Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Forty-Three

Courtney wasn’t sure what time it was, but when she looked away from the computer screen, out her bedroom window, she could see darkness at the horizon. The light was fading, the day almost gone. And the clouds had come back. It was so typical of Vancouver weather. So depressing.

No wonder Mom had wanted to move away.

A sad feeling enveloped her, and she took a sip from the herbal tea she’d made. Liquorice Spice. It was hot, and it burned her tongue a little, making her suck in a mouthful of air to help cool it down. She set the mug on the blotter, the smell of liquorice filling the room, and pulled a dark green kangaroo jacket over her shoulders, zipping it up against the cold.

Once again, Dad was screwing with her life by keeping the heat turned down. There was always something.

She looked back at the computer screen. The bluish light tinted the walls of the room around her. She was on Facebook. Lookin’, searchin’, bloggin’ – seein’ what was up. Everywhere she looked, people were blogging about the massacre at the school. At first she had to work hard to find something else because just the thought of the shootings made her feel like she was going to puke. So she logged off.

But the carnage was as darkly fascinating as it was terrible, and before Courtney knew it, she was back online. She went back to Facebook, logged in and read through what her friends were saying: that three gunmen had opened fire in the school for no apparent reason. And rumour had it that Sherman Chan was one of them.

‘Sherman?’ The word escaped her lips.

Courtney struggled to make some sense of it. She knew Sherman. Kind of. Well, she knew who he was. Some computer nerd. Always kept to his own little group. Always smiled at her and seemed really . . . nice.

It was hard to believe.

She paged through the forum, and read the list of the dead. The first three killed were people she didn’t know – one she’d never even heard of, which was rare for such a small school – but the fourth hit home. It was Tamara Marsden.

The name zapped Courtney like an electric shock. And she leaned back from the computer, as if this could somehow protect her. With nervous fingers, she scrolled down the page, reading the rest of the names. When she finished reading the list, she sat there very still. Then she shuddered. Cupped her hands over her mouth. Sobbed.

And she sat that way for a very long time.

Forty-Four

Striker and Felicia arrived back at the intersection of Gore and Pender Street, where the white van that held the three dead men in it was still cordoned off.

Trixie was secured in the side compartment of the police wagon, yelling and pounding her head against the steel door. It was nothing unusual, and Striker kept her there until he was ready.

When he had finished discussing his plan with Felicia, he made his way back to the wagon. The metal door was heavy. The latch felt cold against his hand and stubborn to move. He reefed it upward, hard, and the latch finally popped. The steel hinges groaned as the door swung outward. A musty smell of body odour and piss floated out of the cab.

‘Out,’ Striker ordered.

Trixie was crumpled against the grey steel wall of the compartment, still banging her head softly but continuously. Striker ordered her out again. When she didn’t respond, he reached in and grabbed her arm. The movement woke Trixie from her stupor, and she stumbled as she exited the wagon, almost landing face first on the pavement.

Striker caught her, held her up. He studied her as she looked around.

Her face took on a twisted look when she saw she was at Gore and Pender – one of her familiar hangouts – and not her usual abode of the Vancouver Jail. For the first time since Striker and Felicia had found her, her dark eyes looked focused and wary. She stared at the van, then at the restaurant down the road behind it.

‘Why are we here?’ she asked.

‘Information,’ Striker said.

Trixie’s face darkened. She was still cuffed, hands behind her back, and moving her arms around, trying to adjust the sharper edges of steel. Striker took her left arm and Felicia her right, and they escorted her across the road. Right up to the van.

The doors were closed.

Striker took the handle of the left door, Felicia the right. Then Striker turned to watch Trixie’s expression. He gave Felicia the word and they both reefed open the doors, revealing the carnage inside. When Trixie saw the three bodies, her face remained impassive. But when Striker reached in and turned the old man’s head so that she could see his face, her mouth tightened and her body twitched.

She knew him.

Just like Striker had known she would. He saw that Felicia had seen the change in expression, too.

‘I don’t know him,’ Trixie said.

Striker squeezed her arm. ‘Bullshit. Who is he?’

Trixie gave him a sideways sneer. ‘How the hell should I know? Lotsa old men down here.’

‘You twitch every time you see one?’ Felicia asked.

‘What you talking ’bout, girl?’ Trixie swore under her breath, then looked at Striker. ‘These cuffs are diggin’ into my goddam wrist.’

He made no move to loosen them. ‘Want a smoke?’

Her eyes lit up. ‘I’d fuckin’ love ya for one.’

‘Then turn around.’

