwan, a controversy that Little Chow found tedious. It was difficult to stay awake. But finally, after the seemingly endless presentation ended, dozens of smaller meetings began. And it was within these more-intimate gatherings of four or five people where disputes were resolved, deals were done, and alliances were formed.
The conference room that Joe Chow had reserved on his father’s behalf was one of many that lined the second-floor gallery. It looked out over the main lobby and a beautifully lit two-story-tall Christmas tree. As they entered the Belvedere Room the younger Chow was pleased to see that a uniformed waiter was fussing over a table loaded with refreshments. It was important to offer guests good food in order to maintain face.
Agent Moller, who had been chosen for the assignment by virtue of having worked as a waitress while in college, turned and smiled. As she looked into Joe Chow’s black, seemingly bottomless eyes, Moller felt something cold trickle into her veins. “Good afternoon!” she said brightly. “The kitchen ran out of shrimp—but the chef sent crab at no extra charge. I hope the substitution will be okay.”
“Yeah,” Joe Chow responded, as he pulled a chair out of the way to make room for his father�
��s scooter. “That’ll be fine. How can we reach you if we run out of something?”
“Just grab the house phone,” Moller replied, “and ask for catering. My name is Annie.”
The snakehead peeled a twenty off the roll that he kept in his pocket and passed it over. “Good job, Annie. We’ll call you if we need you.”
Moller offered up her best smile, made the Jackson disappear, and was on her way out when a pair of well-dressed Asian males appeared at the door. They stepped aside to let the agent pass and pulled the door closed once she was gone. There hadn’t been enough time to memorize their faces but Moller took comfort from the knowledge that the conference room was thoroughly wired. By the time the meeting was over, the technoids would have plenty of footage of both the Chows and their guests.
The moment that the door closed the introductions began. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Peng. This is my son, Joe.”
Peng had short hair which had already started to thin, a high forehead, and quick, intelligent eyes. The suit he wore had been cut by one of the best tailors in Hong Kong and shimmered slightly when the light struck it just so. As an assistant to the consulate general of the People’s Republic of China in San Francisco it was his job to deal with trade issues. And, while thousands of foreign firms were interested in doing business in China, Chow Enterprises was especially interesting. Not because of the ethnicity of its owners, which though a positive, wasn’t considered to be especially important, or its size, which was relatively small, or the technology it could bring to bear, which was nil, but because of a unique skill set that made the family-owned business unique: The ability to successfully smuggle people into the United States of America.
Snake Eye Page 16
