Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Thirty-Six

For the third time in ten minutes, the phone rang, and Courtney finally dragged herself out of bed to look at the call display. The bedroom drapes had blocked out the sun and kept everything dark, and the laminate floors were cold against the soft flesh of her feet as she lumbered down the hall into the living room.

She hoped the call was from Raine. Unlike everyone else, Raine understood her. How couldn’t she? They had a connection, a unique bond. Courtney had lost her mother just two years ago, and Raine had lost her dad last year when her parents broke up and he moved away to Hong Kong. It made their friendship like a kinship. Kind of.

Like sisters.

The living room was no warmer than the bedroom, though brighter with the sun pouring in. It smelled of woodsmoke and whisky and lemons. Courtney passed the coffee table where Dad and Felicia’s mugs still stood and picked up the phone. She stared at the small screen.

Missed call.

She hit the missed calls button and saw Dad Cell spread across the screen. God, he was stubborn. She scrolled down and found the same listing three more times. Totally stubborn. Stubborn as hell.

She put the phone back on its cradle, then spotted her cell phone lying in the middle of the room, just in front of the fireplace. The phone was flipped open, the grey casing cracked down the side from where it had slammed into the wall. It made her angry all over again because she hadn’t even finished paying off the damn thing, and she would never have reacted like that, were it not for Felicia.

She picked up the cell, powered it on, and was happy to see it still worked. There were nine missed calls. All but two were from friends she had at school. No doubt they wanted to talk about the shootings.

Courtney erased every one of them from the phone’s memory. She had no interest in talking about the shootings. Not now, not ever.

All it did was remind her of Mom.

The last two calls were the only ones she cared about. Both were from Raine. The first had come in late last night, at two-fourteen a.m. The last one had come in about a half hour ago.

Courtney called back, got the answering machine: ‘Leave a message, but don’t Raine on my parade.’

That always made Courtney smile. ‘It’s the Court,’ she said. ‘I’m up. Gimme a call.’

She hung up, hoped her message sounded cool, hoped her tag name wasn’t getting lame, and she linked her cell to the charger. As she tried to think up a new nickname – something cooler than The Court – thoughts of breakfast ran through her mind. She decided to skip it. Her stomach wasn’t ready.

She turned on the TV, and saw the shootings on every channel. Police, paramedics, teachers – all running and screaming, some crying. There were quick flashes of blood with every scene. Carnage. The sight made her heart race, made her feel sick.

Looking away, she hit Input 2, so there was no chance of catching any more news channels. As far as she was concerned, it was time for avoidance and denial. She knelt down and opened the hutch, grabbing the disc she had left in the far back of the cabinet. It was the video from Christmas three years ago. The last one Mom was here for. And even though it hurt like hell to watch it, Courtney always did. Too many times to count. She was like a drug addict, always needing more.

The disc tray was already open. Courtney put in the disc, closed it, hit play, and the TV screen came to life, showing the Christmas tree all lit up with red and blue lights, and Mom sitting in the La-Z-Boy between the window and the crackling fire. Toby, their calico kitty, was in the picture too, jumping up on the chair and nestling in Mom’s lap. He had disappeared a week after Mom had died, as if he’d known his favourite person was never coming back. Courtney often wondered where he’d gone.

The thought saddened her, but she watched on, like she always did. She felt she had to. Like it was her duty as a daughter. To let go of the pain was to let go of Mom.

In the video, the camera bobbled slightly as Dad moved around the room, panning down on the presents, then finding her with the camera and zooming in.

‘Merry Christmas, Pumpkin,’ he said.

‘Merry Christmas, Dad.’

‘Go stand with your mother so I can get a shot.’

Mom waved her hand at Dad, almost spilling her glass of rum and eggnog. ‘Oh Jacob, put that thing away for once.’

There was a pause.

‘Come on, Amanda, just one shot.’

In the feed, Mom sighed and Dad chuckled, and then Courtney crossed the room and sat beside Mom, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She gestured to the rum and eggnog, gave a pleading look, and asked, ‘Can I have one of those?’

