Текст книги "The Survivor"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Seventy-Five
Que Wong’s friend, better known as Mr Creepy to Courtney and Raine, had his own pad in the 1800 block of East Georgia Street – a bad part of town but perfect for the girls as it was only four blocks away from Commercial Drive and Venables Street, the starting point for the Parade of Lost Souls party.
The building was old, even for Commercial Drive, made up of cracked grey concrete and filthy windows. Out front, a small grassy area was blocked off by a rusted iron fence. Inside it was a teeter-totter with a swing set, neither of which looked used.
Courtney reached the front entrance. Dressed in nothing but her Little Red Riding Hood costume, she felt exposed, a step away from being naked, and she suddenly realised how much of her ass the costume revealed. It was too much. Hadn’t seemed like this in the change room. And she was cold, wished she’d brought a jacket or something.
From somewhere above, maybe on the third floor, she could hear a baby crying and a couple arguing. The man’s voice was slurred and distorted. Trying to ignore the clatter, she pressed the building buzzer and found it broken. She pushed on the front door and it opened anyway.
Once inside, a musty smell hit her; it seemed to come from the worn-out brown carpets. The building interior was cold and dark. Mr Creepy’s apartment was on the sixth floor. One look at the small rickety booth of an elevator convinced Courtney to take the stairs, which were equally narrow and confining. When she reached the sixth floor, she stepped into the hallway and heard the loud ruckus of a party going on. As she walked down the hall and around the corner, she realised it was coming from Mr Creepy’s place.
The front door was wide open, and people were spilling out into the halls. The air was heavy with cigarette and pot smoke. It made Courtney hesitate, unsure.
But then Raine poked her head out, spotted Courtney and let out a squeal. ‘Oh my GOD – you look so hot in that costume.’
Courtney looked down at herself, felt suddenly self-conscious. Her cheeks blushed and her throat went dry. She looked back up at Raine, saw her huge boobs busting out of her nurse’s costume, and knew she could never compete with that.
‘You look great, too,’ she said. ‘Every guy at the party’s gonna wanna be with you.’
Raine laughed, pulled her inside where the music was louder. Something heavy, pounding. Bad-ass Rap. ‘I’ll get you a cooler – strawberry or peach?’
‘Peach,’ Courtney said, and looked around.
The crowd was a blend of weirdos and strangers. Out on the sundeck was a handful of Asian guys, all with tinted blond hair and leather and red gangster hoodies. They were smoking up some pot. In the kitchen was another group of guys and girls, mixed races, most of them looking older than her and Raine. A lot older. Some of them wore torn-up jeans and black jackets and had a biker look to them. They were drinking hard stuff. Jack Daniel’s. Rum. Vodka. In the far corner, a group of Asian girls were hanging out in a closed-off circle, a few of them constantly looking over their shoulders at her and Raine. They looked mean and tough. It gave Courtney an awkward feeling, and she covered herself up by folding her arms across her chest, then moved in behind the bend of the hall to get out of their line of sight.
‘We’re the only ones wearing costumes,’ she suddenly noticed.
Raine shrugged. ‘So? We’re hot.’
‘Who are all these people?’
Raine opened the fridge door, looked around. ‘I dunno, they just showed up.’
‘Showed up?’
Raine handed her a peach cooler. ‘Yeah. They’re friends of Mr Creepy. Said the party was planned for weeks. Said that everyone knew. They just walked right in like they owned the place. What was I gonna do, not let them in? I just got the ice outta his fridge and loaded up the sink. Next thing I know it was filled with booze. Everyone’s bringing something, and I’ve just been helping myself.’
Courtney didn’t drink her cooler right away. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have let them in.’
Raine gave her an impatient look. ‘You’re not gonna go all nerdy on me again, are you?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Good. ’Cause I just got off the phone with Bobby Ryan and he’s already on his way over.’
Courtney felt her insides explode with butterflies. ‘Now? He’s coming now?’
