Snakes & Ladders (9 page)

They entered the main office.

John Gibson was sitting behind an old monstrosity of a desk that looked to be made of metal. He was an older man, probably mid-sixties, with a short, wiry build and thinning grey hair. His hands were dirty and calloused, but they looked strong enough to tear phone books in half.

In front of him on the desk sat his statement, already written. Even from where Striker stood, the writing looked like chicken scratches on the page. It was full of spelling errors. Striker said nothing; it was typical for this area. And for all the bad grammar and spelling errors, he appreciated getting the statement. It was one more than they already had.

Gibson looked up with a pissed-off expression on his face. ‘Back already, huh?’

Felicia smiled. ‘Yes, we finished up with our other witnesses. This is Detective Striker.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Striker said.

When John Gibson just grunted and gave a half nod, Striker grabbed the statement paper and read it over. The statement was brief, not even half a page long. Most of it was no more than a nonsensical rant. Clarification on many points was necessary. He skimmed down to the part about the driver and the licence plate.

What he saw made him smile.

The details on the driver were vague at best – the person was unidentified with no description – but whoever the driver was, he was definitely alone. And, more importantly, the last two numbers in the plate were listed.

Seven and nine.

Striker looked up at the old man. ‘Seven and nine? You’re sure about that, Mr Gibson?’

‘Damn right, I am. One hundred per cent. I remember it perfectly cuz that’s my kid’s birthday – seventy-nine.’

‘And you saw just one person inside the vehicle?’

‘Yeah, just the one – the cocksucker.’

‘Male or female?’ Striker asked.

‘Couldn’t tell either way.’ The man’s fingers clenched into fists. ‘Goddam prick was driving too fast again. Almost knocked the load right off my forklift.’ He jabbed a finger towards the front road. ‘He’s always driving too fast. He’s a fuckin’
nimrod
. And I’ll tell ya this: he ever stops out front – even
once
– I’m gonna get him outta that truck and kick his fast-driving ass all over Franklin Street. Goddam cocksucker’s gonna kill someone one day, he keeps that up!’

Felicia stepped forward. ‘You said,
again
? Have you seen this vehicle before?’

‘Sure. Lotsa times. He’s always coming this way. Always driving like a fuckin’ nutcase.’

‘How often?’ Striker asked. ‘Any particular days?’

The older man thought about it for a long moment, then shook his head. ‘I can’t make no rhyme or reason outta it. Just seen him down here lots. Always driving too damn fast.’

Striker looked at Felicia and saw that she understood the significance, too. They had a pattern of driving behaviour here, and a regular route travelled. It was good news and bad – good because it would be easier to track this person down; bad because it made it less likely the man was connected to Mandy Gill’s suicide. For all they knew, the driver was just another John, coming down here to get his rocks off, then hauling ass to get out of the area.

Striker wrote down the last two numbers of the licence plate, which now gave them three out of a possible six letters and numbers.
J
for the first three letters;
79
for the last two out of three numbers. It made Striker smile.

They now had enough for a motor vehicle search.

He handed the written statement to Felicia and asked her to do the Q and A with Gibson. When she took it and sat down in one of the office chairs, Striker left the room and hung out in the warehouse, where he could be alone.

He got on his cell and called up Brian Greene, a contact of his at the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia. Striker knew the man well from a previous motor vehicle accident in which Brian’s sixteen-year-old son had gotten critically injured. Striker had located Brian, picked him up, and driven him Code 3 to Burnaby General Hospital to see his son before the emergency surgery. Driving lights and siren with citizens in the car was a departmental no-no, regardless of the son’s injuries, and it could’ve gotten Striker into hot water. But that became a moment that Brian Greene would never forget. Ever since then the man had been a reliable and useful contact.

The call was answered on the third ring.

‘Brian Greene,’ the man said.

‘Brian, it’s Jacob Striker.’

‘Detective! Long time no talk.’

‘I’m surprised you’re still there. It’s late.’

‘Yeah, well, we had another after-hours meeting. The tenth one this month, I think. Everything’s always a crisis around here, right? I was just about to leave.’

‘Well, lucky me for catching you.’

