‘Let’s just get the hell out of here,’ she said.
‘We can’t go just yet. He needs me to sign the continuity form,’ Striker said.
Felicia just gave him one of her sharp looks before turning away. She shook her head, brushed her long dark hair over her shoulder, and focused on the gigantic painting on the far wall – a recreation of Michelangelo’s
The Creation of Adam
, except in this painting, Adam wasn’t touching God, he was touching a spiralling strand of DNA.
Striker watched Felicia from behind, feeling the cold shoulder she was giving him. It was all right; she had reason to. He completely understood that. What he was doing could get them into major shit. Yet again. And sooner or later, a suspension was bound to happen. Lately, he’d been cutting more corners than a Vancouver taxi driver. But he couldn’t help it.
That was the only way things ever got done around here.
He was just about to force some conversation with Felicia – try to smooth things out a little – when his cell went off. He whipped it out, read the screen and saw Mike Rothschild’s name. He picked up.
‘Sergeant,’ Striker said.
‘Hey, Snow White, how’s life in the forest?’
‘We’re real busy here, Mike.’
Rothschild laughed at his irritation. ‘I got some news for you.’
‘
Good
news?’
‘Yeah. The camera cunts showed up.’
Striker felt his jaw tighten. ‘The media? Again?’
‘You said it. What ya want me to tell them?’
‘Who the hell leaked?’
‘Find me a magic mirror and I’ll tell you.’
Striker thought over their options. Dealing with the media was always a hassle. They distorted facts to make articles more sensational, and they had no respect for a person’s privacy. Whether the victim was alive or dead, young or old, passed away or horribly mutilated and murdered – it was irrelevant to the media. All that mattered was how many viewers were watching. Or how many papers sold. Everything was numbers and headlines.
‘Tell them it’s a suicide at this point, but the investigation is ongoing.’
‘Done.’
‘That’s all and no more, Mike – I want to keep a tight lid on this one. Real tight.’
‘So I shouldn’t tell them we suspect Taliban involvement.’
Striker smiled grimly at the comment. ‘At least then I’d have a suspect.’
He hung up the cell and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was pressure there, building up behind his eyes. The aspirin did jack shit; the headache was growing.
He should have expected it. So far everything was going sideways. Mandy was dead. A suspect had escaped. Felicia was pissed at him again. And now the media had shown up, asking questions on a case where he still had no real proof of anything. What was this – a strange suicide? A date-rape overdose? A snuff film?
Or something even more dark?
The thought left him sick. A ball of stress was knotting up his insides, getting tighter and tighter with every turn. This call was a bomb, he knew, and the fuse had already been lit.
Sooner or later, it was going to blow up on them.
How much time had passed, the Adder had no idea. Whenever the sounds returned – the laughter, the thunderous cracks, the screams and then the silence – he always scrambled for his white-noise device. Only when it was turned on full, with the headphones jammed right into his ears, was there ever peace. And time had little meaning.
Regardless, time
had
passed. And his mind had finally calmed to a much more logical level where he could think again. Rationalize. Assess.
He got the glove.
This was disconcerting. Not because it made him easier for the police to identify or catch, but because it had never happened before. This was an unprecedented error.
The first time he’d ever come up Snake Eyes.
From now on he would have to be smarter than that. From now on he would wear a layer of latex beneath the leather gloves. As a necessary precaution. Because the damage was already done.
There was a link now.
With that notion came the other thoughts – the ones that left a tingling sensation running amok throughout his insides. Had he touched anything when the glove had been torn off? And if so, what? Had he left fingerprints back at the scene?
He felt his facial muscles tighten with the thought, and he could not relax them. This cop was smarter than most. He had connected the fridge trays with his hiding spot. And he had remained calm and logical and tactical. When the big detective had zeroed in on the fridge, the Adder had had no choice but to react.
No choice.
The anxiety swelled up again, too much to contain. And the Adder leaned back and let out a sorrowful sound. He crawled across the cold cement floor to the far wall with the cabinet. He took hold of the edges, then paused for a moment to look up at the hatch in the ceiling.
