The survivor

Sixty-Five

Striker and Felicia reconnected back at 312 Headquarters, got into their cruiser, then drove down Gore Street in one car. They parked a block away from the Fortune Happy Restaurant, at the corner of Gore and Pender — the crime scene of the van and three bodies.

Ident had already been on scene and left. The yellow tape had been taken down. The van had been towed to the police garage with the bodies still inside. Soon they would be transported to the morgue for autopsy.

Now it was just an empty intersection.

Felicia ran the name Kim Pham in the computer. To Striker’s surprise, the guy was a no-hit, meaning he had no history, criminal or otherwise.

‘Play with the dates of birth,’ he told Felicia, and she did.

When something came back, she said, sounding displeased, ‘Just a driver’s licence. Maybe the name is an alias.’

Striker doubted that. Kim Pham owned a BC Drivers Licence, his name was listed as the primary operator on the insurance papers, and Chinese Tony had been terrified of the man because he was leader of the Shadow Dragons — a gang Striker had never heard of. He turned in his seat to look at Felicia.

‘You ever hear of the Shadow Dragons?’

‘They a Chinese version of the Jonas Brothers?’

Striker smiled. ‘Not quite.’ He filled her in on his dealings with Chinese Tony and told her what he’d learned about the existence of a Shadow Dragons gang as they headed for the Fortune Happy restaurant.

Once on scene, it didn’t take long for them to get the run-around. A Chinese lady in a black silky dress with red Chinese characters sewn into it, who looked part dragon herself, used her small, lithe body to block Striker’s way. The boldness of her stance gave him little doubt she held power of some kind among her peers.

Striker flashed the badge. ‘Where is Kim Pham?’

‘Kim Pham out. He away. Long time.’

‘Where?’

‘He go to Hong Kong. Father very sick. Very ill. Might die.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Not know. He not work for very long time. On holiday. Holiday very much.’

Striker was getting tired of the run-around. ‘Then who are you? What do you do here exactly?’

‘I hostess. I restaurant hostess.’

‘But who are you?’

‘I hostess. I fill in.’

Striker had had enough of the charade. ‘I want ID,’ he told her.

She gave him a stubborn look, then returned to the hostess podium and came back with her wallet. She handed him several documents, including her immigration papers.

Striker sorted through it all. ‘Annie Ting,’ he said.

‘I return to work,’ she said.

‘No, you stay with us. We’ll be needing you for a while. But you can put your wallet back.’

She appeared less than happy, but did as told.

While she was gone, Striker turned to Felicia and smiled. ‘I bet if you ask for the special menu you can order Annie-Ting.’

She grinned, and the hostess soon returned. Striker told her to take them around the restaurant. She did so, making no attempt to hide her reluctance.

The tour was brief. Three large dining areas all coloured in gold and red, with white-clothed round tables and black high-backed chairs. A fourth dining area was closed off for private parties, though it looked very much the same as the previous three.

Annie Ting led them on. ‘The kitchen,’ she said, and gave a half-hearted swing of her hand to show them.

She moved on, Striker did not. He stood at the entranceway to the kitchen, which was covered by nothing but a red hanging sash, and breathed in the smell of lemon and chicken and garlic and green onions. It smelled good. Made his stomach rumble. He realised how long it had been since they’d eaten.

‘Over here is office,’ Annie Ting said. ‘This way, this way here.’

But Striker still did not move. He was looking at an unmarked door that sat just between the kitchen and pantry. It was painted black and had scuff marks in the bottom.

‘What’s in there?’

‘Pantry. Office this way, this way here.’

‘I thought that was the pantry,’ Striker said, and pointed to the other side of the kitchen.

‘Have two. Need much. Very busy restaurant. Office this way.’

Striker paid her no heed. He glanced at Felicia, and when she gave him a nod, he stepped up to the door and turned the knob. It was locked, didn’t budge. He listened, and could hear clatter on the other side. He turned back to Annie Ting, saw the hardness of her stare, and knew they had found something.

‘Always lock the pantry?’

‘Door is broken, we never use.’

‘Well, you can either fix the broken door and let us in there, or we can use other methods.’

‘Door broken,’ she said again.

Striker stepped forward and landed one hard kick alongside the door knob. The door burst inwards, taking a chunk of frame with it and filling the kitchen with the sound of snapping wood. On the other side of the door was a short hallway, leading back to another series of rooms.

‘Stop, stop!’ the hostess said.

‘Big pantry.’

‘You need warrant!’

Striker heard Felicia tell the woman to shut up as they walked down the hall. They’d barely gotten ten feet when the air thickened with smoke, and the smell of whisky and other liquor filled the air. At the end of the hallway was another sash. When Striker neared it, he could hear chatter and a clattering noise, like pebbles being dropped on hardwood. He knew what it was immediately.

Pai Gow tiles.

They’d walked into a backdoor gambling ring. Nothing out of the ordinary for Chinatown.

He pushed through the red sash and stepped into a large room with many tables full of gamblers. Some were older, most were middle-aged, but all were Asian. Looked fresh off the boat. Cantonese filled the air, loud and excited tones. Serving boys scurried from table to table, and a few older gentlemen in tuxedos served whiskys and cognacs. At the far end, two large men in golden suits eyed him warily but did not approach.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Those suits look familiar?’ he asked.

‘Same as the men in the back of the van.’

He nodded. ‘Keep an eye on them and the dragon lady while I look around.’

The hostess, Annie Ting, narrowed her eyes at the comment.

‘You need warrant!’ she said again.

Striker ignored her. He walked in between the tables, and some of the guests stopped gambling and looked at him suspiciously, as if they had just realised that a white guy had invaded their Chinese gambling den. Others gave him indifferent glances and made more bets.

At the right end of the room, a narrow stairway descended. Striker approached it, stared down. At the bottom was a closed door. He motioned to Felicia that he was going to check it out.

The stairs were wood and they creaked under the weight of his boots. When he reached the alcove, it was dark, the only light bulb in the hall being burned out. The sign on the door was readable and in English.

KEEP OUT.

Simple, but effective — for those who weren’t police.

Striker opened the door, stepped inside the room, and was bathed by fluorescent light. The room was long and rectangular. It might have once been an office, or a meeting room. It was difficult to tell because it had been completely gutted, and recently. The carpet was torn up, and the walls were painted, though not with paint but grey primer. Striker rubbed his hand across the wall and felt a few rough areas where the filler had not been properly sanded.

A rush remodelling job. There had to be a reason.

He walked through the room, studying the floors and walls, and finding nothing of interest. When he turned back to the doorway and was about to exit, something caught his eye.

He looked up at the hard-foam ceiling tiles. Each square was a perfect twelve-by-twelve inches and mottled with black specks. The nearest tile had a small hole in it, at the far edge, near the doorframe. At first glance it looked to be part of the design, but this hole was larger than the others, and it went in at an angle.

Striker pulled over a pair of paint cans, stood on them, took a better look, and knew what he had found. It was a bullet-hole. And given the connection of the dead men in the van and the information he’d gotten from Chinese Tony, there was little doubt what this place had been.

A murder room.