The survivor

Forty-Five

Striker did not release Trixie as promised. Instead, he sent her away — not in the back of the police wagon to jail, but in an ambulance for Vancouver General Hospital — just as he’d planned all along. She was sick, so very sick — the infection of her left arm was already so bad the limb might require amputation — and he feared that without the proper medical treatment, Trixie would soon be the next sudden death in the Skids.

When she was gone, Striker approached the cruiser, where Felicia was waiting inside. She smiled at him knowingly. ‘I always knew you were a sweetie.’

He just gave her a straight look, then handed her the notebook with the doctor’s name. ‘Jun Kieu. Confirm it.’

She took the notebook, punched in the name, then looked back at him. ‘Date of birth?’

‘Put him at seventy.’

‘Looks younger than that.’

‘Most Asians do.’

Felicia grinned. ‘You just look old.’ When the computer beeped and the information came back, she reached out and angled the screen towards Striker. ‘We got a hit back, if he was born in 1937.’

‘CPIC?’

‘No. Criminal Name Index. And unfortunately, that’s all the hits we got. No CPIC. No PRIME. No LEIP. No nothing.’

Striker thought about it. CPIC was the Canadian Police Information Centre, and they had information on just about everyone right across the country, so long as that person had ever crossed the criminal line. PRIME held information on everyone the police so much as came into contact with, be they criminals or good folk. LEIP and PIRS were secondary databases, but good assets in their own right. All this, and still they had nothing on Jun Kieu. Just one hit on the Criminal Name Index.

It was disconcerting.

‘What’s the birthplace?’ he finally asked.

‘Viet Nam.’

‘Does he match the descriptors?’

Felicia read through the file. ‘He got a horizontal scar beneath his chin?’

Striker walked back over to the van, leaned inside and tilted the old man’s head to see under his chin. The scar was there. He nodded confirmation as he headed back. ‘Yeah, it’s him.’

‘He’s got a Do Not Release in the field remarks,’ Felicia said. ‘Immigration warrant.’

‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t run off.’

Felicia smiled, then said, ‘Hang on, Jacob. There’s an attachment on his file.’ She pulled it up, read it through. ‘Wow, never seen one of these before. Crimes Against Humanity.’

Striker stopped beside the car. ‘ War crimes?’

‘It would appear so.’

He thought it over. ‘Viet Nam War, I guess. North or South?’

‘Doesn’t say.’

Striker was about to ask more when Felicia’s cell rang. She answered, held up a finger to demand silence, then began talking.

Striker left her alone and returned to the van. He gloved up with fresh latex, then leaned inside and undid the shirt buttons on all the bodies, exposing the neck and shoulder regions. Their skin was cold, even through the gloves. Striker examined their flesh, hoping to find the same golden artwork he’d seen on the neck of his headless shooter.

There was none. Not on any of the bodies.

The sight deflated him a bit, made him wonder what they really had here, as far as investigative leads went. An old man wanted for war crimes, dead in the back of a stolen van, with two yet-to-be identified goons.

Little, really.

But there was some light. The two men had been murdered with the same MO as the targeted kids in the school shootings.

And with what looked like Hydra-Shok rounds.

Striker thought the scene over. There was little hope of identifying the escaped driver, so the only connection that existed was the registered owner of the vehicle, and that came back not to a person, but to a business. The Fortune Happy restaurant.

Yet another lead they would have to check out.

A frustrated sound escaped his lips. There were too many possibles in this case. It was as if each lead was another long, tangled branch. He looked at the young constable guarding the van, remembered those simple days when he was a rookie, and a part of him missed it.

He put away his notebook, returned to the cruiser and crashed down in the driver’s seat, closing his eyes. They felt heavier than his mood. Felicia was still on the phone, talking beside him in the passenger seat. He listened to her, breathed in slowly and smelled vanilla perfume. He was just drifting off when Felicia snapped her cellphone shut, killing any hope of tranquillity he might have had.

He opened his eyes. ‘Well?’

‘That was my contact at the phone company,’ she said.

‘Which provider?’

‘Telus, of course,’ Felicia said. ‘Biggest is best. She scoured high and low for us.’

Striker felt a nervous tension fill his belly. Felicia’s contact was the one person who might have access to the phone records of Edward Rundell — the missing link between the modified Honda Civic and the gunmen.

Striker met her stare. ‘She find us Edward Rundell’s number?’

‘One better,’ Felicia replied. ‘She found us his business address.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Right here in Vancouver. Trans-Global Enterprises.’