Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  “Chow Enterprises?”

  “Yeah, that’s the bunch. What if they’re a front for the CIA? What if the spooks took the Zhou Spring up to the Gulf of Anadyr, scuttled her just off some naval base, and made the rest up? Navy SEALS or the like could use that chamber as an underwater base! The Russians would never know.”

  It had been quite a while since the Cold War, and the ex-naval officer wasn’t sure the United States government cared what the Russians were up to in the Gulf of Anadyr, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was the sudden realization that there was still another way the airtight chamber could be used, one that might be worth sinking a perfectly good ship for—especially since the Zhou Spring had been fully insured. What if the Chows had created an underwater environment where illegal immigrants could be held—and recovered all of their costs from an unsuspecting insurance company? A brilliant scheme if there ever was one. “What about the investigation?” the businessman inquired. “Did anyone interview you?”

  “Hell, no,” Willy replied. “Scotty took care of that sort of stuff.”

  Dexter got up to go. “Thanks, Willy. You’ve been a big help. Some other people might want to speak with you. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure,” the old man replied brightly. “Tell them to bring Fig Newtons.”

  Chapter Eight

  The silver Mercedes pulled off I-5 and headed west toward Bell Town. It was a cold, gray, Seattle day, the kind that often put Joe Chow into a bad mood. But, thanks to a profitable night at the gaming tables, the snakehead felt pretty good. All he needed now was a good fuck, some decent food, and eight hours of sleep. Such were his thoughts as the car pulled over to the curb and Paco waited for him to get out. “Pick me up at seven,” Little Chow instructed. “We have work to do.”

  Paco nodded. “I’ll be here, boss.”

  Joe Chow got out, made his way into the apartment building, and entered one of the elevators. Meanwhile, John Pasco was one floor down, sitting at his desk when the tenant appeared on the security monitor. That gave the maintenance man an idea. Rather than sit at his desk, composing a letter to the tenants, why not have some fun?

  Ten minutes later Pasco let himself into Dexter’s apartment, checked to ensure that the ex-naval office wasn’t there, and made his way back to the master suite. There was no way to know if Chow and his mistress would put on a show for him, but not knowing was part of the fun, as was the possibility that he would be there when his employer came home. His presence never failed to get a rise out of the ex-naval officer, which pleased the maintenance man to no end.

  Pasco pushed Dexter’s neatly hung clothes out of the way, slid the panel to one side, and stepped through the opening. The room beyond the glass was dark, but that could change, and the retired petty officer had high hopes as he settled into the chair. He had been fortunate enough to watch Chow screw his mistress on three different occasions by then and was looking forward to a fourth.

  Nothing happened for a while, and Pasco had started to doze when the lights came on. The maintenance man sat up as Joe Chow and his mistress entered the room opposite him. Both were naked, and judging from the fact that Ling’s legs were wrapped around her lover’s waist, were already well into what promised to be a rather athletic quickie.

  Pasco watched Chow position his mistress on the bed, and the retired CPO had already dropped his pants when “Anchors Aweigh” started to play. The ex-Navy man felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as he bent to retrieve his cell phone. His first attempt to remove the device from the belt clip failed and the Navy anthem was still playing when Joe Chow approached the mirror. His formerly erect penis was limp by then but the 9mm semi-automatic pistol that the snakehead kept next to the bed was ready for action.

  Pasco looked up at that point, saw the side of Chow’s face pressed against the glass, and said “Oh, shit!” He quickly wished that he hadn’t as the other man raised a pistol and began to back away. Ling brought a pillow up to hide her breasts as Little Chow fired, not just one round, or two, but an entire magazine as the Browning spit fire and Ling released the pillow in order to cover her ears. Glass shattered and fell in sheets as the gun jumped in the snakehead’s hand and the first of two slugs struck Pasco’s chest. The maintenance man was still in the process of falling backwards when a third bullet removed the thumb from his left hand. Four shots followed, but they went wide, as Chow finished drawing a line from left to right.

