Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Nine
Striker settled into the driver’s seat, and Felicia into the passenger’s. He’d barely driven a half-block down Union Street before he hit the brakes, stopped hard, and stared out of the window at the building on the other side of the vacant lot.
It was an old house, a three-storey, directly west of the Lucky Lodge. Out front was a billboard notice from the City, explaining that construction would soon be underway. The place was going to be rebuilt into a quadplex.
Typical for the area. More money that way.
Most of the windows were boarded up, and on the ground beneath some of the planks Striker could see piles of broken glass. A big red Realty Inc. sign hung off a post out front, swaying in the growing night-time wind. Striker stared at it for a long moment.
‘What?’ Felicia asked. ‘You got something?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said and got out of the car.
Immediately, harsh winds blew his hair about and he buttoned up his trench coat. He slammed the driver’s side door, rounded the car and started into the vacant lot that separated the two buildings.
Felicia got out too and followed him.
When Striker reached the centre of the vacant lot, he stopped. He looked across the way – at Mandy Gill’s window, then at the empty three-storey behind him. At the very top was an attic. Its windows were covered with broken shutters. Everything inside appeared dark and still.
He pointed at it.
‘The attic. It’s directly across the way from Mandy’s room. And it’s one floor up – a perfect spot for a vantage point.’
Felicia came up beside him for a better look, so close he could smell the vanilla scent of her perfume. The wind whipped her long hair across her face and she used her hand to hold it down.
‘The attic looks right into her window,’ she agreed. ‘Wanna check it out?’
Striker nodded. He crossed the vacant lot, weaving around the construction debris and potholes, until he stepped on to the next yard. Directly in front of him was the house. East side, ground floor.
He took out his flashlight and shone it on the building. The walls were made of wood and stucco that was broken off and chipped in large patches. Old rickety planks covered up most of the windows, and the one in front of Striker was no different. He gloved up with a pair of leather Windstoppers – they were thick enough to stop the glass from slicing him – and yanked hard on the lowest plank. It creaked and groaned, but remained firmly in place.
‘The wood is strong,’ Felicia remarked.
‘Long nails.’
Striker left the boards in place and made his way around the house with Felicia following. By the time they’d seen all four sides – and that included a heavily planked front door, complete with iron bars – he was satisfied the place was secure.
Felicia shivered from the cold. ‘We done our tour here?’
‘You can wait in the car, if you want.’
‘Wow. Touchy, touchy.’ She looked up at the top two floors. ‘All the other windows are too high. Someone would have needed a ladder to get up there.’
Striker didn’t disagree. The other windows were definitely out of reach. To complicate matters, the house was built on a slope. The next floor was over ten feet above the outside ground. The attic was another two floors above – far too high for someone to reach – but something about the attic called out to him. Then he figured out what was bothering him.
‘The boards have been removed from the attic window . . . and that doesn’t make sense. No Break and Enter toad is gonna climb all the way up there to force his way inside, not when he can just crowbar one of these bottom windows open. The only reason for breaking off those attic boards is if he did it from the inside – to get a better view.’
Felicia saw his point. ‘Of the Lucky Lodge.’
Striker turned his concentration to the ground-floor windows in front of him. After a more careful look, he noticed something odd with one of them. Compared to the other windows around the house – all of which were also boarded up – the planks on this one were different. They were stronger wood. Cleaner. Newer. And when he shone his flashlight on the boards, the shiny silver of new nail heads gleamed back.
He pointed this out to Felicia. ‘The other boards on the other windows are old, but this one’s been boarded up recently. And look at the angle of these two – they’ve been driven in poorly. By the looks of it, the guy was left-handed.’
Felicia looked at the nails and agreed. Then she squatted down low and shone her flashlight through the frozen blades of grass. ‘Look here. There’s small bits of glass. Just tiny stuff. Cubes, really. But it’s there. It’s almost like someone broke the window, then boarded it back up and cleaned the mess.’
Striker called up Dispatch, gave her the address, and asked if there were any recent break-ins reported to the house. When the answer came back no, he hung up and fixed Felicia with a stare. ‘When’s the last time you ever heard of a B and E guy repairing a place before he left?’
‘Never.’
‘Exactly.’
He reached out again with both his hands, grabbed hold of the upper plank, and reefed back on it with all his might. The connection was strong, and it took several attempts before the nails loosened, but in the end the planks gave way and tore out of the frame. Striker threw the planks into the construction site, and looked in through the window.
