‘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.