Her mother just gave her the look, and Courtney laughed. Then her mother frowned at the camera.

‘You got your shot, Jacob, now put it away. You’re always such a nuisance.’

‘Fine. Merry Killjoy,’ Dad said.

And the camera shut off.

Courtney grabbed the remote, hit stop, and closed her eyes. She could still feel the moment like it was yesterday. The fire’s warmth soothing her skin. The spicy smell of the rum in Mom’s drink. The eggnog of her own drink. And the pine-scented smoke that seeped out of the fireplace and hazed the room just a little bit.

It was all so wonderful. It made her cry.

And she hated Dad for that.

She hit play and watched the feed again. The shot was a bit dark, and there was a low humming noise in the audio. The video was anything but high-def, but it was the best movie she’d ever seen in her life.

Oh, Mom.

It wasn’t fair.

She missed her so much her stomach hurt and she wanted to keep crying forever. And the more she missed her, the more it bugged her how Dad just plain didn’t. Oh, he said he did. He said all the right things, especially when he caught her watching the videos which he never watched.

‘She loved you so much,’ he would say.

‘You made her life wonderful,’ he would say.

‘I miss her too, Pumpkin,’ he would say.

But that didn’t stop him from fucking that Spanish whore.

Courtney thought of Felicia, and Dad, and how Mom was no longer around, and it made her feel small. Alone. No one cared. No one knew how she felt. No one understood her.

Except Raine.

Raine knew because Raine had also gone through some horrible things. Like all the fights and the divorce and her dad leaving town.

With that in mind, Courtney picked up the phone and called Raine, but again, all she got was the message service. She thought about leaving another message – still wasn’t sure about using The Court for her tag – then just hung up. She watched the video two more times, and soon her grief mutated into anger.

Mom should never have died that night, she thought. Dad should have done something. Something, for Christ’s sake! He was the goddam cop, he should have acted. He should have damn well cared.

But he didn’t, did he?

And even though he said he missed Mom, and even though he’d said he was sorry a million times, it didn’t mean shit. Because Mom was gone. Forever. All because of what he didn’t do. Of what he chose not to do. In the end, there was only one way to view things.

It was Dad’s fault Mom had died.

Thirty-Seven

They were in the car, driving east, when Noodles finally called Striker back at quarter to twelve. His words were quick and direct, and they made Striker’s nerves fire. ‘The blood types of Raymond Leung and the blood in the car don’t match.’

Striker closed his eyes for a second. ‘I fuckin’ knew it.’

‘Raymond Leung is A-positive. The blood in the Civic is type O-negative.’

The information should have made Striker feel better, since it had proven him right, but it didn’t. It only brought him fear and dark premonitions.

Red Mask was still out there somewhere.

‘You tell Laroche?’ he asked Noodles.

‘He’s arguing it. Says we can’t prove that the blood in the car was actually Red Mask’s blood.’

‘I shot him myself.’

‘Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir, Shipwreck. Either way, it’s what we’re dealing with.’

They talked a bit more before Noodles promised to relay anything else he heard, then Striker hung up and told Felicia the news.

‘Well, you were right,’ she finally conceded. ‘Congratulations, Jacob. Great news. The maniac’s still out there somewhere.’

He blinked. ‘I’m not gloating. All I’m saying is, we got to keep our feet to the fire. This thing isn’t done. Not by a long shot.’

He waited for a response from Felicia, but got none. So they drove in silence. Destination: East Vancouver. Franklin Street.

The industrial section of the city.

Almost fifteen minutes later, when the silence became burdensome, Striker turned the talk back to the investigation.

The meeting with the two mothers, Doris Chow and Margaret MacMillan, had turned up some interesting information. The Debate Club, the trip to Hong Kong, Free Tibet speeches, and a cancelled tournament – the timing seemed more than coincidental, but Striker could see no involvement. It was just one more piece for a jigsaw puzzle that already had too many.

His stomach rumbled, part from lunchtime hunger, part from emotional distress. It was going on twelve noon, and Courtney had yet to return his calls. No doubt she was up, and simply choosing to ignore him. In some ways she was just like her mother.