Trixie did, and Striker removed the handcuffs. He walked over to the cruiser and returned with a pack of smokes. Camels. He always kept some in the glove box for occasions just like this. He handed her one. When she stuck it between her lips, he lit it and met her stare, saying, ‘Don’t mess around, right?’

She nodded, held up the smoke. ‘My word on it, man.’

Striker let her take a few puffs and calm down, then continued, ‘I’ve spent ten years down here, Trixie, and I’ve never seen this guy before. But you’ve spent your entire life down here; you know everyone and everyone knows you. So tell me, who is he?’

Trixie looked back at the old man in the van. Her mouth dropped open, and she spoke between ragged breaths. ‘Honest, I ain’t never seen him before. I swear to God, swear to God, swear to God.’

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘I guess you’re right, we should just lodge her. You wanna go back to the wagon and start the paperwork?’

Felicia looked at Trixie, said pleasantly, ‘Love to.’

When she was gone, Striker turned back to Trixie. Without emotion he said, ‘Listen up. I’ve dealt with you hundreds of times, so you know my word is good. Tell me who this guy is and no one will ever know. Don’t tell me, and I’ll throw you in the tank on this chicken-shit breach.’

Trixie’s hand trembled as she took a long drag. She blew it out with a fluttery breath, and Striker kept talking. ‘I’ll keep you in the tank on the Obstruct charge too, got it? For as long as I possibly can. Up to a week, for sure. Maybe more.’

She glanced at him, and a nervous tension filled her eyes.

Striker smiled. ‘You’re feeling it already, aren’t you? I can tell. How long’s it been since your last fix? Six, seven hours? Already getting your insides all twisted?’

‘Please—’

‘Feeling that hunger just eating you alive? Well, just fucking wait. Wait till every cell in your body is screaming out for more crack and you start getting the dry heaves and the shakes, and then you’ll realise you’re only one day into your stay—’

‘I don’t know the fucker!’ she screamed. ‘I don’t know him, I don’t know him, I don’t fucking know him!’

Striker stopped talking. He just stood there calmly, giving Trixie an eternity to think. She was sweating, trembling, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. And he no longer cared.

This was about the kids in jeopardy, not her goddam addiction.

‘Either way, I’ll find out who he is,’ Striker said. ‘The fingerprinting will just take time, and it’s time I don’t have to waste.’ He took a half step closer, got right into her face and whispered, ‘I got kids dying out there, Trixie. And this old man might be the link I need to save them. So make your choice – tell me who he is and you walk, and no one knows any the better. Don’t tell me, and you spend the next two weeks being drug-sick in a jail cell. And I promise you this: when I find out who this old prick is – and I will find out – I’ll spread it round the streets that you were the rat who told me. So when you’re finished being drug-sick in your cell for ten goddam days, you can be welcomed back to the Skids the proper way.’

The look of anxiety in her eyes turned to outright fear, and she trembled even worse. ‘If they knew I told you, they’d kill me.’

‘No one will know, Trixie – unless you don’t tell me.’

Her eyes widened when she looked back at the old man. She was still terrified of him, even in death. And that spoke lots to Striker. Finally, Trixie gave in. ‘I don’t know the other two,’ she said. ‘But the old one . . . he was a bad man, Detective. A very bad man.’

‘His name.’

‘They call him “The Doctor”.’

‘His name, Trixie.’

She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, trembled.

‘Kieu,’ she said, and she started to cry. ‘His name is Jun Kieu.’

Forty-Five

Striker did not release Trixie as promised. Instead, he sent her away – not in the back of the police wagon to jail, but in an ambulance for Vancouver General Hospital – just as he’d planned all along. She was sick, so very sick – the infection of her left arm was already so bad the limb might require amputation – and he feared that without the proper medical treatment, Trixie would soon be the next sudden death in the Skids.

When she was gone, Striker approached the cruiser, where Felicia was waiting inside. She smiled at him knowingly. ‘I always knew you were a sweetie.’

He just gave her a straight look, then handed her the notebook with the doctor’s name. ‘Jun Kieu. Confirm it.’

She took the notebook, punched in the name, then looked back at him. ‘Date of birth?’

‘Put him at seventy.’

‘Looks younger than that.’

‘Most Asians do.’

Felicia grinned. ‘You just look old.’ When the computer beeped and the information came back, she reached out and angled the screen towards Striker. ‘We got a hit back, if he was born in 1937.’

‘CPIC?’

‘No. Criminal Name Index. And unfortunately, that’s all the hits we got. No CPIC. No PRIME. No LEIP. No nothing.’

Striker thought about it. CPIC was the Canadian Police Information Centre, and they had information on just about everyone right across the country, so long as that person had ever crossed the criminal line. PRIME held information on everyone the police so much as came into contact with, be they criminals or good folk. LEIP and PIRS were secondary databases, but good assets in their own right. All this, and still they had nothing on Jun Kieu. Just one hit on the Criminal Name Index.

