The Survivor (23 page)

‘Great. What about the other guy?’

‘His name is Chris Simmons. Works out in the Valley, on the border of Mission. Remember Janet Jacobson – used to work in Vice? – she transferred out to Abbotsford a few months back. I contacted her back at the office, when you were setting things up with the parents. She’s checking Simmons out for us, but Clayfield is ours. Run him on the computer and bring up his associates.’

Felicia nodded and typed in his name as Striker drove north on Knight Street. After a few blocks, she made a frustrated sound.

‘This guy’s got over a hundred associates in here,’ she said.

‘See which ones are listed under Triple A Autobody. It’s Clayton’s shop. They will be our connection to Clayfield and the Honda.’

She did. ‘Okay. Got eight now. Place must be a chop shop.’

‘That, and a whole lot more.’

They got stuck at a red. Striker cursed softly under his breath, grabbed his own coffee which sat unchecked in the drink holder. It was still hot.

‘Check out the Intels of every associate,’ he said. ‘See if any of these guys have been linked to other modified vehicles.’

Felicia scanned through the reports, read for a while in silence. By the time the light turned green, she found what she was looking for. ‘Okay. We got two guys here with a whole lot of history. Tony Rifanzi, and a guy named Ricky Lomar.’

Striker had never heard of either of them.

‘What work have they done?’ he asked.

She read on. ‘Lomar’s done a lot of compartments, some in the dashboard, some under the seats, and some in the floorboard and wheel-wells. Always drugs though.’

‘And Rifanzi?’

‘Same. Just a lot less.’

‘He’s done a lot less, or he’s been caught a lot less?’

‘Good point.’ Felicia clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. ‘Looks like Rifanzi’s work is a higher level. He’s been suspected of using hydraulics and electronics in the past; Lomar’s stuff has always been lever activated, somewhere in the car.’

Striker said nothing, he just let this information digest.

His cell phone rang and he snatched it off his belt, hoping it was Courtney. The display told him otherwise. It was Janet Jacobson. He answered, listened for less than a minute, then thanked her and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia asked.

‘Turns out Simmons has been under surveillance for the better part of three weeks on unrelated matters. He’s out. That leaves only Clayfield.’

They had reached East Hastings Street, only three blocks from their destination, when Felicia made an
oh-shit
sound as she finished reading through the reports. ‘We’ve hit a snag here,’ she said. ‘Rifanzi’s actually on the jail slate. Been in there since late last night.’

Striker thought it over. ‘For what?’

‘Fight at a strip club – the Number Five Orange. Assault Causing Bodily Harm.’ She skimmed the electronic pages. ‘Report says he was pretty coked up. Christ, another friggin’ investigative dead end.’

Striker stopped the car on the north side of Franklin Street, the 1500 block. Triple A Autobody was only a half block away.

‘Dead end nothing,’ he said. ‘He’s just given us a pass into the fast lane.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Striker grinned. ‘Watch and learn, my young apprentice. Watch and learn.’

Thirty-Eight

There was nothing special about Triple A Autobody. It was just a two-bay garage with two hoists per lane. Three guys were working inside, one black, two East Indian. All of them were tattooed and beefy. Hardliners. Each one of them gave Striker and Felicia a sideways look as they walked in through the back bay door and poked their heads around.

‘Place smells like motor oil and freshly-smoked pot,’ Striker said loudly. ‘A Workers Compensation Board no-no.’

Without a word, the black guy put down the tire he was holding, turned and walked into the back office.

Striker gave Felicia a wink. ‘He must be getting us the welcome mat.’

A small smile broke her tight lips, and it made him feel good.

‘Or the red carpet,’ she added.

Striker grinned.

A tall guy with thinning white hair came out of the office. His build was skinny, but his gut was huge – a big distended belly, like he had cancer or a tapeworm or something. He was stomping more than walking, and his hands were balled into fists. He wasn’t even halfway across the garage before he said, ‘This is private property. What the hell do you want?’

Striker didn’t respond. He just stood there and waited for the man to get close enough so that he wouldn’t have to raise his voice. When the man was a few feet away, Striker recognised him from the mug-shots. It was Sheldon Clayfield all right, but he had aged badly since the photo was taken. His thinning hair was now pure white – and not a healthy white either, but an
I-shat-my-pants-one-too-many-times
white – and the lines in his face were deeper than some canyons.

‘Sheldon Clayfield?’ Felicia asked.

‘You know it is.’

‘Somewhere we can talk?’

The man placed his hands on his hips, making his large gut look more pronounced. ‘Here’s as good a place as any.’

Before Striker could reply, a customer walked through the front door. Striker grinned. ‘You sure about that, Clayfield? Involves stolen cars, dead children, and a few rather
sensitive
names.’

The words knocked the tough look off Clayfield’s face and he blinked. Just a second really, but that was all it took.

Striker knew they had something here.

‘Office,’ Clayfield finally grunted. ‘No point in disrupting my workers.’

He turned around and walked away with far less attitude than he’d come out with. Felicia and Striker followed. Clayfield ushered them inside, said he had to deal with the customer first, then left.

Striker listened to their conversation as they waited. He also looked around the office.