He drove east on Forty-First Avenue, past Arbutus, and cut into the McDonald’s drive-thru. There was nothing he could do about Courtney’s attitude, but his hunger was another matter. The breakfast menu had ended, so he ordered a Big Mac and a Filet-O-Fish, and two more coffees – his black, Felicia’s loaded with cream and sugar. The smell seemed to wake Felicia up a bit. She popped off the lid of her coffee, then looked towards the bag.

‘If I eat that, I’ll balloon.’

‘Oh come on, you eat two pastries and two fancy lattes every day, what could this hurt?’

She made a face, but reached for the bag.

As they continued down Broadway, Striker pulled out his cell and noticed he had a missed call from Janet Jacobson, the former Vancouver Vice cop who had now moved on to greener pastures. He called her back but the line was busy and he didn’t leave a message. They drove towards the industrial section where Triple A Autobody was located.

Sheldon Clayfield’s business.

Felicia pulled out the Filet-O-Fish. ‘So fill me in again, who is this Clayfield guy?’

Striker swallowed a mouthful, then wiped a smear of Big Mac sauce from his lips. ‘Clayfield is one of the five guys Meathead told us about. I’ve narrowed it down to two who work in the Lower Mainland that are even capable of making a hidden compartment like that. Clayfield’s got a history of it, and a long list of other shit for drug running. He made a real good compartment for a drug trafficker last year, and was caught by Drugs. They dropped the charge for information. And I got word of another one he made six months before that. It gives us leverage.’

‘Great. What about the other guy?’

‘His name is Chris Simmons. Works out in the Valley, on the border of Mission. Remember Janet Jacobson – used to work in Vice? – she transferred out to Abbotsford a few months back. I contacted her back at the office, when you were setting things up with the parents. She’s checking Simmons out for us, but Clayfield is ours. Run him on the computer and bring up his associates.’

Felicia nodded and typed in his name as Striker drove north on Knight Street. After a few blocks, she made a frustrated sound.

‘This guy’s got over a hundred associates in here,’ she said.

‘See which ones are listed under Triple A Autobody. It’s Clayton’s shop. They will be our connection to Clayfield and the Honda.’

She did. ‘Okay. Got eight now. Place must be a chop shop.’

‘That, and a whole lot more.’

They got stuck at a red. Striker cursed softly under his breath, grabbed his own coffee which sat unchecked in the drink holder. It was still hot.

‘Check out the Intels of every associate,’ he said. ‘See if any of these guys have been linked to other modified vehicles.’

Felicia scanned through the reports, read for a while in silence. By the time the light turned green, she found what she was looking for. ‘Okay. We got two guys here with a whole lot of history. Tony Rifanzi, and a guy named Ricky Lomar.’

Striker had never heard of either of them.

‘What work have they done?’ he asked.

She read on. ‘Lomar’s done a lot of compartments, some in the dashboard, some under the seats, and some in the floorboard and wheel-wells. Always drugs though.’

‘And Rifanzi?’

‘Same. Just a lot less.’

‘He’s done a lot less, or he’s been caught a lot less?’

‘Good point.’ Felicia clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. ‘Looks like Rifanzi’s work is a higher level. He’s been suspected of using hydraulics and electronics in the past; Lomar’s stuff has always been lever activated, somewhere in the car.’

Striker said nothing, he just let this information digest.

His cell phone rang and he snatched it off his belt, hoping it was Courtney. The display told him otherwise. It was Janet Jacobson. He answered, listened for less than a minute, then thanked her and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia asked.

‘Turns out Simmons has been under surveillance for the better part of three weeks on unrelated matters. He’s out. That leaves only Clayfield.’

They had reached East Hastings Street, only three blocks from their destination, when Felicia made an oh-shit sound as she finished reading through the reports. ‘We’ve hit a snag here,’ she said. ‘Rifanzi’s actually on the jail slate. Been in there since late last night.’

Striker thought it over. ‘For what?’

