Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Thirty-Nine

The moment Striker and Felicia returned to the car, they ran Edward Rundell over the computer. The man came back completely negative. No criminal history. No reports written in the PRIME database. No nothing. And for a moment, Striker felt that maybe Sheldon Clayfield was smarter than they’d given him credit for.

Striker got on the phone. He called Jimmy Hensley in Fraud, told him Edward Rundell was some kind of liaison between the car modifier and the gunmen, and asked if he’d ever heard of him.

The answer was no.

Striker then called Chogi Saurn in Drugs, Jillian Wiles in the General Investigation Unit, and Stephan Fanglesworth, known as ‘Fang’, who worked in Financial Crime. He asked them all if they’d ever heard of an Edward Rundell. The resounding answer was no.

Edward Rundell just didn’t exist.

‘Try Info,’ Felicia suggested.

Striker did. He got on the Info channel and ran Rundell over the air. Again, no criminal history came back on the man. He did get a British Columbia Driver’s Licence, but even that was a problem. There was no phone number on file, and the address listed as the primary residence was in the 1600 block of Turner Street in Vancouver – an address Striker knew didn’t exist. The thought made his head hurt, and he put a hand over his left temple. Something felt wrong in there, like he had too much blood in his brain.

Felicia nudged him. ‘Want some Tylenol?’

He said sure, and she handed him some. Then she pulled out her cell phone, scrolled through her long list of contacts, and dialled. ‘Rundell’s got to have a number,’ she said. ‘It’s just unlisted. I’ll try a few contacts I have.’

‘How many phone company sources you got?’

‘About ten or so.’

‘’Bout ten? I got one.’

She smiled. ‘We’re women. We talk.’

Striker just nodded and let the pill dissolve in his mouth. He wished he had some water to go with it, but there was only cold coffee. While he waited, he hit the unit status button to see what else was going on in the city. He did this often. It was a habit of his, ever since his days in Patrol. He liked knowing what was happening elsewhere, especially the parts he was passing through. There was nothing worse than getting that call over the air requesting you to stay out of someone’s stakeout scene right after you’d driven through it in your police car.

Nothing on the unit status grabbed his attention. He pulled out his BlackBerry and tried home again. Surprise filled him when it was picked up.

‘Hello?’ Courtney said. Her voice was light.

‘Courtney, it’s me.’

She made a sound like she was surprised, like she was expecting someone else. ‘I thought you were a friend.’

‘Raven?’

Courtney let out a frustrated exclamation. ‘Raine, Dad! She’s only, like, the most important person in my life. God, she’s my best friend and you don’t even know her name – how uncool is that?’

‘You’ve never even introduced us.’

‘Because you’re never around.’

‘I was around for six months. On leave – for you. You never even brought her around once.’

‘Only because you’d embarrass me.’

‘What? How would I—’

‘Look, I can’t talk right now, Dad.’

‘Can’t, or don’t want to?’

‘Fine, have it your way. Don’t want to.’

Striker felt the faint traces of anger sparking up. ‘You know, at some point you’re going to have to deal with things, Courtney, and not just get angry and run away all the time.’

‘Run away? I’m the one running away? Call the bank, Dad, you need a reality check.’

‘Courtney—’

The phone died, and Striker bit his lip. Wanted to yell right there in the car. But Felicia was on the phone with one of her contacts at Telus, one of Canada’s largest phone providers. So he sat there, stifling his anger with the cell stuck to his ear, wondering if he’d get a friendlier reception from Clayfield and the boys back at Triple A Autobody. When he pouched the phone on his belt, Felicia hung hers up in tandem.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

She made a face. ‘Rundell has no hard line whatsoever. He might operate primarily from a cell.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Well, it’s not a total dead end. Janie’s going to run him through all the systems, see what she can come up with. Promised to call us back sometime today.’

Striker thought it over. There were other databases they could use to find this man, but some of them took warrants. All of them took time. It was not how he wanted to investigate matters, but regardless of his personal choice, it was a route they might yet have to take. He looked at Felicia. ‘How long is “sometime today”?’