It was small, had no windows, and stank of stale cigarettes and old coffee. One desk and three chairs filled the room, all of them rickety and wooden. A black rotary telephone sat on the desk, splattered white with paint drops. The rest of the office was no better. The walls had once been cream, but time and a few thousand cigarettes had greyed them to the same sickly colour old people got when they had stage three cancer. Decorating the walls were pictures of naked women, most of them on motorcycles, with tattoos and piercings. Some of them were in bondage, strapped to the handlebars.

‘How modern,’ Felicia said.

Striker pointed to one of the posters that had a naked blonde bent over the back of a Harley Davidson. The tattoo across her lower back read
God Rides a Harley!

Striker gestured to the tattoo. ‘Don’t you have one of those?’

‘Yeah, but I had the
God
changed to
Clod
. Reminded me of you.’

‘You always were sentimental.’

They shared a grin as the customer out front left the shop and Clayfield returned. He looked unhappy and didn’t try to cover it. He closed the door and focused on them with dark narrowed eyes.

Striker looked at Clayfield’s hands and made sure they were empty.

‘Now what’s this shit you’re talking about?’ Clayfield asked.

Striker met his stare. ‘I’m talking about the stolen Honda Civic you modified.’

Clayfield walked around the office until he was on the other side of the desk, facing them, as if he liked having the barrier between them.

‘Honda Civic? Shit. Never heard of it.’

‘Oh, I think you remember. The one with the new ignition and stereo, and the magnetic happy face – that was a nice little addition, by the way.’

‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking bout.’

Striker looked back at the closed office door, pushed on it to make sure it was secure. Then he turned around and leaned forward across the desk.

‘Here’s the deal, Clayfield. Twenty-two children died yesterday at Saint Patrick’s and the madman is still out there. I don’t think for a second you were involved in the shootings, but I do know you were approached by someone to have the car modified. And I know you did it.’

Striker paused for a moment to let the silence weigh down on Clayfield. Then he continued speaking.

‘So here’s the deal: what I need from you is a name. Just a name. No one will know where we got it. And then we leave you and your shop alone.’

‘And if I don’t got no name?’

‘Then we get a warrant and tear this place apart.’

Clayfield looked at them for a short moment, then sneered, ‘If you had enough for a warrant, you’d already a got one.’

Striker looked at Felicia, forced a chuckle.

‘That was true yesterday,’ he said. ‘When we only had
you
under watch. But now that Rifanzi’s spilled his guts and is willing to cut a deal, I can get one easily. But it’ll take time, and time is the one thing I don’t want to waste.’

Silence filled the small office, then Clayfield spoke: ‘You’re a fuckin’ liar.’

‘I’m sure you wish that was the case. But no, I’m quite serious.’

Felicia caught on, added her own take: ‘Screw him, Striker. Let’s just write the damn warrant and charge this prick.’

Striker’s eyes never left the man.

‘Up to you, Clayfield. I can set patrol up on your shop, lock it down, then write the warrant. But I’ll tell you this, I find even the smallest trace of what I’m looking for, and I’ll charge you with every goddam offence I can think of – and I got Crown Counsel on board with this one. These are dead kids we’re talking about.
Children.
’

Even in the poor fluorescent lighting of the office, the small beads of perspiration that were forming on Clayfield’s forehead glistened. He put a hand over his lower stomach and belched. A bad whiff of beer and stomach acids filled the room.

‘Ain’t no law against making an extra compartment in no car anyway,’ he said. ‘Especially if I never knowed it was stolen.’

Felicia cut in again: ‘That would be true if the compartment wasn’t form-fitted for an AK-47 and a Benelli shotgun. But that means
knowledge
, and knowledge makes you an accessory to the crime of murder. Multiple counts. Children.’

‘Good work, by the way,’ Striker added. ‘Looked damn near factory made. Almost as good as the one you did for that drug trafficker last year – what was his name, Whitebear? – or the one you made six months before that, for Jeremy Koln.’

Clayfield swallowed hard, looked helplessly around the room.

Striker pretended not to notice. He gave Felicia a look. ‘What time is it?’

‘Too damn late,’ she said. ‘Let’s just lock this place down and charge this prick – it’s a good stat for us anyway.’

‘Ah fuck it,’ Striker agreed. ‘You’re right.’ He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to get a hold of Dispatch. Told them who he was. ‘We’re gonna need a pair of two-man cars down here after all. And the wagon. I got to transport someone to jail.’

‘Okay, okay,
okay
,’ Clayfield said. His face had gone white, highlighting the red splotches of his skin. His breath was coming in wheezy puffs. He slammed his fist against the locker near the wall and yelled, ‘That fuckin’ Rifanzi!’

Striker paused, said into the phone, ‘Hold up on that wagon for a moment. I’ll call you back.’ He put the phone away and met Clayfield’s stare. ‘You’re not the fish I want, Clayfield. I want the man who booked this job. He’s the real connection to the gunmen.’

Clayfield’s expression crumbled; his eyes took on a pleading look.

‘It was just done as a favour,’ he said. ‘Honest. He gets me supplies, this guy – from Japan. I was just paying him back for what I owed.’

‘I’m losing patience.’

‘I never even knowed it was stolen, for chrissake!’

‘Just give me a goddam
name
.’

Clayfield’s eyes turned down and away, and suddenly he looked a whole lot smaller than his six foot frame. When he spoke, his voice broke.

‘Edward Rundell,’ he croaked.

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.