Текст книги "The Survivor"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Thirty
Felicia stood in the dim lighting of the police garage and stared blankly at the small yellow happy face that was stuck to the metallic whiteboard.
‘You lost me,’ she said to Striker. She walked up to the whiteboard. Stopped. Studied the happy face.
It was a circular piece of plastic. Dark yellow with the standard smile painted onto it. The only difference was the bullet-hole that had been painted in the centre of the forehead. The happy face was attached to the key-ring by a ten-centimetre chain, just like the fob and Honda key.
‘So it’s a magnet,’ Felicia said again.
Striker took Courtney’s happy face magnet from Felicia and put it on the board next to the one from Red Mask’s key-ring.
‘Take them off the board,’ he said.
When Felicia tried, Courtney’s came off easily. But she almost broke a nail on Red Mask’s version. She swore. ‘Okay, it’s a really, really strong magnet.’
‘And it separates from the key-ring.’
Felicia made a face, as if she was tired of playing Twenty Questions, but Striker didn’t notice. To prove his point, he pried the magnet from the board, then found the snap attachment in the chain. He rolled it between his fingers, gave it a firm squeeze, and the chain broke in half, separating the happy face from the rest of the key-ring. He handed it to Felicia.
She took it. ‘Early birthday present?’
‘Something like that.’
Her voice took on a curious tone. ‘So how’s it gonna open something in the car that, so far, no one else has found?’
‘The clue is the magnet. It completes a circuit, probably somewhere near the steering column or radio. If you hit the right spot, it’s like plugging in a power cord. Once we got power, the fob will open the hidden compartment.’ He gave her a nod. ‘Go to the passenger side.’
She did. ‘How do you know this?’
Striker reached the driver’s side. ‘I’ve seen it before with the gangs. And I took some courses down in Virginia with the DEA. Once I knew this key was magnetic, I suspected there might be a hidden compartment. Let’s hope I’m right.’
They gloved up with fresh latex, then Striker leaned inside the car and scanned the dashboard. He took the Honda key from the Ident bag and placed it in the ignition. ‘Usually, the car has to be turned on to complete the circuit.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Felicia asked.
‘Look on top of the dashboard, see if you can find any marks or scratches.’
Felicia started to lean inside the car, then stopped. She took a moment to tie her hair back – the last thing she needed was to leave her own DNA there for investigators. Once done, she scanned the top of the dashboard. It was dark green and made of smooth vinyl. Appeared very ordinary.
‘Nothing here. No marks of any kind.’
Striker cursed. ‘Put the magnet on top of the dashboard. Your end.’
She did. ‘Okay.’
‘The magnet should complete the circuit, the fob should activate it.’ He put the key into the auxiliary position, and all the dash lights came on. ‘Now slowly slide the magnet across the dash towards me, just a half-inch at a time.’
Felicia moved the happy face as requested, inch by inch, and each time Striker pressed the button on the fob. Nothing happened. They did this across the entire dashboard.
Nothing.
A frustrated sound escaped Striker’s lips. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. His skin felt itchy. The police garage was a cold, draughty place, but inside the Civic, it felt hot and claustrophobic. Small dots of sweat dampened his brow. The sweet smell of Felicia’s perfume was getting to him.
He stood back from the vehicle and took a short walk to the other side of the garage. It gave him some space – room to think. He stood in the corner for a long moment, going over everything in his head.
I must be missing something.
He turned, looked back at the car and saw Felicia standing there, her coffee-depleted patience thinning. Her long dark hair had been sprayed down and combed out, but it was obvious she’d slept on it wrong all night. A thought occurred to him.
‘Is the radio turned on?’
‘Radio?’
‘Inside the Civic. Is it on?’
Felicia looked inside, shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Christ. The radio is part of the circuit.’
He marched back to the car and leaned inside the driver’s seat. The radio was brand new, one of those disc, radio and mp3 players, all built into one. There was no brand name anywhere on the device. Just a plain black faceplate with all the LEDs turned off. Striker pressed the power button, and the faceplate lit up in bright neon blue. The screen said DISC, but nothing was playing. He grabbed the happy face magnet, handed it back to Felicia, and grinned.
‘One more time.’
Like before, Felicia placed the magnet down on the far end of the dashboard. Striker grabbed the remote, and they started the entire process all over again. When they reached the midway point of the dashboard – with the happy face magnet positioned directly above the D in DISC – Striker hit the fob and an unseen electronic lock disengaged somewhere. The click was sharp, audible, and it was followed by a soft whirring sound.
