The survivor

Thirty-Eight

There was nothing special about Triple A Autobody. It was just a two-bay garage with two hoists per lane. Three guys were working inside, one black, two East Indian. All of them were tattooed and beefy. Hardliners. Each one of them gave Striker and Felicia a sideways look as they walked in through the back bay door and poked their heads around.

‘Place smells like motor oil and freshly-smoked pot,’ Striker said loudly. ‘A Workers Compensation Board no-no.’

Without a word, the black guy put down the tire he was holding, turned and walked into the back office.

Striker gave Felicia a wink. ‘He must be getting us the welcome mat.’

A small smile broke her tight lips, and it made him feel good.

‘Or the red carpet,’ she added.

Striker grinned.

A tall guy with thinning white hair came out of the office. His build was skinny, but his gut was huge — a big distended belly, like he had cancer or a tapeworm or something. He was stomping more than walking, and his hands were balled into fists. He wasn’t even halfway across the garage before he said, ‘This is private property. What the hell do you want?’

Striker didn’t respond. He just stood there and waited for the man to get close enough so that he wouldn’t have to raise his voice. When the man was a few feet away, Striker recognised him from the mug-shots. It was Sheldon Clayfield all right, but he had aged badly since the photo was taken. His thinning hair was now pure white — and not a healthy white either, but an I-shat-my-pants-one-too-many-times white — and the lines in his face were deeper than some canyons.

‘Sheldon Clayfield?’ Felicia asked.

‘You know it is.’

‘Somewhere we can talk?’

The man placed his hands on his hips, making his large gut look more pronounced. ‘Here’s as good a place as any.’

Before Striker could reply, a customer walked through the front door. Striker grinned. ‘You sure about that, Clayfield? Involves stolen cars, dead children, and a few rather sensitive names.’

The words knocked the tough look off Clayfield’s face and he blinked. Just a second really, but that was all it took.

Striker knew they had something here.

‘Office,’ Clayfield finally grunted. ‘No point in disrupting my workers.’

He turned around and walked away with far less attitude than he’d come out with. Felicia and Striker followed. Clayfield ushered them inside, said he had to deal with the customer first, then left.

Striker listened to their conversation as they waited. He also looked around the office.

It was small, had no windows, and stank of stale cigarettes and old coffee. One desk and three chairs filled the room, all of them rickety and wooden. A black rotary telephone sat on the desk, splattered white with paint drops. The rest of the office was no better. The walls had once been cream, but time and a few thousand cigarettes had greyed them to the same sickly colour old people got when they had stage three cancer. Decorating the walls were pictures of naked women, most of them on motorcycles, with tattoos and piercings. Some of them were in bondage, strapped to the handlebars.

‘How modern,’ Felicia said.

Striker pointed to one of the posters that had a naked blonde bent over the back of a Harley Davidson. The tattoo across her lower back read God Rides a Harley!

Striker gestured to the tattoo. ‘Don’t you have one of those?’

‘Yeah, but I had the God changed to Clod. Reminded me of you.’

‘You always were sentimental.’

They shared a grin as the customer out front left the shop and Clayfield returned. He looked unhappy and didn’t try to cover it. He closed the door and focused on them with dark narrowed eyes.

Striker looked at Clayfield’s hands and made sure they were empty.

‘Now what’s this shit you’re talking about?’ Clayfield asked.

Striker met his stare. ‘I’m talking about the stolen Honda Civic you modified.’

Clayfield walked around the office until he was on the other side of the desk, facing them, as if he liked having the barrier between them.

‘Honda Civic? Shit. Never heard of it.’

‘Oh, I think you remember. The one with the new ignition and stereo, and the magnetic happy face — that was a nice little addition, by the way.’

‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking bout.’

Striker looked back at the closed office door, pushed on it to make sure it was secure. Then he turned around and leaned forward across the desk.

‘Here’s the deal, Clayfield. Twenty-two children died yesterday at Saint Patrick’s and the madman is still out there. I don’t think for a second you were involved in the shootings, but I do know you were approached by someone to have the car modified. And I know you did it.’

Striker paused for a moment to let the silence weigh down on Clayfield. Then he continued speaking.

‘So here’s the deal: what I need from you is a name. Just a name. No one will know where we got it. And then we leave you and your shop alone.’

‘And if I don’t got no name?’

‘Then we get a warrant and tear this place apart.’

Clayfield looked at them for a short moment, then sneered, ‘If you had enough for a warrant, you’d already a got one.’

Striker looked at Felicia, forced a chuckle.

‘That was true yesterday,’ he said. ‘When we only had you under watch. But now that Rifanzi’s spilled his guts and is willing to cut a deal, I can get one easily. But it’ll take time, and time is the one thing I don’t want to waste.’

Silence filled the small office, then Clayfield spoke: ‘You’re a fuckin’ liar.’

‘I’m sure you wish that was the case. But no, I’m quite serious.’

Felicia caught on, added her own take: ‘Screw him, Striker. Let’s just write the damn warrant and charge this prick.’

Striker’s eyes never left the man.

‘Up to you, Clayfield. I can set patrol up on your shop, lock it down, then write the warrant. But I’ll tell you this, I find even the smallest trace of what I’m looking for, and I’ll charge you with every goddam offence I can think of — and I got Crown Counsel on board with this one. These are dead kids we’re talking about. Children. ’

Even in the poor fluorescent lighting of the office, the small beads of perspiration that were forming on Clayfield’s forehead glistened. He put a hand over his lower stomach and belched. A bad whiff of beer and stomach acids filled the room.

‘Ain’t no law against making an extra compartment in no car anyway,’ he said. ‘Especially if I never knowed it was stolen.’

Felicia cut in again: ‘That would be true if the compartment wasn’t form-fitted for an AK-47 and a Benelli shotgun. But that means knowledge, and knowledge makes you an accessory to the crime of murder. Multiple counts. Children.’

‘Good work, by the way,’ Striker added. ‘Looked damn near factory made. Almost as good as the one you did for that drug trafficker last year — what was his name, Whitebear? — or the one you made six months before that, for Jeremy Koln.’

Clayfield swallowed hard, looked helplessly around the room.

Striker pretended not to notice. He gave Felicia a look. ‘What time is it?’

‘Too damn late,’ she said. ‘Let’s just lock this place down and charge this prick — it’s a good stat for us anyway.’

‘Ah fuck it,’ Striker agreed. ‘You’re right.’ He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to get a hold of Dispatch. Told them who he was. ‘We’re gonna need a pair of two-man cars down here after all. And the wagon. I got to transport someone to jail.’

‘Okay, okay, okay,’ Clayfield said. His face had gone white, highlighting the red splotches of his skin. His breath was coming in wheezy puffs. He slammed his fist against the locker near the wall and yelled, ‘That fuckin’ Rifanzi!’

Striker paused, said into the phone, ‘Hold up on that wagon for a moment. I’ll call you back.’ He put the phone away and met Clayfield’s stare. ‘You’re not the fish I want, Clayfield. I want the man who booked this job. He’s the real connection to the gunmen.’

Clayfield’s expression crumbled; his eyes took on a pleading look.

‘It was just done as a favour,’ he said. ‘Honest. He gets me supplies, this guy — from Japan. I was just paying him back for what I owed.’

‘I’m losing patience.’

‘I never even knowed it was stolen, for chrissake!’

‘Just give me a goddam name.’

Clayfield’s eyes turned down and away, and suddenly he looked a whole lot smaller than his six foot frame. When he spoke, his voice broke.

‘Edward Rundell,’ he croaked.