He left the room.
Striker sat down in the chair Ibarra had deserted; Felicia pulled over another one and joined him.
The computer screen was tinted with soft blue and white, and showed the three folders Ibarra had navigated. Striker opened the folder labelled Triad Divisions. Within it was a long list of subfolders, all countries — Canada, the US, China, Hong Kong, Australia and more. When Striker searched through them he found even more subfolders and directories, breaking down into states and provinces, then cities.
None had what he was looking for.
He cycled back to the original page and opened the folder labelled Feeder Gangs. Like the other folder, this one broke down into countries and then cities. Striker clicked through the subsystems until he found a folder named Vancouver and the Surrounding Lower Mainland. He opened it up, hoping to see a listing for the Shadow Dragons, but was not so lucky. Inside the folder, in page-long lists, were a series of jpeg images. He scrolled through them with the mouse.
‘Jesus, there must be thousands,’ Felicia said.
Striker nodded. ‘All the more reason to get started.’
He switched the view settings from List to Thumbnails, and the computer started making loud grinding noises as the hard drive loaded the images. One by one, they popped onto the screen. Slowly, methodically, he and Felicia went through every one of them, maximising and ruling them out. The process was slow, arduous, and after forty long minutes, Striker’s eyes were irritated. It was another twenty minutes before he found anything valuable. He clicked from one photo to the next, then made a soft sound that got Felicia’s attention.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Weird scars on this guy’s torso. Left side.’ Striker thought of the Medical Examiner’s findings of their headless shooter, White Mask.
‘Shrapnel wounds?’ she asked.
‘Might be. And there’s some kind of tattoo on the neck. Left side.’ Striker sat forward in the chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘A dragon maybe.’
Felicia rolled her chair nearer to his as Striker maximised the photo.
On the screen was the colour image of an Asian male, mid-to-late thirties, with a long angular face. His height was difficult to guess, but his build was average, lean. He wore white shorts, a pair of black-and-gold wraparound sunglasses, and looked like he was walking along a beach somewhere. There was water in the background.
Striker looked at the scars all along the man’s side. They were thick and long and uneven, and looked as if they’d been splattered there. Like specks of white spackle. Striker felt a surge of adrenalin. He looked at the tattoo on the neck. It was left side, and it was long and somewhat cylindrical. But the detail was poor, difficult to see.
He magnified the image over the tattoo.
Two times, four times, six times, then eight… and Striker felt the breath escape his lips as the image became larger and more distinct. The tattoo looked like a seahorse on the man’s neck, but Striker knew it was really a dragon. Red and gold. The tail trailed down the left side of the neck, the head looked back across the shoulder.
Striker panned in on the chest, left side. There was a number 13.
An overwhelming sense of excitement flooded him. The caption under the jpeg read: Tran Sang Soone, and Striker read the name several times, as if disbelieving the words.
Tran Sang Soone.
He had found White Mask.
Seventy-Seven
Striker wanted all the information the Inspector had on Tran Sang Soone. According to the chart, there was a separate folder on the man, but it was not filed in its proper place. Ibarra left the room to check the backup files, and Striker and Felicia continued scanning through the pictures for the one man they wanted most.
Red Mask.
Striker had seen his face in two of their three gun battles, and it was a face he would never forget. Like Tran Sang Soone, Red Mask was thin and wiry in build, and of average height. But it was the eyes that gave him away — sitting deep behind heavily boned cheeks, their stare deep and hollow and empty. In his sixteen years of policing Striker had never met a stare like that, and the thought reminded him of Magui Yagata’s words back at Worldwide Translation Services, when she spoke of the Khmer Rouge.
‘A survivor.’
The more Striker thought about it, the more he believed her words. He let the thought take him away for a bit, then snapped back to the task at hand when Felicia looked up from the folder she was perusing and
said, ‘Found some info on Tran Sang Soone. Date of birth: January 15, 1964.’
Striker moved closer. ‘Sixty-four? Are you sure?’
‘That’s what the file says. Info comes from Immigration. Says here the place of birth is Phnom Phen, Cambodia.’
‘Then who knows what his real age is. Cambodia doesn’t exactly keep good records.’ The thought of Cambodia was disturbing to Striker. ‘That date and location correspond perfectly with Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. What else is in there?’
She read on. ‘He’s got an extensive criminal history. Christ, there’s everything in here! Charges for Assault, Trafficking, Running a Common Bawdy House, Running a Gambling Den, Uttering Threats — the list just goes on and on.’
‘Any of the charges go through?’
‘Nope. All stayed, every single one of them. Must have one helluva lawyer. He’s listed as a Person of Interest in a dozen murders from Vancouver to Toronto. Even one back in Hong Kong. But he’s never done time for any of them. Never done time for anything.’
‘He’s doing time now,’ Striker said. ‘And hopefully the furnace is cranked. He got a list of associates in there?’
She shook her head. ‘Not in this folder. But there are lists of other Shadow Dragons.’
Striker logged onto CABS — the Criminal Automated Booking System — and brought up the query box.
‘Let’s go through them,’ he said. ‘One by one.’
Felicia read the first name out, Striker typed it in the box and hit send. Seconds later, the photo popped up. It wasn’t Red Mask, and Striker deleted it. Then they started all over again.
Twenty minutes and twenty-nine associates later, Striker brought up the last image, found it didn’t match, and cleared the search bar.
‘Next one,’ he said.
‘That’s it, we’re done.’
‘Done?’ Striker made a frustrated sound, then thought things over. ‘Okay, what other gangs was White Mask — Tran Sang Soone — connected to? We’ll start with the most likely, then fan out from there.’
‘The Golden Lotus,’ Ibarra said, stepping back into the room.
Striker wrote the name down in his notebook. ‘I’ve heard of the Lotus before, but never the Golden Lotus.’
‘That’s because they’re from Toronto.’
‘Toronto?’
‘Yeah, I got bad news for you,’ Ibarra said. ‘My team followed these guys around for the better part of a year — the gang brings in a lot of off-shore help. China. Singapore. Macau. There were so many faces we could hardly keep up, even with twenty-four-hour surveillance on them. Much as I hate to burst your bubble, this guy might be from overseas — a FOB-K.’
Felicia looked at Striker, then at Ibarra. ‘FOB-K?’
‘Fresh off the boat killer.’
Striker said nothing. It was a thought he didn’t want to entertain. Having an overseas gunman would mean more time, more agencies — Interpol, FBI, the Feds — and the list went on. In the end, an overseas gunman would mean less chance of identification, and it would keep them stuck in this constant cat and mouse chase, where the only way to catch Red Mask was to wait for his next attack.
And who knew how many more deaths that would mean.
Ibarra held up a thin folder. It was beige and dusty, and the corners were turned over from being compressed. ‘This is all I got on Tran Sang Soone.’