Felicia flinched. ‘What the hell is that?’
Before Striker could respond, the entire front section of the dashboard came apart. The front half moved forward, away from the baseboard. It lowered towards them on a pair of automated, gliding hinges, revealing a hidden compartment that went deep under the dashboard, back towards the engine area.
Striker smiled.
‘That’s the jackpot.’
Thirty-One
Ten minutes later, Striker and Felicia draped brown paper over a work table, then laid out everything they’d found inside the hidden compartment. The list was brief but significant:
One Benelli shotgun, single-barrel, pump-action.
Two 40-calibre Glock handguns. Pistols. Modified to be fully automatic.
Ammunition, boxed and open. Slugs and 40-calibre. Hollow-tip variety and steel-cased Full Metal Jacket.
And one ordinary brown legal-size envelope with over ten grand in cash inside.
Striker held it up, grinned. ‘Coffee money.’
Felicia finally gave him the smile he’d been drilling for all morning. ‘Make mine a latte.’
He gathered up all the free ammunition, stuck one of the rounds inside his pocket, then placed the rest in a brown paper bag for Ident. He left it in the centre of the table with a large sign that read: Ammo from Hidden Compartment in Civic. Check for Prints.
Then he called Noodles and told him about the find.
‘This is fucking insane,’ Noodles said. ‘I was just gonna call you. I heard about the ammo issues, so I did some analysis here. Looks to me like these kids were shot with different types. Some 762s and some frangible forty-cals.’
Striker glanced left at Felicia as she stared into the car at the hidden compartment. ‘I’ve got matching ammo here, Noodles. These guys were pros. I need you to get down here and look at this stuff.’
‘No can do. I’m still covering bases here on the docks with the Wong body. Plus you got me chasing down samples on Leung’s body. I’m gonna be hours still – you’re making too many crime scenes for me, you prick.’
Striker cursed. ‘I need you, Noodles.’
‘I’m sending John Winter down.’
‘Winter? He’s a friggin’ rookie.’
‘Maybe so, but he came in second overall in the competition back East. I taught the kid everything I know, Shipwreck. He’s good.’
Striker accepted it, albeit grudgingly. ‘Keep me posted on everything, and get Winter to call me when he’s done.’
Noodles agreed, then hung up. Striker walked back to the table, picked up one of the Glocks and scanned it for a serial number. Felicia was staring at him with a lost look on her face.
‘How did you know?’ she said. ‘About the compartment?’
‘I already told you. I’d seen it before and had taken courses.’
‘But what exactly? Walk me through it.’
Striker put down the Glock. ‘Well, there were a few things, really. The ignition was brand new and had clearly been replaced. That was the biggest clue. But there were other things, too. Couple of scuff marks where the dash meets the steering column. And then there was the fob.’
‘But that fob could’ve been for anything – a garage, an apartment, another car.’
‘Could’ve been. But it wasn’t.’
She said nothing, she just stared at him. Her dark eyes were beautiful but hard to read.
Striker shrugged. ‘Like I said, it was one of many factors.’
‘And the happy face?’
‘More specifically, the magnet inside. It was very strong. Kept sticking to everything. And you needed that to complete the circuit. It’s one of those extra little securities these maggots use nowadays, so that patrol cops can’t use the fob to unlock the compartment during street checks. That’s why the radio also had to be turned on, to complete the circuit. It’s one more safety precaution for dial-a-dopers.’
She nodded. ‘What else?’
Striker took the other pistol from the table, scanned it for a serial. Found none. ‘For two, no trinket should’ve been there at all. Think about it. No assassin’s going to start accessorising his key chain for a stolen car he intends to dump. It was there for a reason. I just had to figure out what that reason was – though I’m still a little bit lost as to why he left the keys at the scene in the first place. Must’ve dropped them, been his first mistake.’ He gave Felicia a thoughtful look. ‘Maybe he’s hurt worse than we thought.’
Felicia was quiet for a moment, then leaned against the car and crossed her arms. ‘Well bravo, Jacob. Nice to see you had so many ideas in your head all this time. And thanks so much for keeping me in the loop.’
He looked up from the gun barrel he was assessing. ‘You’re not actually pissed, are you?’