  Then, with a halo of gray gun smoke floating around his head, Little Chow moved forward to inspect his handiwork. There was a lot of broken glass on the floor so the snakehead had to watch his step. The last person Joe Chow expected to see in the room beyond was the building’s maintenance man, but there he was, laying on his back with his trousers bunched around his ankles. The bastard was a pervert, not that it made much difference, since there were laws against shooting unarmed people. And, if he were to be arrested, the younger Chow knew that the authorities would try to hang all sorts of other shit around his neck. So, like it or not, the only thing he could do was run. “Get dressed!” Joe Chow ordered as he turned towards Ling. “We have to get out of here.”

  Later, after being interviewed by the police, two of the building’s tenants would admit to hearing the sound of gunfire. But the sounds had been muffled, and the residents had been unsure, which was why more than two hours passed before Dexter came home from interviewing Willy, let himself into his apartment, and discovered the murder. The first indication that something was amiss was the sound of tinny music, which the businessman followed to his closet, and then into the viewing room beyond. That was when he saw the shattered glass, plus Pasco’s dead body, and realized what had taken place. The ex-SEAL wasn’t shocked, not after all the bodies he’d seen in Iraq, but he was saddened. Not for Pasco, who Dexter detested, but for Rossi. Because the truth about both the room and his secret sex life were about to become public and it wouldn’t take the press very long to make the connection.

  Slowly, like a man in an old-fashioned diving suit, the ex-naval officer bent over to retrieve the phone. He flipped it open, cleared the incoming call, and cut Anchors Aweigh off in mid-stanza. Then, phone in hand, he thumbed 9-1-1. It rang twice before a woman answered. “This is nine-one-one. How can I help you?”

  “I have a murder to report,” the businessman said heavily, and the downward spiral began.

  It had been a long, hard day and Rossi was still in the office. The pale yellow winter sun had faded hours earlier, but there were plenty of lights, and the stores would be open until nine. And a good thing too, because in spite of the fact that Rossi had done a better job of getting ready for Christmas than the year before, there was still some shopping left to do? Ed and Vanessa had invited her over for Christmas dinner, which was very nice of them, although it was probably based on a request from Missy. So, in spite of the fact that Rossi didn’t really want to go, she felt she had to, both to please her daughter and avoid the rather depressing prospect of spending the evening alone.

  Such were the FBI agent’s thoughts as she turned her computer off and prepared to leave the office. It was satisfying to take a person like Tina Nafino off the street, but no good deed goes unpunished, and the better part of the afternoon had been spent dealing with the paperwork related to the arrest and the subsequent confession. Or partial confession, since both Rossi and Inez believed that Nafino had been more than just a cheerleader during the mountain ambush, and was withholding information that could incriminate her. Later, once they had a chance to interview others who had taken part, the truth would come out.

  But that matter aside, the weight of Nafino’s statement added to the other evidence had been sufficient to tip the balance where Joe Chow was concerned. Despite concerns about a possible connection between the Chow family and the Chinese Military Intelligence Directorate, and the fact that certain aspects of their smuggling operation continued to be shrouded in mystery, the decision had been made to arrest Little Chow. Everyone agreed that
the snakehead was too dangerous to leave on the streets, a decision Rossi endorsed because it would put a wacko behind bars and hurry the day when she could see Dexter. That was when her phone rang, and on the chance that it might be a call from Missy, the agent answered. “Rossi, here.”

  The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Theel. “Christina. I’m glad I caught you. Amy’s here. Could you stop by?”

  Theel sounded serious, but that wasn’t unusual, so Rossi wasn’t especially concerned as she grabbed both her coat and briefcase before making her way to the SSA’s office. Theel was seated behind his desk and Haxton occupied one of the guest chairs. In spite of the twelve-hour day she had just completed, the ASAC looked fresh as a daisy. “Have a seat,” Theel instructed. “There’s a new development that you need to be aware of.”

