The Survivor (19 page)

‘One.’

‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘There’s two. The Honda key, and the happy face – which is a key in its own right. Magnetically-speaking.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that’s why they stole the car a whole week before the shootings: they were modifying it somehow.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s something hidden in that car.’

Thirty

Felicia stood in the dim lighting of the police garage and stared blankly at the small yellow happy face that was stuck to the metallic whiteboard.

‘You lost me,’ she said to Striker. She walked up to the whiteboard. Stopped. Studied the happy face.

It was a circular piece of plastic. Dark yellow with the standard smile painted onto it. The only difference was the bullet-hole that had been painted in the centre of the forehead. The happy face was attached to the key-ring by a ten-centimetre chain, just like the fob and Honda key.

‘So it’s a magnet,’ Felicia said again.

Striker took Courtney’s happy face magnet from Felicia and put it on the board next to the one from Red Mask’s key-ring.

‘Take them off the board,’ he said.

When Felicia tried, Courtney’s came off easily. But she almost broke a nail on Red Mask’s version. She swore. ‘Okay, it’s a really, really strong magnet.’

‘And it separates from the key-ring.’

Felicia made a face, as if she was tired of playing Twenty Questions, but Striker didn’t notice. To prove his point, he pried the magnet from the board, then found the snap attachment in the chain. He rolled it between his fingers, gave it a firm squeeze, and the chain broke in half, separating the happy face from the rest of the key-ring. He handed it to Felicia.

She took it. ‘Early birthday present?’

‘Something like that.’

Her voice took on a curious tone. ‘So how’s it gonna open something in the car that, so far, no one else has found?’

‘The clue is the magnet. It completes a circuit, probably somewhere near the steering column or radio. If you hit the right spot, it’s like plugging in a power cord. Once we got power, the fob will open the hidden compartment.’ He gave her a nod. ‘Go to the passenger side.’

She did. ‘How do you know this?’

Striker reached the driver’s side. ‘I’ve seen it before with the gangs. And I took some courses down in Virginia with the DEA. Once I knew this key was magnetic, I suspected there might be a hidden compartment. Let’s hope I’m right.’

They gloved up with fresh latex, then Striker leaned inside the car and scanned the dashboard. He took the Honda key from the Ident bag and placed it in the ignition. ‘Usually, the car has to be turned on to complete the circuit.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Felicia asked.

‘Look on top of the dashboard, see if you can find any marks or scratches.’

Felicia started to lean inside the car, then stopped. She took a moment to tie her hair back – the last thing she needed was to leave her own DNA there for investigators. Once done, she scanned the top of the dashboard. It was dark green and made of smooth vinyl. Appeared very ordinary.

‘Nothing here. No marks of any kind.’

Striker cursed. ‘Put the magnet on top of the dashboard. Your end.’

She did. ‘Okay.’

‘The magnet should complete the circuit, the fob should activate it.’ He put the key into the auxiliary position, and all the dash lights came on. ‘Now slowly slide the magnet across the dash towards me, just a half-inch at a time.’

Felicia moved the happy face as requested, inch by inch, and each time Striker pressed the button on the fob. Nothing happened. They did this across the entire dashboard.

Nothing.

A frustrated sound escaped Striker’s lips. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. His skin felt itchy. The police garage was a cold, draughty place, but inside the Civic, it felt hot and claustrophobic. Small dots of sweat dampened his brow. The sweet smell of Felicia’s perfume was getting to him.

He stood back from the vehicle and took a short walk to the other side of the garage. It gave him some space – room to think. He stood in the corner for a long moment, going over everything in his head.

I must be missing something.

He turned, looked back at the car and saw Felicia standing there, her coffee-depleted patience thinning. Her long dark hair had been sprayed down and combed out, but it was obvious she’d slept on it wrong all night. A thought occurred to him.

‘Is the radio turned on?’

‘Radio?’

‘Inside the Civic. Is it on?’

Felicia looked inside, shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Christ. The radio is part of the circuit.’

He marched back to the car and leaned inside the driver’s seat. The radio was brand new, one of those disc, radio and mp3 players, all built into one. There was no brand name anywhere on the device. Just a plain black faceplate with all the LEDs turned off. Striker pressed the power button, and the faceplate lit up in bright neon blue. The screen said DISC, but nothing was playing. He grabbed the happy face magnet, handed it back to Felicia, and grinned.

