The survivor

Sixty-Eight

Striker and Felicia left Worldwide Translation Services and climbed into the cruiser. Striker sat behind the wheel, his mind working in overdrive, searching for a connection between a group of suburban kids from a sleepy Dunbar school, the Shadow Dragon gangsters, and the Khmer Rouge war which was thirty years over and two thousand miles away.

He found none. Their best lead now was Patricia Kwan — who lay unconscious in the hospital. Doctor or no doctor, weak or strong, it did not matter. Patricia Kwan was the only chance they had of finding her missing daughter.

She would have to be woken up again.

‘Saint Paul’s,’ Striker said. ‘You drive.’

They switched places, and Felicia drove west on First Avenue. As they went, Striker logged onto the laptop, then initiated PRIME, the report programme all the municipal forces had adopted ten years earlier. Every Patrol call written was in this database, and it was one more check box on his list.

Felicia switched to the fast lane, looked over at him. ‘Any theories?’

Striker pulled out his notebook and set it down on his lap. ‘I’m running every damn name we got through the patrol database. See if we can get even a weak connection. Right now I’d be happy with anything.’

Striker got to work. He typed in the names of all four kids involved — the ones that were known targets: Conrad MacMillan, Chantelle O’Riley, Tina Chow, and the still-missing Riku Kwan. A few minutes later, he deflated.

‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Jesus Christ, not a one.’

Felicia looked over. ‘What do you mean, not one?’

‘I mean they’re not even in the system as entities. Goddam zilch.’

It was frustrating. Not one of the kids had a youth record, or any criminal history in any of the information systems. Not one was even listed as a Witness or a Property Rep, or even a Person of Interest, much less a Suspect Chargeable. The closest matches Striker could find were Patricia Kwan and Archibald MacMillan — the parents of Riku and Conrad. Kwan, as they now knew, was a Vancouver cop. Her entity was automatically entered into the system upon hire date. And Archibald MacMillan was a fireman, so he was listed the same way.

Striker told this to Felicia.

‘What hall is Archie at?’ she asked.

Striker scoured through the report. ‘Hall Eleven. Got a notation here in the remarks field — says he’s specialised. HAZMAT.’ Striker looked over at Felicia. ‘They deal with chemical spills, explosive substances, meth labs, unknown terrorist devices — all that shit.’

Felicia turned south on Main. ‘I know what HAZMAT is, Striker. Christ Almighty, how junior do you think I am?’

‘Stands for Hazardous Materials.’

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You’re such a shit. Any of the other parents come up?’

He focused back on the computer screen, scanned through the electronic pages. ‘No, not that I can see. The only Chows listed are all low scores, and there isn’t even an O’Riley on file.’ He used the touch-pad to close the extra windows, bringing him back to his original request of Archibald MacMillan. ‘Interesting though. Hall Eleven is at Victoria and Second — that’s District Two.’

‘What’s interesting about that?’

‘Both Archibald MacMillan and Patricia Kwan work in District Two, yet they live in Dunbar. And both their kids go to the same school.’

Felicia shrugged as if to say, So? ‘A lot of cops and firemen live in Dunbar,’ she said. ‘It’s a good family place. Try to cross reference them.’

Striker read through their histories. There was a lot.

Patricia Kwan had written over two hundred calls the past year. Pretty standard for a patrol cop. Everything from Break amp; Enters to Homicides. Archibald MacMillan had been to sixty-three calls, most of which were gas leaks and car accidents.

Striker cross-referenced their names. ‘Interesting…’ he said.

‘What you got?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nothing astounding, but they’ve only been to one call together. Just a few months back, in fact. A house on Pandora Street, Seventeen Hundred block.’

‘That’s the industrial area,’ Felicia noted. ‘What kind of file is it?’

He clicked on the link and waited until the incident number popped up.

‘Okay, there’s actually two calls here,’ he said, ‘and they’re linked. First one came in as a Suspicious Circumstance, then later the same night, it was linked to an Arson call at the same address.’ He queried the number and got back a generic CAD call with only the address and time listed. There was nothing in the remarks field. Not even a name. Frustrated, he ran the incident number for a report and got back a three-word message.

‘Event Not Found,’ he said. Meaning it was either non-existent or locked for security reasons.

‘Any badge number associated?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nothing.’

Striker called Info, asked if they could bring up the report. But the same message came back to them as well. Irritated, he closed the CAD call.

‘I want to see that house on Pandora,’ he said.

‘It’ll have to wait,’ Felicia told him. ‘We’re here.’

Striker looked up from the laptop screen and saw the tall steel gates and old red brick of the hospital before him.

They had reached St Paul’s.