It was disconcerting.

‘What’s the birthplace?’ he finally asked.

‘Viet Nam.’

‘Does he match the descriptors?’

Felicia read through the file. ‘He got a horizontal scar beneath his chin?’

Striker walked back over to the van, leaned inside and tilted the old man’s head to see under his chin. The scar was there. He nodded confirmation as he headed back. ‘Yeah, it’s him.’

‘He’s got a Do Not Release in the field remarks,’ Felicia said. ‘Immigration warrant.’

‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t run off.’

Felicia smiled, then said, ‘Hang on, Jacob. There’s an attachment on his file.’ She pulled it up, read it through. ‘Wow, never seen one of these before. Crimes Against Humanity.’

Striker stopped beside the car. ‘War crimes?’

‘It would appear so.’

He thought it over. ‘Viet Nam War, I guess. North or South?’

‘Doesn’t say.’

Striker was about to ask more when Felicia’s cell rang. She answered, held up a finger to demand silence, then began talking.

Striker left her alone and returned to the van. He gloved up with fresh latex, then leaned inside and undid the shirt buttons on all the bodies, exposing the neck and shoulder regions. Their skin was cold, even through the gloves. Striker examined their flesh, hoping to find the same golden artwork he’d seen on the neck of his headless shooter.

There was none. Not on any of the bodies.

The sight deflated him a bit, made him wonder what they really had here, as far as investigative leads went. An old man wanted for war crimes, dead in the back of a stolen van, with two yet-to-be identified goons.

Little, really.

But there was some light. The two men had been murdered with the same MO as the targeted kids in the school shootings.

And with what looked like Hydra-Shok rounds.

Striker thought the scene over. There was little hope of identifying the escaped driver, so the only connection that existed was the registered owner of the vehicle, and that came back not to a person, but to a business. The Fortune Happy restaurant.

Yet another lead they would have to check out.

A frustrated sound escaped his lips. There were too many possibles in this case. It was as if each lead was another long, tangled branch. He looked at the young constable guarding the van, remembered those simple days when he was a rookie, and a part of him missed it.

He put away his notebook, returned to the cruiser and crashed down in the driver’s seat, closing his eyes. They felt heavier than his mood. Felicia was still on the phone, talking beside him in the passenger seat. He listened to her, breathed in slowly and smelled vanilla perfume. He was just drifting off when Felicia snapped her cellphone shut, killing any hope of tranquillity he might have had.

He opened his eyes. ‘Well?’

‘That was my contact at the phone company,’ she said.

‘Which provider?’

‘Telus, of course,’ Felicia said. ‘Biggest is best. She scoured high and low for us.’

Striker felt a nervous tension fill his belly. Felicia’s contact was the one person who might have access to the phone records of Edward Rundell – the missing link between the modified Honda Civic and the gunmen.

Striker met her stare. ‘She find us Edward Rundell’s number?’

‘One better,’ Felicia replied. ‘She found us his business address.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Right here in Vancouver. Trans-Global Enterprises.’

Forty-Six

Trans-Global Enterprises was on the south side of Water Street, in the 100 block, on the third floor of a redbrick three-storey. Because it sat just north of the Skids, it was one of the cleaner buildings, meaning there was no array of dirty needles and used condoms out front. In fact, it had an old-fashioned feel.

Striker and Felicia parked on Main Street, not far from the law courts. It was past four o’clock and the sun was fading, falling in behind the dark cloudbanks that hurdled the North Shore Mountains. The strongest rays hit the windows of the building, turning them completely black from street level.

‘Up there,’ Felicia said. ‘Third floor.’

Striker looked up, nodded. Heard the loud bass thump of rock music. ‘Sounds like a party.’

‘Rock rock till ya drop, old man.’

Striker grinned, ignored the comment.

The building faced directly onto Water Street. Front and centre were the double doors, made mainly of tinted glass. They were locked. Striker hit every single buzzer on the panel until the owner of Rag-Dog Recording Studios answered, said his name was Treble, then buzzed open the door to allow them entry.

Inside the foyer, the loud din of rock music blasted down from above, hard and heavy, yet somewhat muffled by the old walls and floor. On the west wall was a directory – a plain blackboard with white plastic lettering. Striker scanned it, located Trans-Global Enterprises. It was listed as 301 – the only business on the third floor.

‘All alone,’ he said. ‘Convenient.’