Behind him, Felicia made an uncomfortable sound. ‘We don’t have permission here, you know.’
He turned around. ‘What?’
‘Technically, we’re breaking and entering this place. Maybe we should get hold of the property rep.’
Striker let out a small laugh, one that pissed off Felicia – he could see it in her eyes. ‘I’m not waiting around here for three hours so some idiot can let us in the front door – and that’s if he even comes down here, and if he consents to us searching the place. Right now we’re going in under exigent circumstances.’
Felicia raised an eyebrow. ‘Exigent circumstances?’
‘I’ll work it out later.’
Before she could argue the point further, Striker used the last remaining broken plank to rake away the small teeth of sharp glass from the window frame. Then he shone his flashlight through the window.
Inside was the living room. Thick drapes hung across all the other windows, keeping the place entombed in darkness. Clear plastic hung over the couch and love seat, and boxes filled with other unknown belongings were stacked in the far corner. No lights of any kind were on. Not even the stove or microwave clocks in the adjoining kitchen.
‘Looks like the power’s been cut here, too,’ he said.
Felicia said nothing back. She stepped forward, right up to the window, then searched the darkness of the room and frowned.
‘Let’s call for a dog,’ she suggested.
‘And let some mangy mutt destroy any evidence left behind? Forget it, I’ll risk this one on my own.’
‘But Jacob—’
‘I’m going in, Feleesh. Just cover me, okay?’
Striker took off his coat. He draped it across the window frame to cover any leftover slivers of glass that might cut him. Then he drew his SIG Sauer, ducked low, and stepped in through the window frame.
The first thing he noticed inside the living room was the scent of dampness; it lived in the walls and unused furniture. The smell reminded him of an old folks’ home. He shone his flashlight around all four corners of the room, spotted nothing of interest, then stepped forward and peered into the kitchen. It was the same. Dark. Bare. Still.
The place looked deserted.
‘Hold up,’ he heard from Felicia. ‘I’m coming with you.’
He smiled at that. He knew she would come, in the end. She was stubborn, like always, but forever faithful. It was her best quality.
When she reached his side, he motioned for her to cover their backs. She did. Once in position, Striker led them on. They slowly made their way to the west side of the house, then started up the staircase. They cleared each floor as they went, room by room, passing two bedrooms and a bathroom, then an office, master bedroom and ensuite on the top floor.
Felicia looked around the area, cursed, shook her head. ‘This is the east side of the house,’ she said. ‘I don’t see any window.’
Striker pointed up. He walked back into the hallway. Hanging down from the ceiling was a long nylon cord with a handle at the end. He grabbed it, then fixed Felicia with a hard look.
‘Be ready,’ he said.
‘Go,’ she replied.
He gave the cord a hard yank. A loud groan filled the air, and a fall-down staircase descended from the ceiling, bringing with it a cloud of dust and particles of sawdust. Once the staircase was resting on the main floor, Striker gave Felicia the nod, and he started up the stairs. The angle was steep, and the wood was old and rickety, but he continued up. Ten steps later, he was standing in the entrance of the attic.
It was dark and dusty, cold and quiet.
He shone his flashlight at every corner. Saw no one there. But on the east side of the attic, he spotted the window with the broken shutter. The sight of it excited him, and he started that way, then stopped. He slowed himself down, took a moment to assess the area. He shone his flashlight across the wall and saw nothing of interest. Then he aimed the beam at the floor. What he saw there made him pause. By the base of the window, in the dust, were two sets of markings. They were faint and faded and indistinct, but they were definitely there.
Felicia joined him in the attic entranceway and took note of the tracks in the dust. ‘What do you think they’re from?’ she asked.
Striker dropped into a squat position and studied the markings. Two one-inch trails, perfectly parallel.
‘Suitcase maybe. A stand. A generator. I’m not sure.’
He stood up, stepped to the side of the markings, and approached the window. As he neared it, he looked down and across the way. Directly below was the beginning of the vacant lot. Directly across the way was the Lucky Lodge.
‘You got your monocular on you?’ he asked.
Felicia nodded. ‘Always.’ She fished it out of her pocket, a token from her surveillance days.
Striker had always planned on getting one himself. He took the monocular from Felicia and used it to look across the way. The scope zeroed in on Mandy Gill’s room – a perfect unobstructed view. He could see her kitchenette, the doorway to the hall, the doorway to the bathroom and then Mandy herself, dead in the chair.