‘That depends on what you need. How’s life with the Vancouver Police Department?’

‘I’m just one lotto ticket away from retirement.’ Brian Greene laughed, and Striker continued: ‘How is Jonathan doing?’

‘He’s
walking
. He’s walking and he’s doing well. Finishing his degree at UBC. Philosophy. Which means he’s never leaving home, I guess.’

‘You got a professional student on your hands.’

Brian laughed. ‘Yeah, I think he’s gonna live at home till he’s thirty!’

Striker smiled at that. It was good to hear the boy was doing well. Back then, at the accident scene, he didn’t think Jonathan Greene was going to make it. And the memory of that moment stirred up some hard emotions.

Striker changed the subject. ‘I’m calling because I’m in need here, Brian. Can you do a search for me – completely off the record?’

‘Any time. You just give me the plate number.’

The words were music to Striker’s ears. Normally, the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia was sticky when it came to the private information of their clients, and unless the circumstance was labelled
Life or Death
, any help from the corporation required a warrant.

No exceptions ever.

Having a contact like Brian Greene made all the difference in the world.

‘Juliet for the first letter,’ Striker said. ‘Next two letters unknown. First number is unknown. Last two are seven and nine.’

‘In that order?’

‘I think so.’

Striker heard the clicking sounds of Brian’s keyboard, then a moment of silence before the man responded with a whistle.

‘That’s never good,’ Striker said.

‘Ten
thousand
hits, man. Got any other details to narrow it down a bit?’

‘You bet. It’s a Beamer. An X5.’

A few more clicks.

Brian said, ‘Okay. One hundred and thirteen hits.’

Striker thought it over. ‘Try Beamers that are less than three years old.’

A few more clicks, then: ‘Good one. You’re down to twenty.’

‘Black in colour.’

Brian punched the detail into his keyboard, then let out a laugh. ‘Okay, now we have five.’

‘Put the location of the registered owner as Vancouver only.’

‘Now you got three.’

Striker smiled. ‘Give them to me.’

Brian did.

Striker wrote the plate numbers down in his notebook, then asked for the details of each one – the name of the registered owner, the address listed, and so forth. When Brian Greene gave him the details of the third and last plate, one detail in particular caught Striker’s attention and a smile broke the corners of his mouth.

‘Interesting,’ he said.

At first the water of the well stung his skin like a cold fire. But soon the sting went away and was replaced by a swelling numbness that started in his fingers and toes. It then inched its way slowly throughout the rest of his body like long probing tendrils.

The Adder swam in place, desperately trying to keep his lips above the water. It was a difficult task. The Doctor had laid planks across the top of the well and, as a result, there was less than a few inches of space between the top of the splashing water and wet hard planks above.

The darkness made everything worse. All the Adder could see was a mass of blackness; it was everywhere he looked. And when he reached out for the sides of the well in an effort to hold himself above the water, the only thing his fingers touched was slime-coated stone.

Cold and hard and slippery.

Many times already, he had fatigued. Taken in a quick deep breath. And let his body sink beneath the top of the water into the depths below. Never once had his naked feet touched the bottom. No matter how far down he dropped – so low he feared he would never reach the top again – he never touched the bottom.

In some ways that was good. After all, what was down there? An end? Or would currents suck him away to other underground chasms? And was there something down there? Something
alive
?

That thought terrified him. More than once, something had brushed his leg – a fast and fleeting sensation. But one he was certain of.

Something
was in the well with him; he just didn’t know what. After that first touch, the Adder had struggled to stay near the top, swimming so hard the flesh of his lips tore as they raked against the rough wooden surface of the planks above.

A whimper escaped him, for he knew he was failing now. His body was too numb. His limbs too tired. They were giving out on him. And despite the fear he felt, despite the anxiety of what lay below, a part of him rejoiced in the suffering.

For this was how William must have felt.

The Doctor was right about that; this was what he deserved. A fated and fitting punishment. For he had failed. And all because of the cop. The big homicide detective who had slipped out of the shadow like a snake through water – a demon from out of the darkness – and tried to suck him down with him.