‘We’re partners, and you didn’t even tell me.’
‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘You had an idea.’
Striker picked up the shotgun. The serial number had been removed from the barrel here too. It was to be expected. He scanned the steel for any grind marks, saw none, and nodded. Half to himself, half to Felicia.
‘No serial.’
This seemed to distract her. ‘Gone? Completely?’
‘Looks like it. We’ll do the DNA thing first. Check it against the databank. But that will take a few weeks at best, even with a priority rush. Then we’ll see if the Feds can get some serial numbers from the barrels.’
‘You said the serial was gone.’
‘It is. But they didn’t file it off, they used acid.’ Striker held up the barrel for her to see and rubbed his finger along the black shiny barrel. The metal was smooth. ‘The factory stamping leaves an impression right through the steel. Lasers can pick it up. Problem is we got none here, but the Feds do. And if they can get a serial, we’ll do a trace, see if it’s registered. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
Felicia looked at all the guns laid out on the table. ‘So we got no serials.’
Striker put the shotgun back down alongside them. ‘Not worried about the serials. What I want to know is whether these guns were used on any of the victims. Ballistics will have to tell us that. Through the pathologist.’
‘But the serials—’
‘There’s a billion handguns in North America, Feleesh. Registered, unregistered, it makes no difference. There’s just too damn many for us to track. They fly across the borders like leaves. A gun won’t lead us anywhere. What will, is the hidden compartment – there’s only a handful of people in this country who can make that.’
This notion seemed to perk her up.
‘And even fewer who could do it so quickly,’ she said.
Striker smiled. ‘Exactly. Whoever did this would need to have the materials on hand, the tools required, and the know-how. Given the timeframe and the fact that these guys weren’t going to chance it by driving around the province, that person will be somewhere here in the Lower Mainland. Has to be. And once we find out who that is, we can trace things back to the school. Find out who our shooters were. Find out who was really behind this attack.’
Felicia gave him a pointed look. ‘Any other ideas you’re holding back?’
‘No. I don’t got a clue. But I know someone who will.’
‘Who?’
‘Just your favourite person in the whole entire world.’
A look of disgust crept across her face. ‘Please God, tell me you’re not talking about Hans Jager.’
Striker laughed out loud.
‘You got it, darlin. The one and only. Time to go see Meathead.’
Thirty-Two
Half an hour later, just after eight o’clock as the sun was finally coming up, Striker and Felicia pulled into the south lane of Tenth Avenue, then turned down the steep driveway that led into the underground police parkade. Striker swiped his card, keyed in his ID number and drove into the protected area of the building. The steel-reinforced gates automatically closed behind them.
Felicia grimaced at the low ceiling, which was covered with grey stalactites of fire-retardant foam. ‘Feels like a tomb down here.’
Striker agreed. ‘Welcome to the Bunker.’ It was the first time he’d been back here at Specialty Unit Headquarters since his stress leave, and it felt good.
He scanned the area. The lower levels of the complex contained electronically-secured lockers that housed the high-tech military weaponry required for the Emergency Response Team. This place was a favourite hangout for Meathead, who planned on making the move from the International Gang Task Force to the Emergency Response Team the moment his application was approved by the Inspector. So when he had suggested they all meet here to discuss matters, Striker hadn’t been surprised.
Striker drove down the ramp, around the corner, and saw Meathead at the next series of storage rooms. At six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, Meathead was an easy man to spot. A modern-day Viking. He had a giant head, which was covered with thick, wild curls of red hair, and a moustache and goatee to match. His arms were the size of most men’s calves and they were covered with so many tattoos they looked like sleeves – a Departmental rule-breaker, no doubt, but one that the white-shirts had wisely overlooked.
How could they not? Meathead was an asset. A force to be reckoned with. He was afraid of no man, and his military background and fighting arts gave him the skills to lead any operation the Department required. He was a specialist.
Striker pointed ahead. ‘There he is.’
Felicia made an ugh sound.
Striker parked the cruiser in the nearest stall, and they both climbed out.
‘Morning, Meathead,’ Striker called.
Meathead looked up and spotted them both. ‘Shipwreck. Fellatio.’
Felicia’s posture tightened. ‘In your dreams, pal.’
‘Oh, all the time, Beautiful.’ Meathead barked out a laugh. ‘Hell, give me a few minutes and I’ll whip something up for you right now.’ He closed his eyes, dropped his hand into his black sweatpants and started making perverted, grunting noises.
