Striker and Felicia continued tailing Harry and Koda out into the suburbs.
‘Not too close, not too close,’ Striker said.
Felicia gave him a cool look. ‘They’re two blocks east and one block north of us, Jacob. Unless they can see backwards and through the walls of the houses, we’re fine.’
Striker frowned. He couldn’t help the concern.
‘We have to be perfect here, Feleesh. Harry and Koda might chalk up our first meeting in the yards to a fluke, but one more lucky meet like that and they’ll know we’re tracking them. We need to maintain some distance until we figure out some of the other areas they’ve been searching. Then we can run the addresses and look for some connections.’
‘Fine, fine.’
Felicia slowed down another ten K per hour, if only to appease him, and Striker watched the screen of the BirdDog tracker. They navigated deeper into the suburban area of Riley Park, and soon found themselves on James Street. After three more blocks, the car icon on the tracking display stopped moving altogether and the speed read: 0 km/hr.
‘They’ve stopped,’ Striker said.
Felicia pulled over to the nearest kerb. ‘They on Quebec?’
‘Yeah. Right across from the softball centre.’
Her face took on the faraway gaze of deep thought. ‘What else is there?’
‘Just houses.’
‘Maybe they’re at a red light or a stop sign.’
Striker shook his head. ‘They’re mid-block. Just wait them out.’
They gave it another full minute. When the icon didn’t start moving again, Striker said, ‘I’m getting out and going on foot.’
He shouldered open the door and ran southward down the lane. Two blocks later, he slowed down and started peering in between the houses, one by one. Halfway down the lane, he caught sight of the old undercover police cruiser.
The Crown Vic was parked in front of a small house. The place looked old, was square in shape and covered with water-stained stucco. It had probably been built back in the late 30s or early 40s. Out front, the foliage was out of control. The lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in years, and the garden was nothing but weed and crabgrass. Standing in the small alcove were Harry and Koda. They were talking to a thin brunette with a narrow face.
Striker looked her over. The woman’s hair looked unnaturally black, like a bad home-dye job. She was wearing a red-and-white checked apron which she kept absently smoothing out, and there was a small boy clutching her side.
He was maybe four years old.
Harry and Koda asked the woman several questions, and all the while a nervous expression lingered on the woman’s face. Several times, her eyes flitted to the long fresh wound running down the centre of Koda’s face and forehead, and at one point the boy pointed at it. She quickly yanked his hand away and gave him a reprimand, before looking back with an expression of embarrassment.
After a long moment, the two men said goodbye and returned to their vehicle. Koda was raving about something while Harry just looked straight ahead, his face communicating nothing.
Striker watched them talk heatedly in the cab, then drive down the road until they were out of sight. When he was sure they were long gone, he turned his attention back to the house.
The woman was still standing in the doorway, looking down the road where they had gone. That nervous, embarrassed look still covered her face. Seconds later, she scooped up her little boy and carried him inside the house.
Striker wrote the address down in his notebook, then added: ‘mother and son (4 years old)’. He put the pen away and his cell went off. He answered.
‘They’re moving again,’ Felicia said.
‘Run this address: 5311 Quebec Street. See what comes up.’
‘Hold on . . .’ Striker heard her typing. ‘Okay, got it. Let’s see here . . . nothing in PRIME, but the Motor Vehicle Branch has a listing there for a woman named Theresa Jameson. Should be about one hundred and seventy centimetres and fifty-one kilos. Brown hair, blue eyes. No criminal record whatsoever.’
Striker listened to the description. It matched the woman from the doorway.
‘Hair’s a bit off,’ he said. ‘But it looks dyed. Just hold tight for now. I’m gonna check her out.’
‘Be fast – I don’t want to lose them.’
Striker crossed the street and marched up the sidewalk. The closer he got to the house, the more run-down the lot appeared. Weeds had pushed through the cracks in the concrete walkway, and thick tree roots could be seen burrowing into the house’s foundation – a major structural problem. Add in the water damage to the exterior walls and the place was a rebuild at best.
Striker walked up the front steps and knocked. The moment the door opened, the fresh smell of baked muffins filled the air. Bran, for sure. Apple too. The woman who answered the door was the same one he’d seen moments earlier talking to Harry and Koda, only now she was holding a bowl of white icing.
‘Theresa Jameson?’ Striker asked.
‘Yes.’
Striker pulled out his badge and offered her a smile. ‘Detective Striker, Vancouver Police Department.’
‘I just spoke to two cops, not a minute ago.’
Striker put the badge away. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we’d already been by to talk to you.’
‘Yes, you just missed them.’
Striker made something up. ‘Were they here on the mischief call?’
The woman looked confused. ‘Mischief? Uh, I’m not sure. They were more concerned about who lived here now, and how long me and the kids have been living here.’
‘Oh,’ Striker said. ‘Did they take a written statement?’
‘No.’
He sighed onerously. ‘That figures. No problem though. I’ll just make some quick notes and put in a page for you – save you the hassle later on. What exactly did you tell them?’
The woman transferred the bowl of icing to her other arm. ‘Uh, just that we’d been living here almost three years now, and that no one rented any rooms from us.’ She frowned as she spoke. ‘Then they started asking me if I had any gang connections. Or if any of my kids did. It kind of scared me, to be honest with you.’
‘Did they mention anything specific?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Any gang names? Any surnames?’
She shook her head. ‘No, no. They didn’t.’
When the young boy appeared at her side again, he looked up at Striker and clutched at his mother’s apron. Theresa Jameson put the mixing bowl down on a small table just inside the doorway and scooped up the boy, cradling him in her arms. As she did so, she met Striker’s stare, and suddenly she looked smaller and more diminutive than before.
Scared.
‘Should I . . . should I be worried here, Detective?’ she asked.
Striker offered a warm smile.
‘Only at your gardener costs.’
Sixty-Five
‘We need to learn the history of that house and the people that live there,’ Striker said when Felicia picked him up again on Quebec Street. ‘There’s a reason Harry and Koda stopped there, and it looks gang-related.’
‘Just buckle up,’ she said. ‘They’re making ground on us.’
She hammered the gas.
They continued following Harry and Koda with the BirdDog tracker and several kilometres later caught up to them. Once again, the target vehicle stopped, though this time at the White Spot restaurant on Main Street. Striker was not surprised. The White Spot was a cop favourite; it had a central location and none of the cooks there would spit in your food.
‘They’re gonna be a while,’ Striker said. ‘Let’s head for the Gang Crime Unit, see what they have on this Sergeant-at-Arms biker we keep reading about – Sleeves.’
Felicia shifted irritably. ‘We should stay and watch these guys – what if they leave?’
Striker waved a hand dismissively. ‘We should head to GCU.’