‘One more time.’

Like before, Felicia placed the magnet down on the far end of the dashboard. Striker grabbed the remote, and they started the entire process all over again. When they reached the midway point of the dashboard – with the happy face magnet positioned directly above the
D
in
DISC
– Striker hit the fob and an unseen electronic lock disengaged somewhere. The click was sharp, audible, and it was followed by a soft whirring sound.

Felicia flinched. ‘What the hell is that?’

Before Striker could respond, the entire front section of the dashboard came apart. The front half moved forward, away from the baseboard. It lowered towards them on a pair of automated, gliding hinges, revealing a hidden compartment that went deep under the dashboard, back towards the engine area.

Striker smiled.

‘That’s the jackpot.’

Thirty-One

Ten minutes later, Striker and Felicia draped brown paper over a work table, then laid out everything they’d found inside the hidden compartment. The list was brief but significant:

One Benelli shotgun, single-barrel, pump-action.

Two 40-calibre Glock handguns. Pistols. Modified to be fully automatic.

Ammunition, boxed and open. Slugs and 40-calibre. Hollow-tip variety and steel-cased Full Metal Jacket.

And one ordinary brown legal-size envelope with over ten grand in cash inside.

Striker held it up, grinned. ‘Coffee money.’

Felicia finally gave him the smile he’d been drilling for all morning. ‘Make mine a latte.’

He gathered up all the free ammunition, stuck one of the rounds inside his pocket, then placed the rest in a brown paper bag for Ident. He left it in the centre of the table with a large sign that read:
Ammo from Hidden Compartment in Civic. Check for Prints
.

Then he called Noodles and told him about the find.

‘This is fucking insane,’ Noodles said. ‘I was just gonna call you. I heard about the ammo issues, so I did some analysis here. Looks to me like these kids were shot with different types. Some 762s and some frangible forty-cals.’

Striker glanced left at Felicia as she stared into the car at the hidden compartment. ‘I’ve got matching ammo here, Noodles. These guys were pros. I need you to get down here and look at this stuff.’

‘No can do. I’m still covering bases here on the docks with the Wong body. Plus you got me chasing down samples on Leung’s body. I’m gonna be hours still – you’re making too many crime scenes for me, you prick.’

Striker cursed. ‘I need you, Noodles.’

‘I’m sending John Winter down.’

‘Winter? He’s a friggin’ rookie.’

‘Maybe so, but he came in second overall in the competition back East. I taught the kid everything I know, Shipwreck. He’s good.’

Striker accepted it, albeit grudgingly. ‘Keep me posted on everything, and get Winter to call me when he’s done.’

Noodles agreed, then hung up. Striker walked back to the table, picked up one of the Glocks and scanned it for a serial number. Felicia was staring at him with a lost look on her face.

‘How did you know?’ she said. ‘About the compartment?’

‘I already told you. I’d seen it before and had taken courses.’

‘But what exactly? Walk me through it.’

Striker put down the Glock. ‘Well, there were a few things, really. The ignition was brand new and had clearly been replaced. That was the biggest clue. But there were other things, too. Couple of scuff marks where the dash meets the steering column. And then there was the fob.’

‘But that fob could’ve been for anything – a garage, an apartment, another car.’

‘Could’ve been. But it wasn’t.’

She said nothing, she just stared at him. Her dark eyes were beautiful but hard to read.

Striker shrugged. ‘Like I said, it was one of many factors.’

‘And the happy face?’

‘More specifically, the magnet inside. It was
very
strong. Kept sticking to everything. And you needed that to complete the circuit. It’s one of those extra little securities these maggots use nowadays, so that patrol cops can’t use the fob to unlock the compartment during street checks. That’s why the radio also had to be turned on, to complete the circuit. It’s one more safety precaution for dial-a-dopers.’

She nodded. ‘What else?’

Striker took the other pistol from the table, scanned it for a serial. Found none. ‘For two, no trinket should’ve been there at all. Think about it. No assassin’s going to start accessorising his key chain for a stolen car he intends to dump. It was there for a reason. I just had to figure out what that reason was – though I’m still a little bit lost as to why he left the keys at the scene in the first place. Must’ve dropped them, been his first mistake.’ He gave Felicia a thoughtful look. ‘Maybe he’s hurt worse than we thought.’