The memory was still fresh, and it made the Adder’s heart race.

The next time things would end differently.

Felicia and Striker sat in their unmarked car, which today was an old Ford Taurus. John Gibson had finished the question-and-answer session with Felicia, and she was now in the process of folding and tucking the statement into a file folder. She slid the whole thing into her briefcase in the back seat, then turned to look at Striker.

Her pretty face looked tired. Her dark Spanish eyes were underscored with sleep lines, and the way she hunched forward made her body look deflated.

Striker couldn’t blame her for being exhausted. The last two days had been hell. Before tonight’s incident, over Monday and Tuesday, they’d each put in over thirty hours. And even this morning, they’d started their shift at four a.m. in order to investigate a lead on a different case. The expectation had been to leave early this afternoon, at maybe at two or three, and go home for a good night’s rest.

Mandy Gill’s death had changed all that.

Felicia stifled a yawn and covered her mouth. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘What time is it, ten?’

‘Close enough; it’s just before nine. You gonna make it there, Bella?’

She gave him a look of daggers. ‘You know I hate it when you call me that.’

‘
Mamacita
?’ When she didn’t see the humour in it, he changed the subject. ‘You learn anything else from the statement with Gibson?’

She nodded. ‘Sure. He’s angry and he’s an idiot.’

Striker smiled at that. Felicia got this way whenever she was tired and irritable. He changed the subject again. ‘We got three possible hits on the Beamer,’ he started. ‘The first one is Juliet-Juliet-Mike, One-Seven-Nine.’

Felicia punched the numbers into the computer, into the Vehicle Query, and searched the plate through the police and motor vehicle databases. ‘Beamer,’ she said. ‘An X5. Comes back to a woman named Elin Forslund.’

‘What’s her record?’

Felicia looked through the PRIME information, then shook her head. ‘Clean as they come, including her driving record. No criminal history whatsoever. Works as an consultant at a video game company. Dream-Makers. As for the vehicle information, it says here the plate is invalid. Insurance expired yesterday. She’s got only a temporary operator’s permit now.’ She looked at Striker. ‘You see one of those in the video?’

‘No, but they’re not always the easiest to spot.’

She nodded. ‘Fine. We’ll keep this one a limited possibility. What’s the next plate?’

‘Juliet-Mike-Delta, Seven-Seven-Nine.’

She ran that plate. Got some hits back. ‘Okay. Registered owner and listed driver’s licence come back to one Clayford Ozymandias Kennedy.’

‘Holy shit –
The Third
?’ Striker asked.

Felicia smiled. ‘No kidding. Nice parents – what, were they trying to get him beat up at school, or something?’ She read on. ‘Okay, he’s fifty years old. Works as an investment broker, by the looks of things. Works for ING Direct. One speeding ticket. No criminal history whatsoever.’

Striker nodded. ‘Where’s he live?’

‘Downtown core.’

That was the direction the vehicle had been heading in. ‘Contact number?’

‘Cell only.’

Striker took it and made the call. Two minutes later, he had his answer. Clayford Kennedy was currently in Kelowna at an investor conference. He’d been there all day long, with his vehicle, and he had proof of this. Striker hung up.

‘Scratch him off the list for now,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to confirm the details later.’

Felicia made a note of the name, then looked up. ‘And the last plate?’ she asked.

Striker smiled. ‘This one intrigues me. Juliet-Alpha-Papa, Nine-Seven-Nine.’

Felicia typed in the information, then sent the request. When the responses came back, she read them out slowly: ‘Okay, we got some hits here. Primary driver licence on file belongs to a man named Erich Ostermann. Forty-eight years old. Lives out west towards the university grounds. Point Grey, I think.

Striker read the screen, too. ‘Look at the address.’

She did. ‘Belmont Drive. So what? Like I said, that’s way out by the university grounds.’

‘No, not his home address. Look where he works.’

She skimmed through the list of addresses on the main screen. ‘There’s a few of them,’ she said. ‘This guy works in many places: 512 Granville Street . . . 2601 Lougheed Highway . . . 330 Heatley Avenue—’ She hesitated. ‘Why does that address sound familiar?’