Noodles was still on scene gathering evidence.
For surveillance of unit 303, there was no better position.
Striker handed the monocular back to Felicia and turned on his flashlight. He swept the beam around the window, but saw no prints of possible value. Lastly, he illuminated the broken glass and shutter, again looking for fingerprints. He found none, but what he did find was equally telling. He reached out through the window frame and picked up a shard of broken glass. Stuck to it was a small strip of black material.
Felicia made an excited sound. ‘Is it leather?’ she asked.
Striker nodded. He dropped the evidence, shard and all, into a paper bag, marked it, and carefully pocketed it. Then he turned around and found Felicia’s eyes.
‘Tape everything off?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘There’s no doubt about it. He was here.’
Ten
Ten minutes later, Noodles had made his way over to the attic and was now taking pictures and bagging samples. He stood up awkwardly in the low-ceilinged attic, and rubbed his lower back, all the while complaining about it.
‘You guys’ll have me here till the early morning light,’ he griped.
‘You’re breaking my heart,’ Striker said.
‘Like you have one.’
Striker let the banter go, and mentally went over what they had. The entire building was taped off now, with patrol cops stationed as guards at the front and back of the residence.
Striker left the scene under the command of Sergeant Mike Rothschild – an experienced old-schooler who had been one of Striker’s first NCOs many years ago.
Striker and Felicia returned to the car. After Striker hopped in the driver’s side, Felicia slammed the passenger-side door closed and bit her lip. ‘Foul play is looking more and more reasonable,’ she said.
Striker shifted in his seat. The leather was cold and it felt stiff against his back. He started the car and got the engine going. Turned on the heater. Switched the setting to defrost.
‘Yes and no,’ he finally said. ‘Sure, it looks bad. No doubt about that. But what do we really have here to suggest this is anything other than a suicide? And by that I mean non-circumstantial evidence.’
‘Non-circumstantial?’
‘The physical evidence all points to a suicide.’
‘That someone filmed.’
Striker nodded. ‘I’m not arguing that; hell, I’m the one who found the guy. It’s creepy, no doubt. But what really is that? We got a guy in the next suite filming Mandy with a set-up video camera. Why? For all we know, he had a thing for her and was videotaping her before her death. For all we know, he was there trying to get the camera back before we found it.’
‘Or maybe he was filming us, for that matter,’ Felicia said.
That notion bothered Striker. It was a possibility he hadn’t thought of. But a legitimate reality. ‘You could be right about that,’ he said. ‘One of these YouTube idiots. Or maybe another media-seller.’
‘Sounds weak when you say it.’
‘And it might well be,’ he said. ‘All I’m saying is that we don’t know why this happened. Hell, we don’t even have possession of the camera.’
‘What about the leather strip we found on the broken window?’
Striker nodded. ‘I have no doubt Ident will match it to the glove I tore off the suspect – the material is the same colour and texture. But even then, so what? What does it actually prove?’
‘It proves we got a sicko on our hands.’
Striker grinned darkly. ‘The world is full of sickos, Feleesh. Again, what does it prove? That someone who filmed Mandy was in the next-door apartment. He was also in the house across the way. Could’ve been a squatter, for all we know.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I doubt it, too. But that’s what we got right now. We need more.’ He turned silent as he thought things over, and he revved the engine a few times to warm it up faster. After a long moment, something occurred to him and he turned to face Felicia once more. ‘If Mandy was forced to eat those pills, then they were already ground up into powder when she took them – I saw the paste in her mouth.’
‘Saliva over time can do that,’ Felicia said wryly.
Striker gave her one of his I’m not a moron looks. ‘There was pill dust around her lips as well, and she also had bits of it on the corners of her mouth. The pills were crushed, Feleesh; she didn’t chew them. So either she hated taking medicine in pill form and always ingested them as powder – or someone made her take them. It’s one or the other.’
Felicia crossed her arms to keep warm. ‘If there was a struggle, you’d think she’d have fought back.’
‘There are no defensive wounds.’
‘Could she have been bound?’
Striker bit his lip as he thought that over. ‘I looked for that, and I didn’t see any ligature marks. But if something happened to her first – if she were held down, or bound, or drugged – then that would explain it. My bet would be drugs.’ He flipped through the pages of his notebook, then wrote down a few theories. ‘You can damn well zombify a person with a lot of over-the-counter meds – sleeping pills, Valium, anything they can crush up and slip into someone’s drink.’