Felicia gave Striker one of her Can-we-leave? looks, and he ignored it. He stepped closer to Meathead, gave the man a swat on the shoulder.
‘Knock it off.’
‘Gimme a second, I’m almost there.’
‘Meathead.’
‘Oh fine, ruin my fun.’ Meathead opened his eyes, offered a dirty smirk, then returned his attention to the black case he was securing. It was for the carbine, the latest long-range rifle the Department was investing in. Meathead snatched it up like it weighed five pounds, not fifty, and threw it in his locker. Once everything was secure, he walked away and motioned for Striker and Felicia to follow him.
They did, Striker with fast steps, Felicia purposely lagging behind.
They cut across the oil-stained pavement to a small doorway located behind a large concrete support pillar. Meathead opened the door to reveal a small briefing room, complete with large rectangular table and an overhead projector, which was turned off. In the far corner of the room was a row of filing cabinets. Cheap metal ones. Opposite them, a series of computers lined the wall. They were linked together, Striker noted, but almost certainly without connection to the outside world.
Meathead took note of Felicia’s expression and winked. ‘You look tired, Beautiful. You need to spend some time off your feet.’
‘I do. Every time I smell your breath.’
‘So it’s getting better then.’ When she didn’t respond, Meathead added, ‘I’ve been brushing more since our last meeting. Bought a Sonicare.’
Striker grinned and moved closer to Meathead. He smelled burned gunpowder. The air was strong with it. And gun oil, too. Obviously Meathead had been up at the range today, probably his third visit of the week.
Gun oil and gunpowder suited the man.
Before Striker could say anything, Meathead removed the T-shirt he was wearing and took another one from the corner of the room. The shirt looked a size too small against his massive arms. Striker took notice of the shirt. It was a grey-green colour and it had a red maple leaf on the top left, covered over by the numbers 499.
‘Four nine-nine?’
Meathead gave him a pissed look. ‘Larry Young, man – how could you forget?’
The moment Striker heard the name he was embarrassed. 499 was the badge number of Larry Young, the Emergency Response Team member killed during a drug raid. His name was gospel around the Department. And rightly so.
‘The shirts came out a few months back,’ Meathead said, ‘when you were on leave. Probably why you had the mental blip.’
‘Yeah, sure. Get me one, will you?’
‘Will do.’
Striker cleared his throat, then pulled the bullet he had found in the hidden compartment out from his jacket pocket. He thrust it at Meathead. ‘Here. Take a look at this.’
Meathead took the round, stared it over and whistled. The bullet was made of hard-tipped, shiny brass. ‘Is this the ammo they were using?’
Striker nodded. ‘One type. Tell me what it is.’
Meathead raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I want confirmation.’
‘Official warfare ammo, buddy. Full metal jacket.’
Striker thought it over. ‘That’s what they were shooting indiscriminately.’ He handed Meathead another bullet. ‘They also used this, but only on some of the kids – the ones I think were targeted.’
Meathead took the next bullet and examined that one, too. ‘Hollow tip, man. Hydra-Shok. Ultimate stopping power. They were taking no chances with these ones.’
Striker shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’
Felicia came over, took the bullet from Meathead’s hand and gave it the onceover. ‘What don’t you get?’ she asked Jacob.
‘Why use full metal jacket? I mean, these guys were there to kill, so why not go for a round that’s frangible – like a Hydra-Shok. Or, even better yet, some Federal HST? That shit leaves a two-inch spiral through a man. I know they didn’t need anything too fancy; these were just a bunch of high-school students, after all. No one was wearing body armour. But if you’re going for maximum fatalities, why not pick the proper ammunition?’
‘Maybe they weren’t going for maximum kills, maybe they were going for numbers,’ Felicia suggested. ‘Maximum casualties. Fear.’
Striker decided she was right about that. Full metal jacket would over-penetrate, ricochet, strike more targets. Cause more casualties. But the gunmen had been careful to use the Hydra-Shok ammo on Tina Chow and Conrad Macmillan and Chantelle O’Riley. Which was part of the reason why these kids seemed targeted. So why Hydra-Shok?
A signature?
Meathead interjected, ‘Semantics, man. Doesn’t really matter. You got a person at your mercy and shoot enough rounds of any kind through them, they’re Swiss cheese. Plus I hear these guys had shotguns and an AK-47. They want to go for fatalities, that’s more than enough firepower to take down a bear.’