‘Knowing Janie, I’d say less than two hours.’

‘We’ll give her the time then.’ He looked around the area they were parked in. It was nothing but square stucco building after square stucco building. They were all warehouse-type businesses with the odd repair shop or processing plant stuck in between.

Striker started the cruiser and powered down the window a crack. The moment he did, he was hit by the strong smell of diesel fumes and garbage. He put the car in drive and headed for 312 Main Street. Headquarters.

At his side, Felicia took the tube of Alco-rub from the glove box and spread some of the transparent gel on her palms, rubbing it vigorously between her fingers as it slowly evaporated.

‘That office was disgusting,’ she said. ‘I got sticky stuff all over my hands.’

Striker gave her a grin.

‘Don’t even go there,’ she warned him.

He didn’t.

When she was finished with the Alco-rub, he asked her to check the unit status again. Felicia tapped the touch-screen a few times, then waited for the computer to beep and bring up the information. When it did, she read through the District Two unit status.

‘This is interesting,’ she said. ‘Got a Charlie unit here. They went on a traffic stop that quickly turned into a Suspicious Vehicle file. They called for radio priority.’

Striker glanced at the screen. ‘They get into a pursuit?’

Felicia paged through the call. ‘Foot pursuit.’ She read on, shook her head as if she couldn’t make any sense of it, then muttered, ‘This is strange.’

Striker shrugged. ‘Foot pursuits happen all the time down here, Feleesh, this is District Two. I worked it for years.’

She gave him an irritated look. ‘I know, Jacob, I worked it myself – for a year longer than you did.’ When he didn’t reply, she added, ‘I’m not talking about the foot pursuit, I’m talking about the call itself – mainly the added remarks.’

‘What’s so odd about it?’

She turned to face him. ‘Your name is on the call.’

Forty

The call in question was at Gore and Pender, just one block south of East Hastings Street. It was positioned perfectly between the police headquarters building at 312 Main, the heart of Chinatown, and the Carnegie Support Centre, which was ground zero for Skid Row. Striker and Felicia were only eleven blocks out and arrived on scene within minutes.

Striker was surprised at what he found. The entire intersection was blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. It looked like streamers at a Skid Row birthday party. All they needed were some condom balloons and a crack cake with heroin icing.

He shook his head absently. ‘What is this – the tenth crime scene in two days?’

Felicia nodded. ‘I’m going to start matching my accessories.’

Striker barely heard her. He got out. Assessed.

Dumped in the middle of the intersection was an ordinary white GMC van. Both the driver and the passenger doors were wide open, but the rear double doors were closed. Standing guard was another uniformed cop, a young Chinese guy with thick, almost spiky hair.

Striker was about to duck under the yellow tape and approach him when he spotted a familiar figure rounding the front of the van. Grizzled, experienced, and almost as tired as he’d seen him down by the docks earlier this morning. It was Sergeant Mike Rothschild.

‘Hey, wrinkle-face,’ Striker called.

Rothschild spotted them, walked over to the inside edge of the yellow crime scene tape. ‘First off, call me that again and I’ll have you stationed at the jail for the rest of your career. Second off, I was just about to contact you guys.’

Striker nodded. ‘I bet. Why is my name on the call?’

Rothschild raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, look who we got here – Nostra-fucking-Damus. Who told you?’

‘Felicia did; she read it on the unit status.’

Rothschild smiled. ‘Should’ve known. One of you has to be on the ball.’ He shared a chuckle with Felicia and ducked under the yellow tape, stepping out of the crime scene. He pulled a package of cigarillos from his pocket – Old Port, wine-tipped – and lit one up.

‘Long damn day,’ he said.

Felicia looked at the van, noticed it had no front plate. ‘Stolen?’

Rothschild splayed his hands. ‘Who fuckin’ knows. Registered Owner is some restaurant down the block. Called there, but no one seems to know who’s got the van or why it isn’t parked in the underground parkade.’

‘Is it insured?’ Striker asked.

