The Survivor (32 page)

She got up, shuffled into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water from the Brita jug. Outside, the sky was dark grey, and it matched her mood. Thoughts of Raine filled her head, as they had all night long.

Had Raine done it?

Had she had sex with Que?

The thought made Courtney frown. She wanted Raine to be happy, and she hoped her first time was perfect, but she also felt alone all of a sudden, as if Raine losing her virginity had somehow set them further apart. Raine hadn’t called her since yesterday, and it felt like there was a gap developing between them already.

It worried her.

She sat down at the breakfast nook and tried to convince herself that nothing was wrong. It was just her – like it always was. She stared out the window at the Japanese Plum tree in the back yard. All the branches were bare. Everything felt so mixed up, not only in her head but in her heart. She sat there, drinking water and thinking of Raine and Que and Bobby Ryan, and then of Dad. So many strange emotions. When her thoughts turned back to Mom, she made herself get moving.

She showered and got dressed. Then ignoring a slew of missed calls from schoolfriends, she called Raine’s cell.

Got nothing. She then remembered Raine was using the new iPhone Que had lent her. She called that number, too.

Got nothing but an automated message service.

Courtney cursed. She left a message, then snagged some money from the top of Dad’s dresser and headed out the front door. Starbucks was only two blocks away and she wanted an Americano and something loafy. She’d barely gotten two steps down the walkway when she saw the police car out front. A hunky cop in uniform stepped out, marched towards her. He was young, about twenty-five, and
hot
. Short brown hair, dark blue eyes, and a dreamy smile.

‘Back inside, Courtney,’ he said.

She blinked. ‘What?’

‘Gunman from the shooting’s still out there.’

She thought it over, nodded. ‘I know – but I’ve got nothing to do with that.’

‘Your father’s orders.’

She felt her cheeks blush. ‘I’m almost sixteen, I can do what I want.’

His face tightened. ‘Come on, kid, you’re putting me in a bad situation here.’

Kid?

She felt her warm cheeks grow hotter. Knew they were red; knew she was blushing bad. So she spun away from him, scampered back up the steps and went inside and slammed the front door behind her. For a second she just stood there in the darkness and felt the humiliation wash over her. She walked through the house to the back door, saw another marked cruiser out back, and saw the cop inside on his cell phone. The guy hung up, then looked at the house, as if he’d been warned she might come that way.

It was so totally embarrassing. She grabbed the portable phone from the kitchen, called Dad, waited. It was picked up after three rings.

‘Morning, Pumpkin.’

‘What the hell is going on?’

He made a surprised sound. ‘What—’

‘You got cops outside the house, front and back – they won’t let me leave.’

‘It’s for your own protection.’

‘I don’t need any protection. I’m supposed to meet Raine and Bobby today.’

‘You can see them when we find this guy.’

‘Well, how long will that be?’

‘A while.’

‘But the Britney concert’s
tonight
.’

He cleared his throat, made a sound like he was thinking. ‘There’s no way you’re going to any concert. Not with this whack-job still out there somewhere.’

‘But you didn’t let me go the last time she came!’

‘Oops, I did it again.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘It’s a concert, Courtney. Nothing more.’ He spoke impatiently to someone in the background. ‘Look, I’m at work here and I need you safe. I need you home.’

‘But the Parade of Lost Souls is also—’

‘I’ll make it up to you later.’

‘But Dad—

‘You’re not going and that’s final.’

‘It’s not FAIR!’ She slammed the receiver back on the cradle and let out a scream. She picked it back up, called Raine again, and still got no answer. After the voice greeting, she left a long message about what a jerk Dad was, then hung up the phone and looked back outside. The cop was still there, focusing on the house. Really watching it. Like she was a prisoner or something. A friggin’ prisoner.

She ran back to her room, looked at her Little Red Riding Hood costume, thought of the Parade of Lost Souls, and how Bobby Ryan was going to be there, and how Melissa Jones was going to be there, in her skimpy hot Catwoman costume with her big boobs hanging out everywhere – and there was no way she was going to let Bobby be alone with slutty Melissa at the Parade of Lost Souls.

No way ever.

And that meant only one thing. She was going to get out of here.

She just had to find a way.