‘GHB,’ Felicia noted.
Gamma Hydroxybutyric Acid was the most common daterape drug on the market.
‘That shit renders victims damn near immobile,’ she added.
‘And it can kill in larger doses,’ Striker said. ‘That might end up being another avenue we need to pursue. For all we know, this could end up being a case of a date rape gone wrong.’ He wrote this down in his notebook. ‘Tox tests will help.’
Striker was about to say more when his cell phone buzzed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his iPhone. Across the screen were two words: Larisa Logan. He saw the name, then shook his head and swore under his breath. He hit the Ignore button and stuffed the cell back into his pocket.
Felicia took note. ‘Who was that?’
Striker gave her a glance like he didn’t want to get into it. When Felicia didn’t look away and just kept staring, waiting for an answer, he relented.
‘Larisa Logan,’ he explained. ‘Works for the Victim Services Unit. Third time she’s called me in two days.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘Well, here’s a novel idea – why don’t you actually answer the phone? Or at least call the woman back?’
Striker said nothing for a moment. He used the sleeve of his coat to wipe away some of the remaining moisture on the driver’s side window. Then he fiddled with the defrost controls.
‘Jacob?’ Felicia persisted.
He sighed and met her stare. ‘Look, Larisa’s the counsellor who put me through the department-ordered sessions after Amanda’s death, okay? That’s her fifth call this week.’
‘Then why don’t you just call her back?’
‘Because I know what she wants.’
‘Which is?’
‘To do her yearly follow-up sessions, I’m sure – the woman is relentless.’
‘So then do them.’
Striker said nothing, he just exhaled. The sessions with Larisa were difficult; they brought back too many painful memories. And there was enough on his plate right now with work and home life. Already, he couldn’t sleep at night. And on top of all this, there was his relationship with Felicia: off again, on again, somewhere in between – he never knew which way they were headed.
Off again right now, and he wasn’t happy with it. Whenever he asked her what the problem was she said: ‘There’s just too many issues to deal with.’
It was her standard response.
Lately, everywhere he turned there were problems. Even the good things felt hard. And he was tired of it. He didn’t need any more stress put on his shoulders. And dredging up the memories of Amanda’s depression and suicide would only make matters worse.
He was avoiding all that. Purposefully.
Felicia suddenly made an Ohhh sound and seemed to catch on. ‘My God, Jacob, I’m sorry – I never even realized.’
He looked at her, confused. ‘Realized what?’
‘This. I mean, here we are at a suicide, and the woman has almost the same name as your wife. Mandy. Kinda like Amanda. I’m sorry, I should have known. I never even thought—’
‘You’re reaching here, Feleesh. And for the record, Amanda died a long time ago.’
‘What does that matter? My God, if I’d realized—’
‘A long time ago, Feleesh.’
She gave him an uncertain look, like she wasn’t sure which way to take the conversation. In the end, she kept quiet. The passenger window was still fogged up, so she took a moment to power the window down and up. When it remained fogged, she wiped away the condensation with her hand. Afterwards, she turned in her seat and met his stare once more. She spoke softly.
‘Maybe you should see Larisa one more time.’
Striker groaned. ‘Oh Jesus, not you, too. Leave it be, Feleesh.’
‘I’m just saying—’
‘You’re always just saying something. Serious. Just let it go for once, will ya? Let this one ride.’
Felicia’s eyes narrowed at the comment, and for a moment she looked ready for a fight. She tucked her long dark hair back over her ear and her mouth opened like she was ready to say more.
Striker looked away from her. He was in no mood for small talk or bullshit. And in even less of a mood for arguing.
DNA tests needed to be done.
Eleven
Before Striker could put the car into gear, the bright glare of headlights caught his eye. When he looked over into the centre of the street, he saw two men with video cameras and one woman with long blonde hair holding a microphone in front of a white media van.
The evening news.
‘Jesus, they’re here already?’ he griped.
Felicia sighed. ‘They must’ve seen the police lights and the dog track.’
‘Just say nothing and get in the car.’
Striker powered down the driver’s side window. The blonde woman took notice and hurried over, almost slipping in her high heels.
‘Detective Striker. Detective Striker!’ she called.
‘No comment,’ he said politely.
He tried to show no emotion. But it was hard. There was no doubt in his mind that he and Felicia would now be on the local news tonight, and that irritated him.