‘Temporary Operators Permit. Again, registered to the restaurant. Primary driver is listed as some Kim Pham fuckwad. He’s the manager, but according to staff, he’s conveniently on holiday right now somewhere back East. No contact number. No known address.’

‘Why is my name on the call?’ Striker asked again.

‘I put it on.’

‘For a stolen?’

Rothschild took a long drag on the cigarillo then exhaled, and the air around them smelled strongly of wine-scented smoke. He took another puff, sucking in as much nicotine as he could get – like his life depended on it – then dropped the cigarillo on the ground, crushed it with his patrol boot, and jerked his head towards the van.

‘Come on, Alice,’ he said. ‘Time to go through the Looking Glass.’

He ducked back under the yellow tape, into the crime scene, and Striker and Felicia followed. Rothschild continued talking.

‘So Hank and Blondie – my plainclothes car – spot this thing, see it’s got no rear plate. They can see the Temporary Operator’s Permit, but it’s behind the rear window and they can’t read it, so they decide to follow it and see what happens. They first pick it up on Georgia, going westbound, and then the driver seems to take notice. He stops at the red on Main, looks indecisive, then does a hard turn when the light changes green. Hank can’t make the turn because of traffic. When the traffic clears, they gun it, catch up to the van, see it turn east again, though now on Pender, and it’s fuckin’ flying. So they decide to light it up. Moment they do, these pricks bail and the chase is on.’

‘They in custody?’ Striker asked.

Rothschild shook his head. ‘Got away. And the dog track was no good.’

Striker cursed.

‘They get a good look at the driver?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nope. Happened too fast. Two guys in dark hoodies and sweatpants.’ He pointed at the projects to the south-east. ‘Hopped the fence and cut through there, right towards the Lucky Rooms on Prior. But who the hell knows? Dog couldn’t follow the track. And with the time delay, they’re long gone now.’

Striker looked at the van. ‘Which restaurant does it register to?’

Rothschild leafed through his notebook. ‘Fortune Happy or something. I dunno, it’s just down the block. On Pender. Big yellow awning.’

‘Must be stolen. Why else would they run?’

Rothschild’s face darkened. ‘I can think of three reasons. You will too, if you go take a look.’

Taking his time, Striker approached the van. He reefed open the back doors and looked inside the rear cab. There, lying on a piece of stained-red plywood, were three bodies. One was partly wrapped in a rug.

The closest, curled into the fetal position, was an old man. Thin. Asian. Maybe in his sixties. The two men behind him were larger, younger, and heavily muscled. In their late twenties or early thirties. Both wore fancy suits, good quality silk, yellow with faint white pinstripes.

Rothschild grinned. ‘You remember Sha Na Na.’

Felicia laughed, but Striker was so focused he barely heard the comment.

‘These guys are from the restaurant?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Anyone been in the van?’

‘Just me,’ Rothschild said. ‘I’m still trying to identify them.’

‘Any ID on them?’

‘Zilch.’

Felicia looked at the bodies. ‘Coroner been here yet? Ambulance?’

‘Naw, no point. They were stone cold when we found them. I put your name on the call so you could check them out first. Thought it might have some relevance to the shootings yesterday.’

‘Why?’ Striker asked.

Rothschild splayed his hands. ‘How often we find a van full of dead Asian guys? Proximity. Time. Nothing more than that.’

Striker nodded. ‘It’s appreciated.’

He looked at the bodies. The old man was already stiff, mostly in the neck and shoulders, and especially in the face, where he looked to be grimacing in death. Deep wrinkles marked his face, and where there were no wrinkles, the skin was smooth and hairless.

Felicia pointed to the purplish line of bruised flesh that snaked around the left half of his thin and wiry body. ‘Lividity.’

Striker had already noticed it. Blood had pooled in the torso, legs and arms – all on the left side. Yet the deceased lay on his right side.

‘He didn’t die here,’ Striker said. ‘He’s been moved.’

Felicia took a closer look. ‘Any idea how long?’

‘Judging by the amount of rigor, it’s been a while. Probably more than twenty-four hours. Pathologist’ll have to figure it out for any real time.’