Fifty-Nine

After leaving the Kwan residence, Striker made sure that both patrol cops – both marked units – were still outside the front and back doors of his own house on guard detail. With the discovery that Patricia Kwan was a cop, everything felt that much closer to home, and he worried about Courtney. With her safe and out of the way, he could rest easier and better focus on the investigation.

Which was now taking them to strange places.

He drove towards Felicia’s, stopped for a red light at Granville. While waiting for the green, his cell went off. The screen told him it was Noodles, so he picked up.

‘Friends of the Friendless,’ he said.

Noodles laughed. ‘You’re one lucky SOB, my friend.’

‘Gimme some good news.’

‘How’s this: got a partial print back in the van. Driver’s side window.’

Striker felt a stab of excitement, leaned forward in his seat. ‘Got a name?’

‘Most likely, it’s Anthony Gervais.’

It was a name Striker knew well. ‘Most likely?’

‘The print is only a partial. But I’d bet money on the ID.’

Striker nodded absently. ‘I’ll get right on it.’ He hung up and slid the cell back into its pouch.

Anthony Gervais. Better known as Chinese Tony. To find his print in a murder vehicle was surprising.

At quarter to seven, Striker picked up Felicia. When she came out of her house – a quaint little duplex just off Commercial Drive, down near McSpadden Park – her dark brown eyes looked sharper than he’d seen them the past two days. More focused. When she hopped inside the cruiser, he handed her a Starbucks Grande Vanilla Latte and a piece of lemon loaf with strawberry icing.

She took it, didn’t eat. ‘Patricia Kwan’s a fucking
cop
?’

He nodded, drove west on East Fifth. ‘Vancouver Police Department. One of our own.’

‘How? Someone would’ve known her. Or recognised her. Or . . .
something
.’

‘She’s worked the odd side for the last year, so the even guys never see her. And before that she was seconded to Surrey. One of those joint task forces – Fraud, I think. So with the exception of a few Call Outs, she’s been gone for over five years.’

‘She still should come up in the system.’

‘She does.’ Striker took a sip of his coffee, switched into the right-hand lane. ‘In all the chaos no one thought to run her – we were all too preoccupied with saving her life, I guess. Not that it matters. We would’ve found out eventually.’

‘Sooner is better.’ Felicia stared out the window at the darkness of the city. ‘Jesus Christ, Jacob, where the hell is this woman’s kid?’

Striker wished he had an answer. After turning north on Commercial, they drove along Venables Street, over the Georgia Viaduct, into the downtown core. It wasn’t until they reached Burrard that Felicia even asked where they were going.

‘Comox Street.’

‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to Ich? The feed should be translated by now.’

‘Nope. The feed isn’t translated yet. I just talked to Ich before picking you up, and the translator Mosaic sent over couldn’t do it. Said it was some strange dialect, and that they’d be sending someone else.’

‘This is bullshit.’

‘You’re preaching to the choir, kid.’

Felicia looked at the tall skyscrapers that were slowly popping up, one by one, as the downtown core grew closer. ‘Why Comox Street?’

Striker stopped for a bus that was swinging out into the lane. ‘To see Anthony Gervais.’

‘You mean Chinese Tony?’

‘The one and only.’

‘Why him?’

‘The van we found on Gore and Pender – the one with Kieu and the two thugs inside – well, we got a partial print back on the steering column. Three guesses who it belongs to, and the first two don’t count.’

Felicia frowned, said nothing, sipped her latte.

‘What?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I’ve dealt with Chinese Tony a million times. He’s a maggot, that’s for sure, one of the worst property crime toads out there . . . but he isn’t a killer.’

‘I don’t know what he is,’ Striker said. ‘But I do know this – he’s got a condition not to be in any motor vehicle without the registered owner present, so he can have fun explaining how his prints got inside that van.’

‘You said it’s only a partial print – that’ll never hold up in court.’

Striker gave her a quick look. ‘He doesn’t know that.’

‘Maybe not, but he’s a tough little shit. Doubt he’ll talk.’

‘Then we revert to plan B.’

‘Plan B?’

‘Yeah. I know a dark secret about Chinese Tony most others don’t.’ Striker flashed her a nasty grin. ‘And at a time like this, I’m more than willing to use it.’