  “Uh, oh,” Rossi said, as she put her briefcase on the floor and threw her coat over the back of the remaining chair. “Why do I have a feeling that I’m not going to like this?”

  “Because you aren’t,” Haxton answered honestly. “Did you meet a man named John Pasco when you visited Jack Dexter?”

  Rossi felt something cold start to trickle into her veins. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, there’s no particular reason why you should have,” Theel put in. “Pasco was Dexter’s maintenance man.”

  Rossi looked from one face to the other. “Was?”

  “Joe Chow shot him earlier this afternoon,” Haxton responded. “That’s the way it looks anyway—but the SPD’s homicide detectives are still working the scene. George Tolley will make sure that we’re in the loop.”

  “Damn,” the FBI agent said regretfully. “And we were just about to pick him up. He’s a crazy bastard. What set him off?”

  Haxton looked uncomfortable so Theel took over. “Yeah, well, this is where everything gets weird. According to what Tolley told me, Pasco was found in a secret room that was accessed via Dexter’s apartment. A room equipped with an interrogation-style one-way mirror.”

  Both supervisors went silent at that point giving Rossi an opportunity to absorb what she had heard. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces fell into place. The effect that Dexter’s war wound had on his sex life, the telescope in his living room, and now this. She felt anger, followed by revulsion, followed by embarrassment. How could she have been so stupid? Some aspect of Rossi’s emotions must have been visible on her face because Haxton hurried to intervene. “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself Christine. How could you know? None of us did.”

  “That’s right,” Theel chimed in. “It was just one of those things.”

  Rossi battled to maintain her composure. “Thanks, but I hope they throw the book at him.”

  “Well,” Haxton replied tentatively, “I don’t think there’s much chance of that. It’s pretty clear that Dexter wasn’t there at the time of Pasco’s death. And the people that Dexter victimized, which is to say Chow and his mistress, are wanted for murder. With that in mind I doubt he’ll be charged.”

  “There is a problem however,” Theel added soberly. “Not for him—but for you.”

  “All the stations have the story,” Haxton explained. “And they drew the line from Dexter to you. Not only that, but it gives them an excuse to replay the footage from the shoot-out at the University of Washington, the Aspee homicide, and the attack on your home.”

  Rossi thought about the impact that would have on Missy and bit her lip in an effort to hold back the tears. “Can I go now?”

  “Yes,” Theel said gently, “but don’t return home. The media will be all over the place. We’ll put you in a hotel.”

  “Thank you,” the FBI agent replied gratefully. “That sounds like a good idea. But I need to call Missy first.”

  “I’ll wait,” the SSA said. “Come get me when you’re ready.”

  Rossi returned to her cubicle, checked to ensure that no one else was around, and allowed herself to cry. Five minutes. That was all the time the agent was willing to grant herself before she blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes, and lifted the receiver. There was a quick series of tones as speed dialer did its work. It was Vanessa who answered. “Hello, Christina. I was expecting your call.”

  “Yeah,” Rossi said. “I suppose you were. How’s Missy?”

  “She doesn’t know yet,” the other woman responded. “Ed heard the news on the way home and picked her up. We’re going up to the cabin. We’ll tell her there and wait for the media frenzy to die down.”

  “Thank you,” Rossi said humbly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Vanessa said evenly. “It wasn’t your fault. Take care of yourself.”

  “I’ll try,” Rossi promised, and the conversation was over.

  Later, laying in a strange bed in a strange room, the FBI agent watched the eleven o’clock news. A reporter had ambushed Dexter out on the street and the businessman looked shell-shocked as he waved the camera off. “Why?” Rossi demanded out loud. “Why did you have to be so messed up?” But the face disappeared, a story about a traffic accident came on, and the question went unanswered.