Striker gloved up with latex. He climbed up on the back end of the van and tried to move the old man’s limbs. They were stiff, refused to budge, and Striker feared he’d tear the tissue if he forced it. He peered around the limbs, looking for a possible stab or gunshot wound.

He found none.

‘How’d he die?’ Felicia asked.

‘Not a clue,’ Striker said.

He looked past the old man, saw the blood-stained yellow suits of the two goons near the front. One of them had his jacket open. The white material of the shirt beneath was caked in dried blood. Nothing unusual for a dead body, but the bullet wound stuck out to Striker. He moved farther into the van to investigate.

What he saw made his stomach tighten.

He checked over the first victim, finding three well-placed shots, two in the chest and one in the head. He rolled the body over to see the exit wounds, then did the same with the second victim, who had also been shot three times. Two in the chest, one in the head. And by the looks of things, they were from a forty cal. Exact same placement and the exact same kind of ammo Red Mask had used on the targeted kids at St Patrick’s High.

And by Hydra-Shok rounds.

It told Striker what he had already known in the darkest corner of his heart.

Red Mask was still alive.

Forty-One

High above the Pacific Ocean, at approx thirty-seven thousand feet, the Man with the Bamboo Spine walked down the centre aisle of the 747 in an effort to stretch his joints. At just over six foot, he was tall for an Asian male, and lanky. His legs and arms were disproportionately long in comparison to the rest of his body.

On returning to his seat, he pulled out the laptop given to him back in Macau. He powered it on, punched in his password, SWORDS, then waited for the operating system to finish loading. The ticket he had purchased was for a window seat. He had also purchased the seat next to him.

When the flight attendant came by and asked him if he was thirsty, he said, ‘Yes.’ When she asked him if wanted tea or coffee, he said, ‘Tea, black.’ And when she asked him if he wanted anything else, he said, ‘No.’ These were the first words he had spoken since entering this plane the previous day on the other side of the world.

He waited in silence, looking at nothing until the flight attendant returned with his drink. He folded down the tray of the next seat, accepted the tea, and placed the cup down in the circular inset. He waited for the flight attendant to leave.

When she was gone, he got to work.

The laptop was an Apple, and it had a rotatable screen. He turned the screen forty degrees to the left, so that it faced the window, where only he could see it. He brought up the file folder that was password protected and encrypted by FolderSecure. He used his second password, THUNDERBOLTS, to gain access, then opened the unlocked folder.

Images popped up.

Spread across the screen were five jpegs. Four of them were the faces of children, smiling, happy. Three of them were now dead. One was presumably alive, the whereabouts unknown. The fifth jpeg was an image of a man he had not seen in decades. Not since those bad, bad times that he never thought about any more.

The sight stirred strange feelings inside of him.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine looked at the images for a long time as the plane crossed the Pacific Ocean and entered Canadian air space. He did not shut the computer down until the flight attendant announced that they would soon be making their descent.

He sat straight and said nothing more. Stared at the back of the seat in front of him as the plane prepared to land.

Vancouver, Canada.

He had arrived.

Forty-Two

Striker and Felicia left the crime scene in Rothschild’s capable hands and cruised the Skids. It was fast approaching two o’clock. Above them, any clarity of blue sky was being slowly hazed over with a depressive greyness.

It matched the areas they were searching – the Raymur underpass with its tranny hookers; Pigeon Park with its open drug trafficking; Oppenheimer with its endless fighting drunks; and now, Blood Alley with its drug-sick hypes and crazies.

At times, this city felt like a demented fun house.

Striker and Felicia were searching for someone who could ID the three dead men in the van. Their best bet was forty-five-year-old Carol Kalwateen, who went by the street name Trixie. She was a regular around the Skids, and Chinatown, and the Strathcona Projects. She had been a rounder for as long as Striker could remember.

Trixie had started out as a high-end call girl, one who was popular among the Asian gangs. So popular she’d ended up helping them in their business deals – holding six, providing a safe house, and often being paid as a go-between.

