The survivor

Fifty-Three

Striker led Felicia out the way they’d come, cutting through the west side admittance area of St Paul’s Hospital. He had just passed the waiting area, where construction was still underway — God knows there was always a renovation underway at St Paul’s — when he spotted the white unmarked police cruiser pulling into the Police Only parking out front.

The White Whale.

Deputy Chief Laroche.

‘Christ, not now,’ Striker muttered. And for an instant, he was tempted to turn down the nearest corridor and escape via one of the rear or side exits. There’d been enough stress over the last two days without having to deal with the white-shirted dictator again. Avoidance would have been a logical choice, for which no one would fault him, but Jacob Striker never ran from anyone.

Especially not Laroche.

‘Gear up,’ Striker warned.

He gave Felicia a quick look, saw the uncomfortable expression masking her tired face, and barged out the exit door, into the brisk night air. The hospital door had barely shut behind him when Laroche exited the vehicle, followed by his lackey, Inspector Beasley.

‘Well, he’s got Curly with him now. All he needs is to find a Moe.’

‘Jacob, please,’ Felicia started.

He ignored her. Stopped walking. Crossed his arms. Stood rooted to the spot.

The Deputy Chief closed the car door then looked at his reflection in the side mirror. He adjusted his belt, fidgeted with his tie, then patted and combed his thick black hair back over his head while Inspector Beasley waited for him on the sidewalk. When he finally stopped fussing and stood up straight, his eyes landed on the two detectives. And his face darkened.

‘Striker!’

‘Laroche.’

‘Jesus Christ, everywhere you go I have to set up a new crime scene.’

Striker blinked, couldn’t believe his ears. Not, ‘Good job at the Kwan house,’ or, ‘You were right, Leung wasn’t Red Mask,’ or even, ‘I’m glad to see you’re alive.’ No, he got none of those, and there would certainly be no commendation to follow. Just more bullshit. He cleared his throat and said politely, ‘Just bringing you more zebras, sir.’

Laroche said nothing. His white face turned pink. Striker expected a rebuttal of some sort, but none came. Instead the Deputy Chief swivelled his hips, found Inspector Beasley, and the two of them exchanged a nasty smirk. One that made Striker pause.

Just what the hell are they up to now?

The Deputy Chief gave Beasley a nod, and without a word Beasley returned to the White Whale, popped open the trunk, rummaged around for a second, then returned with a gun case. He handed it to the Deputy Chief, who then turned to Striker with a wide smile stretching his lips.

‘The order no longer comes from me,’ Deputy Chief Laroche said. ‘It comes from the top, this one — right from Chief Chambers himself. And he’s made his decision clear. You have to turn in your gun. Now. It’s evidence.’

Striker shrugged. ‘I never said it wasn’t.’

‘You refused to relinquish it.’

‘I did nothing of the sort; I promised to relinquish my gun once it was safe to do so, when the incident was over, and technically the incident was not over. Like I said before, it was a safety issue, pure and simple.’

Laroche’s smile didn’t falter.

‘Well, there’s no safety issue any more, Detective Striker. The Department will issue you a new gun, now that your old one is being seized.’

Striker dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun and ran his fingers along the grip. It was rubberised — one of the many adjustments he’d made to the Sig — and it had the flashlight attachment on the muzzle, one that needed to be made by special order.

‘I’ve qualified on this one,’ he noted.

‘Chief Chambers understands your concern, so he’s given you an option. If you’re that concerned about being issued the new gun, then you have the right to take yourself off the road and remove yourself from the case, effective immediately, until you’ve requalified. So what’s it going to be, Striker? Relinquishment, or Leave?’

Striker let out a heavy breath. As much as he hated to admit it, the Deputy Chief was right on this one. The exigent circumstances of the incident had long since passed, and for him to argue that the incident was ongoing because the gunman was still out there somewhere was nothing more than a technicality — especially when he was being given a new Sig as a replacement. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was piss off the Chief. Chambers was a good man; Striker respected him.

‘Well?’ Laroche asked again.

Striker said nothing. He ejected the loaded magazine, withdrew his pistol, racked the slide and popped out the final round. He safed the pistol, locked the slide back, then placed it down on the hood of the Deputy Chief’s car.

Laroche seized the gun.

Striker said nothing. He took the new gun case, turned, and walked away. He reached the undercover cruiser, unlocked the driver’s side door and was about to climb inside when Laroche called out to him a final time.

‘And Detective?’

Striker turned, waited.

‘Just so we’re clear, you’re still in breach, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll be submitting my report to Internal before the day’s end.’

‘Good idea, sir,’ Striker said. ‘Do me a favour though. On your way there, keep an eye out for a guy wearing a red hockey mask — you may not have heard this yet, but he shot up a high school yesterday morning.’

Laroche’s face twisted into an angry expression, and he looked ready to say more, but Striker never gave him the chance. He hopped inside the cruiser, slammed the door, and started the engine. Once Felicia closed her own door, he tore off down Burrard Street.

The coroner was waiting.