As Meathead finished speaking, Felicia’s cell went off. She answered it, but had difficulty getting a strong signal in the underground. She lost the call. After cussing, she turned to Striker and handed him the bullet.
‘It’s Caroline,’ she said. ‘I’m gonna walk up a level and call her back.’
Striker was glad to see her leave. She’d been acting strange all morning. Distant, almost hostile at times. And Meathead’s banter wasn’t helping the mood. With her out of the way, there was less pressure.
Meathead watched her go and grunted. ‘Man, I’d like to tap that.’
‘Tap that?’
‘Like a keg, baby.’
‘You ever hear of harassment?’
‘Yeah, and I been trying to get me some, Boss. But so far no luck.’
Meathead barked out another hyena laugh, and Striker sighed. He said nothing to encourage the man, because Meathead was like that; he fed off of other people’s attention, and the more praise he got, the wilder and more crude he became. Striker focused their attention back on the investigation.
‘I found all this ammo in the stolen Civic.’
‘For real?’
‘Hidden compartment.’
‘No shit. Floorboards?’
‘Dashboard. Which is why I’m here.’ Striker moved over to the table and sat down. ‘I’ve been out of the loop on this stuff for a few years now. You’re the one in Gangs, you deal with these rejects all the time. So tell me, where do they get this work done?’
Meathead walked across the room to the fridge and opened the door. He pulled out a couple of Gatorades and threw the orange one to Striker. He kept the Berry Blue for himself. Held it up. Grinned.
‘Blue – to match my balls.’
‘If you’re matching, it should be smaller. The shot-glass version. Now back to the hidden compartment.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Meathead uncapped the Gatorade, drank some, cleared his throat. ‘How long did they have to make these modifications?’
‘Car was stolen nine days before the attack.’
Meathead made an interested sound. ‘Well, that rules out the Blaine Brothers.’
‘Why?’
‘They work out east. Ontario. But they’re the best. Both guys are in their fifties now, former soldiers – real ones, saw Desert Storm. Then they came home and turned private.’ He chugged back some sports drink, wiped his mouth with his forearm. ‘They got a whole modification business going on down there, making cars bullet-proof and adding hidden compartments. But they usually work on Escalades or Hummers, maybe even the odd Beamer. Not Civics though. And it takes time to do this stuff. A full month for anything good.’
Striker commented, ‘It would take them half the nine days just to drive the car out east and back.’
‘Exactly, so it would have to be local. What kind of monkey work they do to the dashboard?’
‘Solid stuff,’ Striker said. ‘Professional. No one would know anything was there unless they removed the dash. Fresh-install, too. New ignition, new radio, and a magnetic circuit to boot. Barely a mark on the dashboard, or anywhere for that matter.’
Meathead dragged his finger through the air as if writing or counting. ‘Five names come to mind,’ he finally said. He told them to Striker, who wrote them down in his notebook.
‘All local?’ Striker asked.
‘Yep. Two are in the Valley, one on the North Shore, far as I can remember. Don’t know where the other two are, but they were always rounders, so probably East Side – at least, that’s where they were a few years back.’
Striker read the names silently. They weren’t familiar. He looked back up and met Meathead’s stare. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Some of these guys are bad dudes, man. Pop a cop no problem. So be careful.’
Striker nodded. At that moment, Felicia swung open the door and came marching back into the room. Her pretty face looked preoccupied.
‘Everything okay?’ Striker asked.
‘No. That was Caroline. She’s gone Chernobyl on us – total meltdown.’
‘Can you blame her?’
‘She says the parents of some of the dead have called. They won’t leave her alone. They want answers to a lot of things she doesn’t know answers to.’
The notion bothered Striker. He felt for these people. And he couldn’t imagine their grief. Losing a loved one was hard enough, but losing a child – well, that was life-destroying. Soon, he and Felicia would have to talk to the parents of the deceased, not only for the good of the investigation, but out of simple decency and respect. First on that list were the Chows, the MacMillans, and the O’Rileys.
But before he could do that, he needed to do their background checks.
He gave Meathead a final glance, saying, ‘Keep your cell on, I might need you.’
‘Will do, Boss.’
Then Striker and Felicia went back to the car, drove out of the underground parkade. They headed for Main and Hastings. To their home base.
Major Crimes.