  It was nearly noon on the day after John Pasco’s rather inglorious death when the press were invited into the lobby of the building that bore Samuel Chow’s name. Now, as the reporters addressed their questions to the family’s lawyer, the old man sat in the high-tech wheelchair and clutched an oxygen mask to his face. Everyone knew that the businessman couldn’t answer questions directly because of his health but his concern was plain to see.

  Meanwhile, as the press focused their attention on the attorney and the body double, the real Sam Chow was being whisked away inside a black utility van. It left the underground garage unobserved, wound its way onto the freeway, and sped south on I-5 at a steady sixty-three mph. The last thing the snakeheads needed was a speeding ticket.

  Traffic was heavy, so a full forty-five minutes passed before the van exited the freeway, and headed west into the suburb of Federal Way, a once-rural area that had seen a significant influx of Asian immigrants over the past twenty years. Most were hardworking citizens who wanted nothing more than an opportunity to carve themselves a slice of the American pie.

  And that was one of the reasons why Samuel Chow had real estate holdings there, good investments that had appreciated over the years and served him in other ways as well. Earlier, before the Zhou Spring had been equipped for use as an underwater way station, most of the illegal immigrants that his organization brought into the US came through Canada. Once across the border, cars and vans were used to bring them down to Federal Way where it was easy for the newly arrived Asians to blend in. Then, within weeks, if not days, they were shipped south to the sweatshops of California.

  Knowing that, Joe Chow had gone to ground in one such house, which though held under an employee’s name actually belonged to Chow, Sr. The younger man felt a variety of emotions as he watched his father’s van roll up the drive and into the garage. The old man would be pissed, no doubt about that, but what else was new?

  Joe Chow turned away from the window. Paco was there, as was Skinner and a new man named Kwong. All were heavily armed. “Remember what I told you,” the snakehead instructed. “I don’t plan to take any shit from Kango or the other morons who work for my father. So, if they start to get up my ass, then pop them.”

  Paco grinned. “No problem, boss. Kango belongs to me. We got your six.”

  Meanwhile Samuel Chow took a pull from his oxygen mask as Kango and Weed made use of the van’s lift to unload the wheelchair. Then, once the door to the house was open, the crime boss steered himself into what turned out to be the kitchen. The combined odors of garlic, soy sauce, and fermented gochu Jang chili paste filled the air. A family of four terrified Koreans kept their eyes on plates as even more armed men arrived to join those already in control of their home. The elder Chow was barely aware of the renters as he trundled past the pathetic tableau and turned into the shabby living room.

  The first thing the crime boss saw
was his son, who, in spite of the circumstances, was trying to look cool. And behind him, positioned to provide support if called upon to do so were Paco, Skinner, and a man he hadn’t seen before. Big Chow frowned. “Hello, son. This is between us. Tell your boys to take a break out in the garage.”

  It was hard to stand up to his father, very hard, but the younger man forced himself to do so. He managed a smile. “Sure, Pop. You send Kango and Weed out of the room—and my men will follow.”

  It was a reasonable request, framed in a respectful manner, yet Samuel Chow hesitated. And, when he asked himself why, the old man was forced to confront the terrible truth. Slowly, as his own powers started to fade, he had come to fear his son. Not because of the younger man’s strength, as should have been the case, but because of his weakness. The truth was that Joe had a hidden flaw, evidence of which could be seen in his addiction to gambling and general lack of focus.

  It was a horrible realization, made all the worse by the extent to which it had so long been denied, and what it meant for the future. Yet there it was. His son, the boy on whom his hopes for immortality rested, was not only unfit to lead, but so unstable as to be dangerous. Even to his father. The older Chow spread his hands. “It shall be as you say—everyone will stay.”

  His father’s apparent capitulation seemed like a victory at first, until the true implication of his words began to sink in, and Joe Chow felt a chill run up his spine. His father thought he was crazy! So loony it wasn’t safe to be alone with him! A lump formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow it. His father was a predator, had always been a predator, and still was. To what lengths would such a man go in order to protect himself? Would he murder his own son if he believed such an act was necessary? The answer was obvious.