Felicia was quiet for a moment, then leaned against the car and crossed her arms. ‘Well bravo, Jacob. Nice to see you had so many ideas in your head all this time. And thanks so much for keeping me in the loop.’

He looked up from the gun barrel he was assessing. ‘You’re not actually pissed, are you?’

‘We’re partners, and you didn’t even tell me.’

‘I wasn’t sure.’

‘You had an idea.’

Striker picked up the shotgun. The serial number had been removed from the barrel here too. It was to be expected. He scanned the steel for any grind marks, saw none, and nodded. Half to himself, half to Felicia.

‘No serial.’

This seemed to distract her. ‘Gone? Completely?’

‘Looks like it. We’ll do the DNA thing first. Check it against the databank. But that will take a few weeks at best, even with a priority rush. Then we’ll see if the Feds can get some serial numbers from the barrels.’

‘You said the serial was gone.’

‘It is. But they didn’t file it off, they used acid.’ Striker held up the barrel for her to see and rubbed his finger along the black shiny barrel. The metal was smooth. ‘The factory stamping leaves an impression right through the steel. Lasers can pick it up. Problem is we got none here, but the Feds do. And if they can get a serial, we’ll do a trace, see if it’s registered. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

Felicia looked at all the guns laid out on the table. ‘So we got no serials.’

Striker put the shotgun back down alongside them. ‘Not worried about the serials. What I want to know is whether these guns were used on any of the victims. Ballistics will have to tell us that. Through the pathologist.’

‘But the serials—’

‘There’s a billion handguns in North America, Feleesh. Registered, unregistered, it makes no difference. There’s just too damn many for us to track. They fly across the borders like leaves. A gun won’t lead us anywhere. What will, is the hidden compartment – there’s only a handful of people in this country who can make that.’

This notion seemed to perk her up.

‘And even fewer who could do it so quickly,’ she said.

Striker smiled. ‘Exactly. Whoever did this would need to have the materials on hand, the tools required, and the know-how. Given the timeframe and the fact that these guys weren’t going to chance it by driving around the province, that person will be somewhere here in the Lower Mainland. Has to be. And once we find out who that is, we can trace things back to the school. Find out who our shooters were. Find out who was really behind this attack.’

Felicia gave him a pointed look. ‘Any other ideas you’re holding back?’

‘No. I don’t got a clue. But I know someone who will.’

‘Who?’

‘Just your favourite person in the whole entire world.’

A look of disgust crept across her face. ‘Please God, tell me you’re not talking about Hans Jager.’

Striker laughed out loud.

‘You got it, darlin. The one and only. Time to go see Meathead.’

Thirty-Two

Half an hour later, just after eight o’clock as the sun was finally coming up, Striker and Felicia pulled into the south lane of Tenth Avenue, then turned down the steep driveway that led into the underground police parkade. Striker swiped his card, keyed in his ID number and drove into the protected area of the building. The steel-reinforced gates automatically closed behind them.

Felicia grimaced at the low ceiling, which was covered with grey stalactites of fire-retardant foam. ‘Feels like a tomb down here.’

Striker agreed. ‘Welcome to the Bunker.’ It was the first time he’d been back here at Specialty Unit Headquarters since his stress leave, and it felt good.

He scanned the area. The lower levels of the complex contained electronically-secured lockers that housed the high-tech military weaponry required for the Emergency Response Team. This place was a favourite hangout for Meathead, who planned on making the move from the International Gang Task Force to the Emergency Response Team the moment his application was approved by the Inspector. So when he had suggested they all meet here to discuss matters, Striker hadn’t been surprised.

Striker drove down the ramp, around the corner, and saw Meathead at the next series of storage rooms. At six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, Meathead was an easy man to spot. A modern-day Viking. He had a giant head, which was covered with thick, wild curls of red hair, and a moustache and goatee to match. His arms were the size of most men’s calves and they were covered with so many tattoos they looked like sleeves – a Departmental rule-breaker, no doubt, but one that the white-shirts had wisely overlooked.