‘Where is she?’ he asked.
‘Not here,’ Bernard said. ‘I checked out the entire place. She left long before we got here.’
Striker looked at Felicia, whose face appeared as tight as his chest. ‘Watch the front,’ he told her, and headed into the coffee shop.
The place was small and dark with a mirror behind the front bar that reflected back the blue lights of the Arabic Beans neon sign in the window. Behind the bar stood a tall thin black man. He was washing mugs.
Striker approached him and got his attention. ‘You see a white woman in here? Five foot seven. A hundred and forty pounds. Brown hair?’
The man put down the mug and frowned. ‘I see lots dem people in here,’ he said. His voice was deep and smooth, and he spoke the words slowly, with all the patience in the world. His accent reminded Striker of the Hondurans he’d dealt with in the skids so many times during his time in Patrol. ‘Dis is Metrotown, man. Always real busy.’
Striker fished out his iPhone and opened up his photos folder. He scanned through the pictures, found the one of Larisa and showed it to the man. The barista took a long look, then shook his head.
‘Never seen da girl.’
‘You got video surveillance?’
‘Naw, the owner’s too cheap for dat, man. We’s lucky to have lights on in dis place.’
Striker cursed. Without another word, he left the front counter and began searching through the shop. He started in the rear, checking both washrooms and finding them empty. Then he began making his way among the patrons. There were fewer than ten in total, and only four of them were women. Two Asian, one black, and one white woman. She was over six foot.
Striker tried to contain his temper.
Larisa was gone; they had missed her.
Again.
He was about to leave Arabic Beans when his eye caught the row of monitors along the far wall. There were five in total, and the first four all faced towards him, each displaying a stark white Google screen from the Firefox web browser.
The last terminal was turned to face the wall.
Striker walked over to the area. He searched the chair and floor for anything that might have been dropped. A purse. Some ID. Anything to show that Larisa had been here. Anything to lead them to a new location.
But he found nothing.
He reached out, grasped hold of the monitor, and turned it so he could see the screen. What he saw was alarming. The screen was white, just like the others, but the application running wasn’t Firefox, but Microsoft Word. Typed across the screen was one brief message. When Striker read it, his heart plummeted:
Car 87?
Betrayed me again!
I can’t believe it.
You were my only hope, Jacob.
My only hope.
Sixty-Six
When the reward was over, and after the Girl had left him, the Adder left the soft comfort of the bed and approached the bar. From it, he took a bottle of sparkling mineral water – Sémillante, from France – and uncapped it. As he drank some down, the bubbly fluid tingling the back of his throat, the Adder thought of the Girl. He could still feel her warmth against his body. Her wetness all around him. Her tender sweet taste on his lips. Now that she was gone, he felt like something was missing.
It was very, very odd. He could not understand it.
He got dressed and exited the Special Room. He found the hatch in the floor, opened it, and started down the rungs of the ladder. He’d made it less than a quarter of the way down when he heard the Doctor and the Girl, speaking somewhere above him.
‘Did you please him?’ the Doctor asked.
‘I think so.’
‘You think?’
‘Well . . . yes, he seemed pleased.’
‘Did he ejaculate?’
Pause.
‘Answer the question, girl.’
‘He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t always—’
Slap!
Then . . . crying.
‘Come here,’ the Doctor ordered.
‘Please . . .’
‘Lift up your skirt.’
There was another moment of silence, and then the Girl let out an uncomfortable sound. ‘Please, you’re hurting me—’
‘Shut up! . . . Look, there – he ejaculated.’
The Girl made no reply, only another uncomfortable sound.
‘Do not make me do this again. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
There was silence. No more conversation. Just the sound of footsteps walking away down the hall.
The Adder did not move from the ladder. He stayed there, rooted to the spot like a gargoyle, and replayed the dialogue in his head. Over and over again. And a strange feeling rose up inside him. One he didn’t like. The Doctor was stirring things up. Old things within him. Bad things. Feelings.
It was the Doctor’s fault.
Like a distant, growing thunder, the laughter started in the Adder’s head. And he closed his eyes, as if this would somehow shut out the sounds. Before they could expand on him again – before they could crash down on him like cold lightning – he climbed back down the ladder, opened up the dumbwaiter, and grabbed his recording equipment from the shelves. He shoved it all into a burlap sack, along with a drill, screw-gun and some screws.
Then, with the burlap sack slung around his shoulder, the Adder crouched down low and climbed inside the dumbwaiter. He then began climbing up the old chute, one bracket at a time. He headed for the second floor.
For the room that was forbidden.
Sixty-Seven
Striker and Felicia spent the next half-hour checking out the rest of Metrotown Mall, but Striker knew in his heart it would be a wasted effort. Larisa had seen Bernard Hamilton of Car 87, and she had hightailed it as far from Burnaby South as her legs would carry her.
Their one big chance, destroyed.
While Felicia did another run around of the main level, Striker attended the security office and spoke to the two guards inside. He emailed the office a copy of Larisa’s picture and told them to scour the footage and see if they could find her.
He had little hope of success.
By the time he was done and leaving the small office, Felicia was already outside waiting for him. She had two cups of Tim Horton’s coffee in her hands and a tired but determined look on her face. Striker took one of the paper cups from her, said thanks.
‘Any luck?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘She’s gone,’ was all Felicia said.
Striker could not help but scowl as they headed back to the car. ‘This is such bullshit,’ he griped. ‘That fuckin’ Bernard. He’s royally screwed it for us on this one.’
Felicia nodded. ‘I wonder who his source is.’
Striker took a sip of his coffee. It was too sweet. As usual, Felicia had put sugar in it. ‘There is no source,’ he said. ‘Never was.’
‘Then how—’
‘Hamilton was eavesdropping on our conversation when we went over the air,’ he said. ‘He heard you on Dispatch, then he listened in when we switched to Info and requested a Burnaby unit to attend here. He caught on. Figured out we were coming for Larisa.’
‘You really think? That’s pretty devious.’
‘I know it is, and I know Bernard.’ Striker thought of how they had also coincidentally run into Bernard at 312 Main Street when checking for warrants. There were too many coincidences with the man. He turned to Felicia. ‘Run a history of Bernard’s unit status. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he was closer than we were when we made the call to Burnaby. It’s how he got on scene so fast.’
Felicia grabbed the computer and ran the Remote Log. After a few seconds, she nodded. ‘You’re right, he was already out here at the same time we made the call. He put himself out at Boundary and Adanac Street.’