‘Actually, that was over a half hour ago. He should be here any minute.’
‘Oh GOD.’ Courtney’s fingers suddenly felt clumsy on the bottle. She leaned against the wall, looked down at herself and started fussing with her costume.
Raine grabbed her hand, stopped her from playing with the dress. ‘You look hot, Court. Superhot. So chill.’
‘You think?’
‘They do,’ she said with a laugh, and pointed at a group of guys hanging out in the den where the Vancouver Canucks were battling the Washington Capitals on the big screen. That Russian superstar guy was centrescreen.
Courtney let her eyes fall from the game to the group of guys.
A few of them – all way too old, like, ten years too old for her – had turned around from the game and were staring at her and Raine. The nearest one, a long-haired white guy with a few days’ growth on his face, had on a black sleeveless T-shirt that showed off his heavily muscled arms, both of which were covered with tattoos. She met his stare, hoping he would look away. When he didn’t – and offered her a dirty grin – she pretended not to see and looked down from him.
‘They’re gross.’
Raine laughed. ‘You just need to chill, Court.’ She grabbed the bottle of peach cooler in Courtney’s hand and lifted it to her friend’s mouth.
Courtney took a long gulp, hiccuped, and laughed.
‘Better?’ Raine asked.
‘I dunno. Maybe. A little.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because Bobby just walked through the door.’
Courtney didn’t reply. She froze to the spot, couldn’t move. A part of her wanted to turn around and face Bobby boldly, but she couldn’t. Another part of her wanted to avoid him and run away from the party, but she couldn’t do that either. So instead she just stood there like a statue and drank down her entire cooler. When it was done Raine handed her another one, and she drank that, too.
It was too much, she knew. Too much for a girl who never drank.
But she couldn’t help herself. She finished it and started her third. The music blasted all around her and people started making out in the corners. She spotted Bobby across the room, saw him looking back at her. He began to cross the room, and a small smile spread over Courtney’s lips.
Maybe Raine was right, after all.
It was gonna be one helluva night.
Seventy-Six
Striker and Felicia met Delbert Ibarra at Strike Force HQ. Ibarra, Vancouver’s only Mexican cop, was the Inspector in charge of Strike Force, the city’s best covert surveillance unit. For five years now, Strike Force had been massing up piles of information through Project Pacific – a joint task force initiated to identify the numerous unknown entities of the ongoing Asian gang warfare.
The information Striker and Felicia now had was straightforward. The gunmen were somehow linked to the Shadow Dragons, which was something of a feeder gang for the Triads. And the most likely division of the Triads they were dealing with here just so happened to be the most powerful faction – the 14K. So the goal here was simple: find some pictures of these guys. ID them. Then find the link to the school.
The photographs of Project Pacific were their best bet.
‘Haven’t looked at these for months,’ Delbert Ibarra said as he removed a thick folder of photographs from the cabinet.
Striker nodded. ‘Let’s just hope they got something we can use.’
He waited impatiently in the corner of the Strike Force projector room while Ibarra – Taco Del, to all those who knew him – went through the surveillance folder for Project Pacific. Felicia, the more reserved of the two, sat tilted back in one of the office chairs.
‘How long was Project Pacific?’ Striker asked.
Ibarra unconsciously patted down the sides of his handlebar moustache, grown for the undercover operation he was halfway through. He flipped through the folder, looking at the dates. ‘Sixteen months. Sixteen long friggin’ months.’
‘What exactly was this project?’ Felicia asked.
Ibarra continued picking at the handlebars of his moustache. ‘Multi-jurisdictional surveillance project, set up by a coalition of deputy chiefs. Goal was to gain information on the growing diversity of Asian youth gangs. We had the Strike Force working in two teams, twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week for almost a year and a half. Burned everyone out. Caused a lot of transfers when the gig was up.’
‘Fed money?’ Striker asked.