It was locked and in place.
Safe.
The Adder slid the cabinet out of the way. It was heavy and scuffed on the floor as he did it but, like always, he got it to move.
Located in the wall was a small hollow. There lay his silver container – his own personal holy grail. A case which he cleaned and polished several times a day, so much that it glowed like a mercury halo. Inside it were his DVDs and Blu-ray discs.
Inside it was his salvation.
He took hold of the case, removing it so gently, so carefully. He set it down on the soft burgundy towel he kept on the ground, then opened the case. He stared in wonder. Two rows of DVDs and Blu-ray discs. His files. His wonderful, beautiful movies. Thirty-six to be exact.
There should have been thirty-seven.
Mandy Gill’s movie was still missing. And it was going to be a problem.
The sight of the empty DVD space brought the darkness back, but before the thought could settle in his mind, the bell went off. The noise so sharp – not only in its sound but in what it signified – that he stiffened like he’d been whipped across the back with a belt.
The Doctor was calling.
And that was never good.
The Adder felt a shiver run through his body, and he quickly regained his senses. He closed the silver box and gently placed it back in the hollow. Then he took hold of the cabinet and slowly, carefully, slid it back into place, hiding the hole in the wall.
He scrambled up the ladder and undid the latch.
When he stepped inside the study, the contrast between the rooms was alarming. His was cold; the Doctor’s so very hot. His was dark and gloomy; the Doctor’s so bright and glaring. And his room offered a safe, protected feeling, one that may have been false and imagined, but one that was there nonetheless. Here, in the Doctor’s office, there was always a sense of danger. Of threat. Of despair.
And it was very, very real.
The Doctor was already there, sitting in a high-backed leather chair. The darkness made the world out there appear hidden, indistinct.
It matched the mood.
‘I am not happy,’ the Doctor finally said.
The Adder looked down. ‘I know.’
‘You have been very foolish.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. The police . . . they were just suddenly
there
.’
‘Did they see your face?’
‘They know nothing.’
‘Did they see your
face
?’
‘No.’
‘They had better not. We’ve got a lot of work to do, you and I, and I can’t have you getting into trouble like this.’
The room was silent for a long moment – a time that could have been minutes or seconds to the Adder, for time rarely flowed normally. Then the Doctor spoke again. Simple words. Brief and direct.
‘You know the rules.’
The Adder’s head snapped up. ‘But it wasn’t my fault!’
‘Fault?’ The Doctor laughed. ‘What does that matter? Fault? Was it
William’s
fault?’
The Adder said nothing, and he began to shake all over.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘No,’ he said again.
And he did as he was told. He followed the rules. He succumbed.
He went to the well.
‘We need to do more research on Mandy,’ Striker said.
It was one of his own personal rules.
Know the victim
. This was crucial. And to a point, he already did. He had known Mandy years back when she had attended the same school events as Courtney, and he had dealt with her a few times just last year when he had filled in for Bernard Hamilton.
Hamilton worked in the mental health car – which was essentially a mobile unit, composed of one officer and one social worker, who partnered up to help the mentally ill people of the Downtown East Side.
All the past connections helped, but they weren’t enough. Striker wanted to know everything about the girl.
Especially her recent history.
Felicia buckled up her seat belt as Striker pulled out on the main road and headed for the downtown core. ‘I’ll go through the CAD calls,’ she said. ‘See what else was going on in that area when Mandy’s call came in.’
Striker nodded in agreement.
CAD was the Computer Assisted Dispatch system that was used whenever 911 calls and general requests from the public were made. It was documented every time a patrol member took a call. Maybe they could find some connections there.
God knows, it was as good a place as any to start.
They headed for headquarters. While en route, Felicia grumbled about the day never ending. Striker took a quick look at her. Her eyes appeared heavy and were underlined. Seeing that, he took a detour through the Starbucks drive-thru on Terminal for some much-needed caffeine. He grabbed himself a tall Americano, black, and a protein bar.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Eggnog latte. With a slice of raspberry loaf with lemon-cream-cheese icing.’
