The survivor

Thirty-Seven

They were in the car, driving east, when Noodles finally called Striker back at quarter to twelve. His words were quick and direct, and they made Striker’s nerves fire. ‘The blood types of Raymond Leung and the blood in the car don’t match.’

Striker closed his eyes for a second. ‘I fuckin’ knew it.’

‘Raymond Leung is A-positive. The blood in the Civic is type O-negative.’

The information should have made Striker feel better, since it had proven him right, but it didn’t. It only brought him fear and dark premonitions.

Red Mask was still out there somewhere.

‘You tell Laroche?’ he asked Noodles.

‘He’s arguing it. Says we can’t prove that the blood in the car was actually Red Mask’s blood.’

‘I shot him myself.’

‘Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir, Shipwreck. Either way, it’s what we’re dealing with.’

They talked a bit more before Noodles promised to relay anything else he heard, then Striker hung up and told Felicia the news.

‘Well, you were right,’ she finally conceded. ‘Congratulations, Jacob. Great news. The maniac’s still out there somewhere.’

He blinked. ‘I’m not gloating. All I’m saying is, we got to keep our feet to the fire. This thing isn’t done. Not by a long shot.’

He waited for a response from Felicia, but got none. So they drove in silence. Destination: East Vancouver. Franklin Street.

The industrial section of the city.

Almost fifteen minutes later, when the silence became burdensome, Striker turned the talk back to the investigation.

The meeting with the two mothers, Doris Chow and Margaret MacMillan, had turned up some interesting information. The Debate Club, the trip to Hong Kong, Free Tibet speeches, and a cancelled tournament — the timing seemed more than coincidental, but Striker could see no involvement. It was just one more piece for a jigsaw puzzle that already had too many.

His stomach rumbled, part from lunchtime hunger, part from emotional distress. It was going on twelve noon, and Courtney had yet to return his calls. No doubt she was up, and simply choosing to ignore him. In some ways she was just like her mother.

He drove east on Forty-First Avenue, past Arbutus, and cut into the McDonald’s drive-thru. There was nothing he could do about Courtney’s attitude, but his hunger was another matter. The breakfast menu had ended, so he ordered a Big Mac and a Filet-O-Fish, and two more coffees — his black, Felicia’s loaded with cream and sugar. The smell seemed to wake Felicia up a bit. She popped off the lid of her coffee, then looked towards the bag.

‘If I eat that, I’ll balloon.’

‘Oh come on, you eat two pastries and two fancy lattes every day, what could this hurt?’

She made a face, but reached for the bag.

As they continued down Broadway, Striker pulled out his cell and noticed he had a missed call from Janet Jacobson, the former Vancouver Vice cop who had now moved on to greener pastures. He called her back but the line was busy and he didn’t leave a message. They drove towards the industrial section where Triple A Autobody was located.

Sheldon Clayfield’s business.

Felicia pulled out the Filet-O-Fish. ‘So fill me in again, who is this Clayfield guy?’

Striker swallowed a mouthful, then wiped a smear of Big Mac sauce from his lips. ‘Clayfield is one of the five guys Meathead told us about. I’ve narrowed it down to two who work in the Lower Mainland that are even capable of making a hidden compartment like that. Clayfield’s got a history of it, and a long list of other shit for drug running. He made a real good compartment for a drug trafficker last year, and was caught by Drugs. They dropped the charge for information. And I got word of another one he made six months before that. It gives us leverage.’

‘Great. What about the other guy?’

‘His name is Chris Simmons. Works out in the Valley, on the border of Mission. Remember Janet Jacobson — used to work in Vice? — she transferred out to Abbotsford a few months back. I contacted her back at the office, when you were setting things up with the parents. She’s checking Simmons out for us, but Clayfield is ours. Run him on the computer and bring up his associates.’

Felicia nodded and typed in his name as Striker drove north on Knight Street. After a few blocks, she made a frustrated sound.

‘This guy’s got over a hundred associates in here,’ she said.

‘See which ones are listed under Triple A Autobody. It’s Clayton’s shop. They will be our connection to Clayfield and the Honda.’

She did. ‘Okay. Got eight now. Place must be a chop shop.’

‘That, and a whole lot more.’

They got stuck at a red. Striker cursed softly under his breath, grabbed his own coffee which sat unchecked in the drink holder. It was still hot.

‘Check out the Intels of every associate,’ he said. ‘See if any of these guys have been linked to other modified vehicles.’

Felicia scanned through the reports, read for a while in silence. By the time the light turned green, she found what she was looking for. ‘Okay. We got two guys here with a whole lot of history. Tony Rifanzi, and a guy named Ricky Lomar.’

Striker had never heard of either of them.

‘What work have they done?’ he asked.

She read on. ‘Lomar’s done a lot of compartments, some in the dashboard, some under the seats, and some in the floorboard and wheel-wells. Always drugs though.’

‘And Rifanzi?’

‘Same. Just a lot less.’

‘He’s done a lot less, or he’s been caught a lot less?’

‘Good point.’ Felicia clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. ‘Looks like Rifanzi’s work is a higher level. He’s been suspected of using hydraulics and electronics in the past; Lomar’s stuff has always been lever activated, somewhere in the car.’

Striker said nothing, he just let this information digest.

His cell phone rang and he snatched it off his belt, hoping it was Courtney. The display told him otherwise. It was Janet Jacobson. He answered, listened for less than a minute, then thanked her and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia asked.

‘Turns out Simmons has been under surveillance for the better part of three weeks on unrelated matters. He’s out. That leaves only Clayfield.’

They had reached East Hastings Street, only three blocks from their destination, when Felicia made an oh-shit sound as she finished reading through the reports. ‘We’ve hit a snag here,’ she said. ‘Rifanzi’s actually on the jail slate. Been in there since late last night.’

Striker thought it over. ‘For what?’

‘Fight at a strip club — the Number Five Orange. Assault Causing Bodily Harm.’ She skimmed the electronic pages. ‘Report says he was pretty coked up. Christ, another friggin’ investigative dead end.’

Striker stopped the car on the north side of Franklin Street, the 1500 block. Triple A Autobody was only a half block away.

‘Dead end nothing,’ he said. ‘He’s just given us a pass into the fast lane.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Striker grinned. ‘Watch and learn, my young apprentice. Watch and learn.’