‘What else? God knows, we couldn’t afford that. Most of the information we got never went to charges. But it’s been a valuable resource for the IHIT and the IGTF.’
Striker nodded. The Integrated Homicide Investigation Team and the Integrated Gang Task Force were in the public eye a lot nowadays. He looked at the file, saw how thin it was. ‘That’s all you got?’
Ibarra laughed, his entire face lighting up. ‘These are just the reference numbers – the entire file is on the database.’
‘We’ll want to see that then.’
Ibarra started the nearest computer and initiated the log-in sequence. As he did so, Striker studied the man. At five foot ten and one hundred eighty pounds, Ibarra was of average height, average weight. He had brown eyes, shaggy brown hair, a bushy brown moustache, and a face people would forget after ten minutes – which was exactly why he had been known as the Surveillance God for the past ten years.
The computer booted up, and Felicia joined Striker and Ibarra at the row of terminals. ‘We need pictures,’ she said.
Striker clarified: ‘Of suspects only. No vehicles or institutions.’
Ibarra used the mouse to navigate through the subsystem. When he found the folder he was looking for – Project Pacific – he craned his neck and gave them both a quick look. ‘This is related to the Active Shooter at Saint Patrick’s?’
Felicia nodded. ‘We think so.’
‘How?’
‘It’s convoluted,’ Striker said, and left it at that.
Ibarra let his stare hang on Striker for a few more seconds, then turned back to the computer. ‘I’ve given you the okay to see this stuff, but you still got to be logged in the book. Procedure.’
Striker nodded like he didn’t much care, and Ibarra opened the search menu bar. ‘Can I narrow this down for you?’
‘Shadow Dragons and Triads and anything connected,’ Striker said.
Ibarra did a double-take, as if he didn’t believe they could be involved, then just shrugged and ran through the subdirectory. When he found the folder labelled Triad Syndicate, he opened it up. There were three more folders inside: Triad Divisions. Triad Associates. Triad Feeder Gangs. He got up from the computer and offered Striker the chair.
‘These are all photos,’ he said. ‘Most of the jpegs are named. The ones with generic numbers are listed in the file folder. You’ll have to cross-reference them to see if their details match. I’ll be in the other room, just grab me if you need something.’
He left the room.
Striker sat down in the chair Ibarra had deserted; Felicia pulled over another one and joined him.
The computer screen was tinted with soft blue and white, and showed the three folders Ibarra had navigated. Striker opened the folder labelled Triad Divisions. Within it was a long list of subfolders, all countries – Canada, the US, China, Hong Kong, Australia and more. When Striker searched through them he found even more subfolders and directories, breaking down into states and provinces, then cities.
None had what he was looking for.
He cycled back to the original page and opened the folder labelled Feeder Gangs. Like the other folder, this one broke down into countries and then cities. Striker clicked through the subsystems until he found a folder named Vancouver and the Surrounding Lower Mainland. He opened it up, hoping to see a listing for the Shadow Dragons, but was not so lucky. Inside the folder, in page-long lists, were a series of jpeg images. He scrolled through them with the mouse.
‘Jesus, there must be thousands,’ Felicia said.
Striker nodded. ‘All the more reason to get started.’
He switched the view settings from List to Thumbnails, and the computer started making loud grinding noises as the hard drive loaded the images. One by one, they popped onto the screen. Slowly, methodically, he and Felicia went through every one of them, maximising and ruling them out. The process was slow, arduous, and after forty long minutes, Striker’s eyes were irritated. It was another twenty minutes before he found anything valuable. He clicked from one photo to the next, then made a soft sound that got Felicia’s attention.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Weird scars on this guy’s torso. Left side.’ Striker thought of the Medical Examiner’s findings of their headless shooter, White Mask.
‘Shrapnel wounds?’ she asked.
‘Might be. And there’s some kind of tattoo on the neck. Left side.’ Striker sat forward in the chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘A dragon maybe.’