The sun was breaking through the tops of the Stanley Park trees as they drove down Comox Street and stopped in front of Hedgeford Estates. The apartment building was a twelve-storey, made of grey concrete slabs and black mirrored glass. The sunlight glinted off it.

Striker hated the place. It was a favourite abode of mid-level drug traffickers, and it pissed him off that a dial-a-doper like Chinese Tony could live here when he was collecting welfare – an amount which, on its own, couldn’t pay the rent.

‘His unit’s right there,’ Striker said, and pointed. ‘The side that flanks the walkway.’

The target suite was number 112, which meant the main floor, north-east side. The ground-floor location was no fluke; it gave Chinese Tony a quick escape exit when the cops or other enemies came around.

‘He’ll probably run,’ Felicia said.

‘I’m counting on it.’

‘You want the talk or the knock?’

He smiled. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’ll flip you for it.’

‘Seniority.’

‘You really gonna play that card again?’

‘Till the day I retire.’

Felicia frowned, then left for the building’s front entrance.

Striker waited just outside the patio doors to Chinese Tony’s apartment, hidden by a row of bushes. Behind him, a redbrick walkway circled the parking lot, turned north towards the tennis courts then trailed off into the lagoons of Stanley Park.

He watched the harsh fall winds blow leaves across the court. It was cold, but he left his long coat open for better manoeuvrability. He checked his watch. It was just after eight in the morning, and that was good. Chinese Tony would most likely be home. The prick did most of his crimes at night.

Striker waited for his cell to ring. It did. He picked up.

‘You set?’ Felicia asked.

‘Do the talk.’

‘Okay.’ He heard, ‘Police! Open up!’ And seconds later, the soft grating sound of the patio doors sliding open.

Striker peered through a break in the hedge and spotted the man they were after.

Chinese Tony was a white guy – he’d gotten the nickname from being the only white kid to hang with the Gum Wah Boyz way back in the late nineties. He was a scrawny little puke – always had been, but he’d grown even thinner since Striker had last seen him.

Using his own product, Striker knew. Common mistake.

Chinese Tony’s cheeks were sucked in, and his eyes were deep round hollows. New scars marked his face, the largest one trailing from his left eye and disappearing under his chin. His dark brown hair was shorter than before, cut jagged and bowl-like, real greasy. He wore the usual dirtbag attire – holey blue jeans and a black hoodie – and he came scrambling across the backyard patio like a cockroach running from the light. He crossed the yard, hopped the fence –

– and Striker nailed him in the chest with a hard elbow.

Chinese Tony went reeling backwards. He hit the gate, his legs gave out, and he collapsed. When he looked back up again, his eyes were cloudy.

‘What the
fuck
?’ he started.

‘Why you running from the police, Tony?’

‘Who the . . . Detective Striker?’

‘I’m touched you remembered.’ Striker grabbed the man’s arm and was surprised at the bone thinness. He flipped Tony over so that he was prone on the grass, then handcuffed him. When the cuffs were double-locked behind his back and Felicia came walking around the building into the common area, Striker hoisted him back up to his feet.

‘Why were you running from the police?’ he repeated.

‘I got no warrants.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I ain’t breachin’ nothing. Seen my PO just yesterday. So fuck you. You got nothing, man. Nothing.’

Striker grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, pulled him close, spoke quietly. ‘Listen up and listen hard, you little maggot. I got three dead bodies in a vehicle down on East Pender, and witnesses are pointing you out as the driver. I’d say that’s something.’

‘I was home.’

‘Did I even say when this happened?’

Chinese Tony licked his lips, said nothing.

‘Also, we got a couple prints off the steering wheel,’ Felicia added. ‘Good ones, too. Or else we wouldn’t be here wasting our time.’

‘I was sleeping, see? Ali K was here, too. He’ll tell you that.’

Striker looked at Felicia, and she smiled. The only person who could possibly be Chinese Tony’s alibi would also be the same person who had been the passenger in the stolen van.

Striker grinned. ‘Ali’s prints are in the vehicle, too, Einstein. Got any other stories you want to throw out there?’

Chinese Tony’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out.