In her day, Trixie had done very well.

Then she’d become a girlfriend to a mid-level drug trafficker for the Red Eagles. A guy by the name of Ngoc. That had been a long time ago. So long it was measured in decades, not years. After that, Trixie had jumped loyalties from gang to gang, becoming connected internationally, and getting even richer in the process. Things had gone extremely well.

Then she’d started using her own product.

Within two years Trixie had become an addict – heroine and crack cocaine predominantly, but there was other stuff, too. A little meth. A little prescription. Over the years, her habit had grown, pushing past the point of her drug-sale profits. So she’d returned to stealing and whoring, doing up to twenty Johns a day.

And it showed.

Every time Striker saw her, she looked thinner, a bit more haggard. Back when he’d first known her, she hadn’t been that bad. He’d even liked her, found her more pleasant than the other crooks he had to deal with down here. But now she was just like the rest – a desperate addict. One step away from some violent form of death.

Such was the life of the Skids.

‘This is another one of her hangs,’ Striker told Felicia. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

They drove down the old, uneven cobblestones of Blood Alley, on the north side of the Stanley Hotel, which was the last chance for any drugged-out crazy before they were sleeping on the streets. Striker looked around the laneway. Cobblestone road, old iron lamps turned green from rain and time, and a small brick patio courtyard, hidden behind the roundabout of maple trees and flower-filled planters. The scene should have seemed quaint, tranquil. But this was Blood Alley.

It held nothing but pain, bad memories, and death.

‘Eyes left,’ Felicia said.

Striker looked past the roundabout and spotted the woman they’d been searching for. Trixie was leaning up against the far wall in one of the narrow alcoves beneath the rusted stairwell, the shadows almost hiding her completely.

Her twitching was what attracted their attention.

‘She’s got the sickies,’ Felicia said.

Striker agreed.

Trixie was swaying back and forth. Twisting like an old wooden building during an earthquake. Her muscles twitched. Her limbs jerked. She made nervous groans that were audible, even inside the car.

‘Man, she’s got it bad,’ Striker said. He brought the cruiser to a slow stop, then placed it in park. He climbed out, felt the cold rush of damp air on his face. Stepped around the rusting metal staircase and marched straight into the darkness.

Felicia caught up to him. There was a guy standing next to Trixie – a clean looking white guy, no doubt here for some cheap suck and fuck. She gave him a cold stare.

‘Get walking, asshole,’ she said.

He didn’t say a word – the guilty ones rarely did – but just spun away from them and hurried westward down the breeze-way, thankful he wasn’t going to be charged. Thankful that his wife and kids wouldn’t find out. When he was out of ear’s reach, Striker took a long hard look at Trixie and shook his head.

‘You’ll get killed down here, you know.’

Trixie looked back like she recognised him, but couldn’t find the name – despite the fact he’d arrested her thirty times and had dealt with her a couple hundred more. She took a weak step forward, into the better light of the old iron streetlamps, and focused on him.

‘Detective Striker?’

‘So you remember me.’

He looked her over, felt a tug at his heart. In the better light, the truth was harsh. She looked terrible. Her clothes were rags. Her emaciated body had no muscle left; she was just translucent skin over knobby bone. Drug eruption sores covered her flesh. Her right eye was swollen shut. The rest of her face was bruised like an overripe banana. She’d been shit-kicked, probably over a crack debt.

And down here, that meant as little as five bucks’ worth.

Striker killed any emotion he felt. He had to. ‘You breaching your No-Go, Trixie.’

A frantic look took over her face. ‘No, no, I—’

‘Four block radius from Abbott Street.’

‘Please, Detective Striker, please, please, please.’ Her voice was weak and desperate, but quickly turning angry and sinister. ‘I’m sick, I’m really sick. I need some. Really, really need some.’

Striker saw her pain, but had no time for pity or compassion. He gave Felicia the nod, and they each moved forward and handcuffed Trixie. He got the police wagon to attend and transport her back to the corner of Gore and Pender.

It was time for some answers.