The survivor

Forty

The call in question was at Gore and Pender, just one block south of East Hastings Street. It was positioned perfectly between the police headquarters building at 312 Main, the heart of Chinatown, and the Carnegie Support Centre, which was ground zero for Skid Row. Striker and Felicia were only eleven blocks out and arrived on scene within minutes.

Striker was surprised at what he found. The entire intersection was blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. It looked like streamers at a Skid Row birthday party. All they needed were some condom balloons and a crack cake with heroin icing.

He shook his head absently. ‘What is this — the tenth crime scene in two days?’

Felicia nodded. ‘I’m going to start matching my accessories.’

Striker barely heard her. He got out. Assessed.

Dumped in the middle of the intersection was an ordinary white GMC van. Both the driver and the passenger doors were wide open, but the rear double doors were closed. Standing guard was another uniformed cop, a young Chinese guy with thick, almost spiky hair.

Striker was about to duck under the yellow tape and approach him when he spotted a familiar figure rounding the front of the van. Grizzled, experienced, and almost as tired as he’d seen him down by the docks earlier this morning. It was Sergeant Mike Rothschild.

‘Hey, wrinkle-face,’ Striker called.

Rothschild spotted them, walked over to the inside edge of the yellow crime scene tape. ‘First off, call me that again and I’ll have you stationed at the jail for the rest of your career. Second off, I was just about to contact you guys.’

Striker nodded. ‘I bet. Why is my name on the call?’

Rothschild raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, look who we got here — Nostra-fucking-Damus. Who told you?’

‘Felicia did; she read it on the unit status.’

Rothschild smiled. ‘Should’ve known. One of you has to be on the ball.’ He shared a chuckle with Felicia and ducked under the yellow tape, stepping out of the crime scene. He pulled a package of cigarillos from his pocket — Old Port, wine-tipped — and lit one up.

‘Long damn day,’ he said.

Felicia looked at the van, noticed it had no front plate. ‘Stolen?’

Rothschild splayed his hands. ‘Who fuckin’ knows. Registered Owner is some restaurant down the block. Called there, but no one seems to know who’s got the van or why it isn’t parked in the underground parkade.’

‘Is it insured?’ Striker asked.

‘Temporary Operators Permit. Again, registered to the restaurant. Primary driver is listed as some Kim Pham fuckwad. He’s the manager, but according to staff, he’s conveniently on holiday right now somewhere back East. No contact number. No known address.’

‘Why is my name on the call?’ Striker asked again.

‘I put it on.’

‘For a stolen?’

Rothschild took a long drag on the cigarillo then exhaled, and the air around them smelled strongly of wine-scented smoke. He took another puff, sucking in as much nicotine as he could get — like his life depended on it — then dropped the cigarillo on the ground, crushed it with his patrol boot, and jerked his head towards the van.

‘Come on, Alice,’ he said. ‘Time to go through the Looking Glass.’

He ducked back under the yellow tape, into the crime scene, and Striker and Felicia followed. Rothschild continued talking.

‘So Hank and Blondie — my plainclothes car — spot this thing, see it’s got no rear plate. They can see the Temporary Operator’s Permit, but it’s behind the rear window and they can’t read it, so they decide to follow it and see what happens. They first pick it up on Georgia, going westbound, and then the driver seems to take notice. He stops at the red on Main, looks indecisive, then does a hard turn when the light changes green. Hank can’t make the turn because of traffic. When the traffic clears, they gun it, catch up to the van, see it turn east again, though now on Pender, and it’s fuckin’ flying. So they decide to light it up. Moment they do, these pricks bail and the chase is on.’

‘They in custody?’ Striker asked.

Rothschild shook his head. ‘Got away. And the dog track was no good.’

Striker cursed.

‘They get a good look at the driver?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nope. Happened too fast. Two guys in dark hoodies and sweatpants.’ He pointed at the projects to the south-east. ‘Hopped the fence and cut through there, right towards the Lucky Rooms on Prior. But who the hell knows? Dog couldn’t follow the track. And with the time delay, they’re long gone now.’

Striker looked at the van. ‘Which restaurant does it register to?’

Rothschild leafed through his notebook. ‘Fortune Happy or something. I dunno, it’s just down the block. On Pender. Big yellow awning.’

‘Must be stolen. Why else would they run?’

Rothschild’s face darkened. ‘I can think of three reasons. You will too, if you go take a look.’

Taking his time, Striker approached the van. He reefed open the back doors and looked inside the rear cab. There, lying on a piece of stained-red plywood, were three bodies. One was partly wrapped in a rug.

The closest, curled into the fetal position, was an old man. Thin. Asian. Maybe in his sixties. The two men behind him were larger, younger, and heavily muscled. In their late twenties or early thirties. Both wore fancy suits, good quality silk, yellow with faint white pinstripes.

Rothschild grinned. ‘You remember Sha Na Na.’

Felicia laughed, but Striker was so focused he barely heard the comment.

‘These guys are from the restaurant?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Anyone been in the van?’

‘Just me,’ Rothschild said. ‘I’m still trying to identify them.’

‘Any ID on them?’

‘Zilch.’

Felicia looked at the bodies. ‘Coroner been here yet? Ambulance?’

‘Naw, no point. They were stone cold when we found them. I put your name on the call so you could check them out first. Thought it might have some relevance to the shootings yesterday.’

‘Why?’ Striker asked.

Rothschild splayed his hands. ‘How often we find a van full of dead Asian guys? Proximity. Time. Nothing more than that.’

Striker nodded. ‘It’s appreciated.’

He looked at the bodies. The old man was already stiff, mostly in the neck and shoulders, and especially in the face, where he looked to be grimacing in death. Deep wrinkles marked his face, and where there were no wrinkles, the skin was smooth and hairless.

Felicia pointed to the purplish line of bruised flesh that snaked around the left half of his thin and wiry body. ‘Lividity.’

Striker had already noticed it. Blood had pooled in the torso, legs and arms — all on the left side. Yet the deceased lay on his right side.

‘He didn’t die here,’ Striker said. ‘He’s been moved.’

Felicia took a closer look. ‘Any idea how long?’

‘Judging by the amount of rigor, it’s been a while. Probably more than twenty-four hours. Pathologist’ll have to figure it out for any real time.’

Striker gloved up with latex. He climbed up on the back end of the van and tried to move the old man’s limbs. They were stiff, refused to budge, and Striker feared he’d tear the tissue if he forced it. He peered around the limbs, looking for a possible stab or gunshot wound.

He found none.

‘How’d he die?’ Felicia asked.

‘Not a clue,’ Striker said.

He looked past the old man, saw the blood-stained yellow suits of the two goons near the front. One of them had his jacket open. The white material of the shirt beneath was caked in dried blood. Nothing unusual for a dead body, but the bullet wound stuck out to Striker. He moved farther into the van to investigate.

What he saw made his stomach tighten.

He checked over the first victim, finding three well-placed shots, two in the chest and one in the head. He rolled the body over to see the exit wounds, then did the same with the second victim, who had also been shot three times. Two in the chest, one in the head. And by the looks of things, they were from a forty cal. Exact same placement and the exact same kind of ammo Red Mask had used on the targeted kids at St Patrick’s High.

And by Hydra-Shok rounds.

It told Striker what he had already known in the darkest corner of his heart.

Red Mask was still alive.