Felicia shook her head as she looked at the news crew. ‘Must be a slow night,’ she noted.
‘For them,’ Striker replied. ‘For us, it’s about to get busy.’
He put the car into Drive and pulled out on to the road. The lab was waiting.
For the first few minutes of the drive, silence filled the car. Felicia was reading through Mandy Gill’s long and troubled history, and Striker had taken a handful of aspirin to get rid of the headache that was growing behind his eyes. When they reached the corner of Clark and Broadway, Felicia looked up, confused.
‘Why are we going this way?’ she asked. ‘The lab is south.’
Striker said nothing as he navigated around a parked bus and continued west.
‘Jacob?’ she persisted.
He glanced over at her. ‘Using the police lab will take months,’ he explained. ‘Weeks, in fact, even if we could put a rush order on it. No, we’re going private on this one.’
‘Private? You know how much that costs.’
‘Don’t worry, I got it covered.’
‘You got it covered? Like, personally?’ When he didn’t answer right away, her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you up to now? How are we going to pay for this?’
‘Contingency fund.’
She gave him one of her probing looks, and Striker felt her hot black eyes bore into him. He ignored the feeling and pretended to be oblivious – like he always did when trying to avoid a discussion with Felicia.
They continued on to their destination, swerving in and out of the seven o’clock lingering rush-hour grind. When they reached the fifteen hundred block of West Broadway Avenue, Striker pulled over to the north side of the road and stopped in a No Parking Zone. He threw a Vancouver Police placard on the dashboard.
Above the Chapters book store, GeneTrace Laboratories occupied the top two floors of the Bosner Tower, a ten-storey, glass-and-steel monstrosity that took up the entire southwest corner of the Granville–Broadway intersection. The windows were all tinted black, and the moon and car lights reflected off the glass panes in a display that looked eerily festive.
Striker had been here before.
Many times.
Obtaining DNA results was an arduous and painful process if you went through the proper channels. The police lab was a nightmare – great technicians with no support. Wait times could be as long as two years, sometimes even three, if the crime was only a property-related offence.
With the private labs, a complete test with 16-loci quality could be attained in as little as seven days. Less, if the customer was willing to buck up. Private was always the best way to go. And as far as Striker was concerned, GeneTrace was the cream of the crop; they had state-of-the-art facilities and the latest, ground-breaking technology. All of which the customer paid for – and paid dearly.
‘What contingency fund?’ Felicia asked.
Striker just gave her one of his trademark smiles and opened the car door.
‘Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to.’
He grabbed the paper bag with the glove in it from the trunk, turned around, and marched across the street to the Bosner Tower.
Being just after seven, they had plenty of time. GeneTrace Laboratories was open until ten, though Striker often made arrangements for after-hours drops. The owners of GeneTrace were good businessmen.
And cops got preferential treatment.
Inside, the waiting area looked more like a trendy cappuccino shop than a science laboratory. Black leather Casa Nova sofas, white marble floors, and stone-and-glass coffee tables were the norm. Standing tall in the centre of the foyer was a hand-etched sculpture of a pair of chromosomes, made from transparent glass. Behind that was a thick granite countertop, on which stood several black leather folders, which looked more like fancy menus at a five-star restaurant than catalogues for DNA testing.
Felicia walked ahead and picked one up.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘They do everything here from paternity tests to mitochondrial DNA.’ Her eyes turned to the price list and her brow lifted. ‘For this kind of dough, they should at least offer us a martini while we wait.’
Striker grinned. ‘Martini? Hell, they should offer us lines.’
He’d barely finished speaking when the front-desk clerk returned. He walked, almost stork-like, in huge awkward strides with his head bobbing forward with each step; Striker half expected the man to preen himself. His face was thin, and it looked disarmingly young behind the glasses he wore. When he spoke, his voice was high. Fluttery.
‘Good evening. Welcome to GeneTrace. How can I help you?’
Striker approached the counter and badged the young man – an action which seemed to leave no impression on the young clerk – then dropped the brown paper bag with the glove in it and the brown paper bag with the glass shard in it on the granite countertop and met the man’s stare.
‘Vancouver Police,’ he said. ‘We need DNA on this glove. And anything you can do with this glass shard – there’s a leather strip on it we think is from the glove. We’ll need it matched.’
‘That’s not a problem.’
‘We need it done fast.’