‘Fight at a strip club – the Number Five Orange. Assault Causing Bodily Harm.’ She skimmed the electronic pages. ‘Report says he was pretty coked up. Christ, another friggin’ investigative dead end.’

Striker stopped the car on the north side of Franklin Street, the 1500 block. Triple A Autobody was only a half block away.

‘Dead end nothing,’ he said. ‘He’s just given us a pass into the fast lane.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Striker grinned. ‘Watch and learn, my young apprentice. Watch and learn.’

Thirty-Eight

There was nothing special about Triple A Autobody. It was just a two-bay garage with two hoists per lane. Three guys were working inside, one black, two East Indian. All of them were tattooed and beefy. Hardliners. Each one of them gave Striker and Felicia a sideways look as they walked in through the back bay door and poked their heads around.

‘Place smells like motor oil and freshly-smoked pot,’ Striker said loudly. ‘A Workers Compensation Board no-no.’

Without a word, the black guy put down the tire he was holding, turned and walked into the back office.

Striker gave Felicia a wink. ‘He must be getting us the welcome mat.’

A small smile broke her tight lips, and it made him feel good.

‘Or the red carpet,’ she added.

Striker grinned.

A tall guy with thinning white hair came out of the office. His build was skinny, but his gut was huge – a big distended belly, like he had cancer or a tapeworm or something. He was stomping more than walking, and his hands were balled into fists. He wasn’t even halfway across the garage before he said, ‘This is private property. What the hell do you want?’

Striker didn’t respond. He just stood there and waited for the man to get close enough so that he wouldn’t have to raise his voice. When the man was a few feet away, Striker recognised him from the mug-shots. It was Sheldon Clayfield all right, but he had aged badly since the photo was taken. His thinning hair was now pure white – and not a healthy white either, but an I-shat-my-pants-one-too-many-times white – and the lines in his face were deeper than some canyons.

‘Sheldon Clayfield?’ Felicia asked.

‘You know it is.’

‘Somewhere we can talk?’

The man placed his hands on his hips, making his large gut look more pronounced. ‘Here’s as good a place as any.’

Before Striker could reply, a customer walked through the front door. Striker grinned. ‘You sure about that, Clayfield? Involves stolen cars, dead children, and a few rather sensitive names.’

The words knocked the tough look off Clayfield’s face and he blinked. Just a second really, but that was all it took.

Striker knew they had something here.

‘Office,’ Clayfield finally grunted. ‘No point in disrupting my workers.’

He turned around and walked away with far less attitude than he’d come out with. Felicia and Striker followed. Clayfield ushered them inside, said he had to deal with the customer first, then left.

Striker listened to their conversation as they waited. He also looked around the office.

It was small, had no windows, and stank of stale cigarettes and old coffee. One desk and three chairs filled the room, all of them rickety and wooden. A black rotary telephone sat on the desk, splattered white with paint drops. The rest of the office was no better. The walls had once been cream, but time and a few thousand cigarettes had greyed them to the same sickly colour old people got when they had stage three cancer. Decorating the walls were pictures of naked women, most of them on motorcycles, with tattoos and piercings. Some of them were in bondage, strapped to the handlebars.

‘How modern,’ Felicia said.

Striker pointed to one of the posters that had a naked blonde bent over the back of a Harley Davidson. The tattoo across her lower back read God Rides a Harley!

Striker gestured to the tattoo. ‘Don’t you have one of those?’

‘Yeah, but I had the God changed to Clod. Reminded me of you.’

‘You always were sentimental.’

They shared a grin as the customer out front left the shop and Clayfield returned. He looked unhappy and didn’t try to cover it. He closed the door and focused on them with dark narrowed eyes.

Striker looked at Clayfield’s hands and made sure they were empty.

‘Now what’s this shit you’re talking about?’ Clayfield asked.

Striker met his stare. ‘I’m talking about the stolen Honda Civic you modified.’

Clayfield walked around the office until he was on the other side of the desk, facing them, as if he liked having the barrier between them.

‘Honda Civic? Shit. Never heard of it.’