‘Why don’t you get something decadent for a change?’
‘I’m low on carbs and sugar and caffeine, Jacob, now is
not
the time. And after that little stunt you pulled at the lab, this treat is all on you.’
He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
When the coffees and food came, Striker paid for them and handed the cardboard tray to Felicia. Then he headed for 312 Main Street. Headquarters.
Destination: Homicide.
It was less than a mile away.
A half-hour later, Striker sat back in his office chair and rubbed his eyes. They were dry and grainy. How could they not be? The computer screen assigned to his desk was an outdated piece of junk. The monitor was on the fritz – the colours all seemed a tint or two off – and it was not even a widescreen.
He glanced over at Felicia. She had a better chair, one made from leather and high-backed, and also a brand-new widescreen monitor. A twenty-four incher. And newer technology. LED. Striker looked at it.
‘How the hell d’you ever get that anyway?’ he asked. ‘I’ve had a requisition order in for six months.’
‘Connections,’ was all she said, and went back to her reading.
Striker said nothing. He just stretched his hands high above him and felt his back crack. He stared at the window. Outside, everything was black and deep and cold.
He was glad to be inside the office.
His thoughts turned to Courtney, and he made a call home and hit the Speakerphone button so he could talk while he worked. The phone rang six times before the answering machine picked up. As usual Courtney had changed the voice message again, like she did every week:
‘If you like it then you better . . . leave a message,’ she sang.
The words were familiar, but Striker couldn’t place them. Some song on the radio, he guessed. It usually was.
‘It’s Dad,’ he said. ‘Pick up.’
When Courtney didn’t answer, he repeated himself, then finally gave up. He hit the End button and disconnected the call.
Felicia swivelled around in her chair. ‘“Single Ladies”,’ she said.
‘Huh?’
‘The song on the machine. It’s “The Single Ladies”. By Beyoncé.’
Striker just nodded. ‘Sure.’
She stared him down. ‘You have no clue, do you?’
‘Sure I do. Beyoncé – lead singer from Guns N’ Roses.’
Felicia laughed out loud, and Striker smiled weakly back at her.
‘My eyes are turning to sand,’ he said.
She tore off a piece of her raspberry loaf and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘You at least getting anything?’
‘Besides a headache? No, not really.’ He swallowed the loaf and glanced back at the computer screen where he had opened four different pages from PRIME.
PRIME was the Police Records Information Management Environment – a huge, widespread database that contained everything from basic police reports to hidden intelligence files. It was but one of a dozen different databases the cops used.
All of which were essential.
Striker spoke again. ‘There’s a ton of stuff here on Mandy. File after file, and most of it is Mental Health Act. She was a very sick person. Listed EDP everywhere.’
EDP – Emotionally Disturbed Person.
‘And then there’s a dozen more street checks,’ he continued. ‘She was run by Patrol tons of times, just for acting strange. Then there’s the rest of the standard calls – a lot of Disturbances and Suspicious Circumstance incidents, most of which were because she was off her meds again. Acting all loopy. She’s also done a dozen different voluntary transports to the psych ward at St Paul’s. So she was at least cognitively aware that she was having problems.’
Felicia glanced at the list of files and frowned. ‘Hey, you authored some of these reports.’
Striker nodded. He told her about the times he had replaced Bernard Hamilton in the mental health car, and also about how he knew the girl from before. From when Mandy had attended the same school as Courtney.
‘Wow. So she went from Dunbar to Ditchville,’ Felicia said. ‘The poor kid. Did she have any family?’
Striker threw his pen on the blotter. ‘Her mother died of cancer a few years back. As for her father, he’s in jail.’
‘Jail? What for?’
Striker didn’t want to get into it, but he explained anyway: ‘After Mandy’s mother died, when she was still living in Dunbar, she was going to the same school as Courtney. St Patrick’s High. They knew each other.’