There was no elevator, so they started up the stairs. The staircase was dim and had no windows, and the wooden steps that were painted brown squeaked beneath their weight. It stank, too. When Striker breathed in, he detected an old musty smell, which was quickly replaced by the skunky scent of freshly smoked BC Bud. It got stronger as they hiked past the second floor, where Rag-Dog Studios was located.

They continued up.

At the top of the staircase was an ordinary wooden door, painted the same drab brown as the stairs and boasting a dirty-paned, wired window. Trans-Global Enterprises was stencilled across the face in thick black script.

They stood on either side of the door, listening for several seconds. When it remained quiet, Striker knocked. No one came. He tried the door knob, found it locked, and cursed. There was no manager on site – they’d already played that card when trying to gain access to the building – so there would be no getting a master key.

Strike stood back, assessed the strength of the door. It was decent quality, made of good wood.

Felicia read his thoughts, intervened. ‘We gonna need a warrant on this one?’

He took out his police knife and held it up. ‘Already got one.’

‘Jacob.’

He ignored her, flicked open the blade. It was good stainless steel – sharp, strong, and eight inches long. Worked good on locks, especially ones where the wood of the frame was old. In the past, he’d used it too many times to count.

Felicia made an unhappy sound. ‘If we go in like this, anything we find won’t hold up in court.’

‘We don’t have time for a warrant, Feleesh.’

‘What if it’s alarmed?’

‘All the better. We were just en route to Headquarters when the alarm rang out. We came to investigate.’

‘Sure, after we broke in. What if there’s a camera?’

‘There’s not.’

Striker stuck the tip of the blade in between the lock and frame, and then put pressure medially. The wood was stronger than he’d anticipated, and it resisted, making him put his body weight into it. Eventually, the frame bulged and groaned, and the lock scraped against the wood, then made a sharp clashing sound as it popped out of the slot and the door creaked open.

No alarm went off, and Felicia’s face relaxed a little.

‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker yelled, loud enough to be heard over the rock music below.

No reply.

Inside, all the lights were on, but the place looked vacant. Striker leaned through the doorway and scanned his surroundings.

The first room was a waiting area, holding a front desk with a phone, fax, and ledger. In the centre of the waiting room was a wooden table holding an assortment of magazines, which were fanned out to show their covers. Flanking the table were two rows of ordinary waiting-room chairs. And to the north was a white oak office door with a black-and-gold faceplate on it. Manager.

Next to the door was a large square window. All the blinds were closed, blocking off the view.

Striker looked at Felicia and nodded. When she nodded back, they stepped inside the office. To the left, running down from the secretary’s desk, was a short hallway with four more doors. All of them plain brown wood. All of them closed. None marked.

‘Police!’ Striker announced one more time.

Again, nothing.

Felicia signalled that she would clear the hall. He covered her as she went. One by one, she opened each door and cleared each room. She walked slowly back, her pistol hanging at her side.

‘They’re empty.’

‘Storage?’

‘No, just empty. Not even a box.’

Striker frowned. He moved forward to the manager’s office, tried the door knob and found it unlocked. He swung open the door. Inside was an office containing one expensive-looking desk made of black wood that took up most of the space. The desk sat against the far wall, giving whoever sat in it a full view of the office and a perfect view of the north shore mountains. Next to it, a file folder cabinet stood in the corner.

Striker walked over, opened all the drawers.

Empty.

He went back to the desk, opened all the drawers there too. He found pencils and erasers, and staples and yellow Post-it notes. All office supplies. Nothing of investigative value.

‘Maybe they closed down,’ Felicia said.

Striker shook his head. ‘Cigar smoke in the air – I can still smell it. Even more than the pot from downstairs. Someone was in here. Today.’

Just then, Striker heard the soft whirring of a fan. He looked over and saw a computer terminal sitting on the floor at the far end of the desk. The soft blue activity light was blinking. He moved around the desk, looked at the monitor, saw it was black. He moved the mouse and the screen blinked as the screensaver turned off.

Written across the screen was one message.

KillDisk complete. Drive Override 100%.

Striker balled his hands into fists. He had no idea what had been on those disk drives, but no doubt it had been crucial. Implicating, if not damning evidence.

It was another lost link in their case.

Felicia let out a weary sound. ‘We’re too late.’

‘Maybe Ich can still find something.’

Felicia got on her cell and called in support – Patrol, Ident and the techies. While she was talking to Dispatch, Striker’s cell went off. He picked it up and looked at the screen, hoping to see Courtney’s name. Instead he saw Ichabod’s number – the main line from Forensic Audio. He shoved the cell against his ear.

‘Tell me it’s good news, Ich.’

‘Depends how you look at it,’ Ich replied. ‘Either way, I got your audio from the school.’