‘Oh, I think you remember. The one with the new ignition and stereo, and the magnetic happy face – that was a nice little addition, by the way.’

‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking bout.’

Striker looked back at the closed office door, pushed on it to make sure it was secure. Then he turned around and leaned forward across the desk.

‘Here’s the deal, Clayfield. Twenty-two children died yesterday at Saint Patrick’s and the madman is still out there. I don’t think for a second you were involved in the shootings, but I do know you were approached by someone to have the car modified. And I know you did it.’

Striker paused for a moment to let the silence weigh down on Clayfield. Then he continued speaking.

‘So here’s the deal: what I need from you is a name. Just a name. No one will know where we got it. And then we leave you and your shop alone.’

‘And if I don’t got no name?’

‘Then we get a warrant and tear this place apart.’

Clayfield looked at them for a short moment, then sneered, ‘If you had enough for a warrant, you’d already a got one.’

Striker looked at Felicia, forced a chuckle.

‘That was true yesterday,’ he said. ‘When we only had you under watch. But now that Rifanzi’s spilled his guts and is willing to cut a deal, I can get one easily. But it’ll take time, and time is the one thing I don’t want to waste.’

Silence filled the small office, then Clayfield spoke: ‘You’re a fuckin’ liar.’

‘I’m sure you wish that was the case. But no, I’m quite serious.’

Felicia caught on, added her own take: ‘Screw him, Striker. Let’s just write the damn warrant and charge this prick.’

Striker’s eyes never left the man.

‘Up to you, Clayfield. I can set patrol up on your shop, lock it down, then write the warrant. But I’ll tell you this, I find even the smallest trace of what I’m looking for, and I’ll charge you with every goddam offence I can think of – and I got Crown Counsel on board with this one. These are dead kids we’re talking about. Children.’

Even in the poor fluorescent lighting of the office, the small beads of perspiration that were forming on Clayfield’s forehead glistened. He put a hand over his lower stomach and belched. A bad whiff of beer and stomach acids filled the room.

‘Ain’t no law against making an extra compartment in no car anyway,’ he said. ‘Especially if I never knowed it was stolen.’

Felicia cut in again: ‘That would be true if the compartment wasn’t form-fitted for an AK-47 and a Benelli shotgun. But that means knowledge, and knowledge makes you an accessory to the crime of murder. Multiple counts. Children.’

‘Good work, by the way,’ Striker added. ‘Looked damn near factory made. Almost as good as the one you did for that drug trafficker last year – what was his name, Whitebear? – or the one you made six months before that, for Jeremy Koln.’

Clayfield swallowed hard, looked helplessly around the room.

Striker pretended not to notice. He gave Felicia a look. ‘What time is it?’

‘Too damn late,’ she said. ‘Let’s just lock this place down and charge this prick – it’s a good stat for us anyway.’

‘Ah fuck it,’ Striker agreed. ‘You’re right.’ He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to get a hold of Dispatch. Told them who he was. ‘We’re gonna need a pair of two-man cars down here after all. And the wagon. I got to transport someone to jail.’

‘Okay, okay, okay,’ Clayfield said. His face had gone white, highlighting the red splotches of his skin. His breath was coming in wheezy puffs. He slammed his fist against the locker near the wall and yelled, ‘That fuckin’ Rifanzi!’

Striker paused, said into the phone, ‘Hold up on that wagon for a moment. I’ll call you back.’ He put the phone away and met Clayfield’s stare. ‘You’re not the fish I want, Clayfield. I want the man who booked this job. He’s the real connection to the gunmen.’

Clayfield’s expression crumbled; his eyes took on a pleading look.

‘It was just done as a favour,’ he said. ‘Honest. He gets me supplies, this guy – from Japan. I was just paying him back for what I owed.’

‘I’m losing patience.’

‘I never even knowed it was stolen, for chrissake!’

‘Just give me a goddam name.’

Clayfield’s eyes turned down and away, and suddenly he looked a whole lot smaller than his six foot frame. When he spoke, his voice broke.

‘Edward Rundell,’ he croaked.