Felicia rolled her chair nearer to his as Striker maximised the photo.
On the screen was the colour image of an Asian male, mid-to-late thirties, with a long angular face. His height was difficult to guess, but his build was average, lean. He wore white shorts, a pair of black-and-gold wraparound sunglasses, and looked like he was walking along a beach somewhere. There was water in the background.
Striker looked at the scars all along the man’s side. They were thick and long and uneven, and looked as if they’d been splattered there. Like specks of white spackle. Striker felt a surge of adrenalin. He looked at the tattoo on the neck. It was left side, and it was long and somewhat cylindrical. But the detail was poor, difficult to see.
He magnified the image over the tattoo.
Two times, four times, six times, then eight . . . and Striker felt the breath escape his lips as the image became larger and more distinct. The tattoo looked like a seahorse on the man’s neck, but Striker knew it was really a dragon. Red and gold. The tail trailed down the left side of the neck, the head looked back across the shoulder.
Striker panned in on the chest, left side. There was a number 13.
An overwhelming sense of excitement flooded him. The caption under the jpeg read: Tran Sang Soone, and Striker read the name several times, as if disbelieving the words.
Tran Sang Soone.
He had found White Mask.
Seventy-Seven
Striker wanted all the information the Inspector had on Tran Sang Soone. According to the chart, there was a separate folder on the man, but it was not filed in its proper place. Ibarra left the room to check the backup files, and Striker and Felicia continued scanning through the pictures for the one man they wanted most.
Red Mask.
Striker had seen his face in two of their three gun battles, and it was a face he would never forget. Like Tran Sang Soone, Red Mask was thin and wiry in build, and of average height. But it was the eyes that gave him away – sitting deep behind heavily boned cheeks, their stare deep and hollow and empty. In his sixteen years of policing Striker had never met a stare like that, and the thought reminded him of Magui Yagata’s words back at Worldwide Translation Services, when she spoke of the Khmer Rouge.
‘A survivor.’
The more Striker thought about it, the more he believed her words. He let the thought take him away for a bit, then snapped back to the task at hand when Felicia looked up from the folder she was perusing and said, ‘Found some info on Tran Sang Soone. Date of birth: January 15, 1964.’
Striker moved closer. ‘Sixty-four? Are you sure?’
‘That’s what the file says. Info comes from Immigration. Says here the place of birth is Phnom Phen, Cambodia.’
‘Then who knows what his real age is. Cambodia doesn’t exactly keep good records.’ The thought of Cambodia was disturbing to Striker. ‘That date and location correspond perfectly with Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. What else is in there?’
She read on. ‘He’s got an extensive criminal history. Christ, there’s everything in here! Charges for Assault, Trafficking, Running a Common Bawdy House, Running a Gambling Den, Uttering Threats – the list just goes on and on.’
‘Any of the charges go through?’
‘Nope. All stayed, every single one of them. Must have one helluva lawyer. He’s listed as a Person of Interest in a dozen murders from Vancouver to Toronto. Even one back in Hong Kong. But he’s never done time for any of them. Never done time for anything.’
‘He’s doing time now,’ Striker said. ‘And hopefully the furnace is cranked. He got a list of associates in there?’
She shook her head. ‘Not in this folder. But there are lists of other Shadow Dragons.’
Striker logged onto CABS – the Criminal Automated Booking System – and brought up the query box.
‘Let’s go through them,’ he said. ‘One by one.’
Felicia read the first name out, Striker typed it in the box and hit send. Seconds later, the photo popped up. It wasn’t Red Mask, and Striker deleted it. Then they started all over again.
Twenty minutes and twenty-nine associates later, Striker brought up the last image, found it didn’t match, and cleared the search bar.
‘Next one,’ he said.
‘That’s it, we’re done.’
‘Done?’ Striker made a frustrated sound, then thought things over. ‘Okay, what other gangs was White Mask – Tran Sang Soone – connected to? We’ll start with the most likely, then fan out from there.’