‘That is also not a problem.’ He spoke with an air of arrogance.
Without another word, the clerk pulled a form and a pen from beneath the counter and handed it to them. When Striker accepted the form and began filling out the necessary details – type of test required; suspected location of DNA on the item procured; and all the necessary contact numbers – the clerk cleared his throat.
‘And do you have a suspect comparison sample?’ he asked.
Striker shook his head. ‘We want the results run through the DNA Databank. See if there’s any Known Offender hits.’ He met the man’s stare. ‘And we want the results in less than forty-eight hours.’
The clerk frowned. ‘I said fast was not a problem, not light speed.’
‘This is important.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ the man said, and that arrogance was back. ‘Unfortunately, the lab is extremely backed up right now – we’ve been tasked with assisting the Pickton investigation. So even with a rush, it’s going to take some time.’
‘Like I said, we need them fast.’
The clerk’s face took on a distant, detached look, as if this was a line of questioning he was all too used to. When he spoke again, his speech sounded prepared and overused. ‘This is DNA we’re talking about, Detectives, not fingerprints. The culture has to be grown.’
Striker put on his best smile. ‘So it’s not like CSI ?’
The clerk’s face tightened for a moment, then lost the frown. A grin spread his lips and he let out a small laugh.
‘Expect four days,’ he said. ‘Three at the minimum. But leave the sample with me and I’ll see what I can work out with the lab people. Forty-eight hours seems quite unlikely at this point in time, but you never know.’
Striker cast Felicia a glance. After she nodded, Striker turned back to face the clerk. ‘Thanks. We really appreciate your assistance with this.’ He shook the clerk’s hand, then handed him a business card and wrote his personal cell number on it. ‘Call me the moment you know. Night or day.’
‘Of course.’
The clerk rubbed his nose and read through the DNA form, making sure all the boxes were properly filled out and checked. When he reached the bottom of the page, he looked up and met Striker’s stare.
‘And what authorization number should I use?’ he asked.
Striker didn’t hesitate. ‘Eleven thirteen.’
He saw Felicia flinch at the mention of the badge number, but he paid her no heed. Seconds later, when the clerk excused himself to print up the proper labels for the sample and grab one of the Time Continuity forms the police required, Felicia rushed up to the counter and elbowed Striker.
‘What the hell is wrong with you? That’s Laroche’s number.’
Striker shrugged. ‘Has to be. With a bill this big, only an inspector can sign off on it.’
‘But he didn’t sign off on it – we haven’t even spoken to him yet.’
Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? I must’ve been mistaken then, because I could’ve sworn you told me he’d given us authorization.’
Her reply was cold. ‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Hmm. Must’ve misheard you then.’
‘Jacob—’
‘We really need to communicate better in the future.’ When her cold look remained fixed on him, he added, ‘Just be happy he took the badge number. Otherwise we would’ve had to use Plan B.’
‘Plan B?’
‘You would’ve had to sleep with him.’ When she didn’t laugh and her glare remained the same, Striker splayed his hands in surrender. ‘Come on, Feleesh. It’ll be fine. Trust me.’
She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve heard that one before, Jacob. You’re going to get us suspended.’
He stopped leaning on the counter and turned to face her. ‘That won’t happen. And besides, you know how it works around here – you honestly think Laroche is going to authorize private funding when all we got right now is circumstantial evidence? Lots of luck.’
‘That’s exactly my point.’
‘Well, whatever happens, I’ll wear it. As far as I’m concerned, I thought he had approved this. Whoops. My mistake.’
‘Let’s just get the hell out of here,’ she said.
‘We can’t go just yet. He needs me to sign the continuity form,’ Striker said.
Felicia just gave him one of her sharp looks before turning away. She shook her head, brushed her long dark hair over her shoulder, and focused on the gigantic painting on the far wall – a recreation of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam, except in this painting, Adam wasn’t touching God, he was touching a spiralling strand of DNA.
Striker watched Felicia from behind, feeling the cold shoulder she was giving him. It was all right; she had reason to. He completely understood that. What he was doing could get them into major shit. Yet again. And sooner or later, a suspension was bound to happen. Lately, he’d been cutting more corners than a Vancouver taxi driver. But he couldn’t help it.
That was the only way things ever got done around here.
He was just about to force some conversation with Felicia – try to smooth things out a little – when his cell went off. He whipped it out, read the screen and saw Mike Rothschild’s name. He picked up.