‘The Golden Lotus,’ Ibarra said, stepping back into the room.
Striker wrote the name down in his notebook. ‘I’ve heard of the Lotus before, but never the Golden Lotus.’
‘That’s because they’re from Toronto.’
‘Toronto?’
‘Yeah, I got bad news for you,’ Ibarra said. ‘My team followed these guys around for the better part of a year – the gang brings in a lot of off-shore help. China. Singapore. Macau. There were so many faces we could hardly keep up, even with twenty-four-hour surveillance on them. Much as I hate to burst your bubble, this guy might be from overseas – a FOB-K.’
Felicia looked at Striker, then at Ibarra. ‘FOB-K?’
‘Fresh off the boat killer.’
Striker said nothing. It was a thought he didn’t want to entertain. Having an overseas gunman would mean more time, more agencies – Interpol, FBI, the Feds – and the list went on. In the end, an overseas gunman would mean less chance of identification, and it would keep them stuck in this constant cat and mouse chase, where the only way to catch Red Mask was to wait for his next attack.
And who knew how many more deaths that would mean.
Ibarra held up a thin folder. It was beige and dusty, and the corners were turned over from being compressed. ‘This is all I got on Tran Sang Soone.’
Felicia took the folder from Ibarra and opened it on the desk. As she went through it, Striker continued scanning through the surveillance photos of 14K Triad members and suspected associates. He reached the end and was about to put them away when something made him pause. In one of the surveillance photos, Tran Sang Soone was seated at a banquet table. He was laughing heartily while talking to another gang member. Behind him, the waitress was bringing more platters out from the kitchen.
‘Where was this taken?’
Ibarra leaned forward. ‘That photo was taken over a year ago, at the Chongmin Banquet Hall. Used to be a big splashy place. Closed down now though. Got caught running a gambling den and a common bawdy house out of the back.’
Striker looked at the photo, stared at it for a long time, and spotted a tall man in a white apron in the doorway. He pulled the photo closer. The background was grainy, hard to make out, but something clicked in Striker’s mind.
‘Who is this guy?’ he asked, and pointed to the man in the apron.
Ibarra looked over his shoulder. ‘The cook.’
‘You run him?’
Ibarra nodded. ‘We ran everyone who so much as farted in their direction. Believe me, anyone who’s got any known criminal involvement is listed under the associates.’
‘So who is he?’ Striker pressed.
Ibarra took another look at the photo. ‘Don’t know the name. I remember him though. Real oddball. Just stood there staring off into space half the time. Most the guys thought he was on the nod, or something. We checked him out though, and he was completely negative. Nothing criminal in his past, nothing even remotely suspect. Shit, I don’t think he even had a speeding ticket.’
‘That means nothing,’ Striker commented. ‘Seung-Hui Choi had no criminal history either, but that didn’t stop him from killing thirty-two people at Virginia Tech. What’s the cook’s name?’
Ibarra couldn’t remember, so he took the image number from Striker and started flipping through the pages of the Project Pacific folder.
While waiting, Striker searched through the rest of the restaurant photos, scanning each one with deliberation. It was on the eleventh photograph that he found the cook again, in a strange pose. He was out in a laneway with his shirt removed. His body was tattoo-free with beige skin; his build was lean and wiry. Striker studied the man’s physique, then his face. And then he knew.
It was the eyes. That cold, vacuous stare.
Felicia, reading over the Tran Sang Soone folder, made an excited sound and looked up. ‘Jesus Christ, he’s got a brother!’
And before Striker could react to this, Ibarra found the name connected to the image of the cook. Striker snatched the paper from his hands and read it over. He turned to face Felicia.
‘Call Dispatch,’ he ordered. ‘Call the papers. Call every TV station you know.’
Felicia stood up from her chair. ‘Red Mask?’ she asked.
Striker nodded. ‘His name is Shen Sun Soone.’
