Snakes & Ladders (36 page)

‘Been reading prints all damn day,’ he said. ‘My eyes are seeing stars.’

‘Any news on the print you found on the can of varnish?’

‘It’s being sent through the database as we speak. I’ll let you know if there are any hits.’

‘And the DNA?’

‘Swabbed from the gun, the can, the pill bottles, the windows – God, you name it. I’ll let you know if we get any hits on those too, but that’ll take a few weeks, as I’m sure you already know. As for the palm prints, well, take a look for yourself.’

Noodles pushed his chair out of the way and showed Striker the two samples. Both were palm prints, and only partials at that. One from the Mandy Gill crime scene, one from the apartment across the street from Sarah Rose’s unit.

The first print, from Mandy’s crime scene, was well detailed, with lots of good ridge detail and areas where the bifurcation and endings were easily apparent. But the second print, the one from Sarah’s crime scene, was indistinct, blurry – as if the hand had been dragged across the window surface, catching only the barest bit of skin.

Striker stood back and changed the subject. ‘Any news on the gun?’

‘It’s a Browning 9-mm pistol.’

The news made Striker’s hopes drop. The Browning nine-mil was standard issue in the army. Good for close-quarters combat; quick and easy to draw. Plus the mags held thirteen rounds. All in all, it meant the same damn thing to him.

Another dead end.

Felicia saw the frown on Striker’s face and asked, ‘What? What does that mean?’

‘It means that, in all likelihood, Billy Mercury stole the gun from the 7th Regiment when he got discharged – it means it will probably lead us nowhere but back to the army. And a stolen pistol at that.’

‘I’ll look into it and let you know what I find,’ Noodles said.

Striker appreciated it.

He was about say more when his cell vibrated against his side. He picked it up and read the screen, expecting to see Laroche’s or Courtney’s name. But what he saw made his heart skip a beat. He had received an email from:
Larisa
. He opened up the file and read the message.

‘Oh shit,’ Striker said.

He immediately thought of Bernard Hamilton from Car 87, and anger rose in his chest. He looked at Felicia, then showed her the message. ‘What did I tell you – she thinks we sent the Mental Health Team after her.’

He typed back:

He sent the email and waited. But there was no immediate response. He added:

He hit Send. But again, there was no response. And he waited for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, just when he was about to close the email program and stuff the phone back into his jacket pocket, it vibrated again. He opened the email, read the screen and was disheartened by the words:

After that, nothing else came back. And after another long moment, Striker knew the discussion had ended. He closed off his email program and put his cell away. He leaned back in the chair and felt like screaming. Partly because he was frustrated, but partly because of the guilt. What Larisa had written was not entirely untrue. She had trusted him, reached out to him, and he had failed her.

‘She won’t listen to me now,’ he realized. ‘The trust is gone.’

Felicia nodded. ‘I’m not surprised. Don’t forget, Jacob, she’s paranoid right now. She thinks the whole world is out to get her. We need to ping her number and find out where she is.’

‘That’s the problem. She’s not sending it from a cell phone; she’s at a computer terminal somewhere. Using email. Who knows where?’

‘I have a contact with Shaw and some other service providers. Let me see if we can trace it for an IP address. Then maybe we’ll get a location of that terminal.’ Felicia grinned and stuck out her hand. ‘Come on, baby. Give momma the phone.’

Striker hesitated while looking at the message. After a moment, he relented and handed the cell to her. Felicia opened up the email program, pressed the Details button, then looked at the email sender’s address:

[email protected]
.

‘It’s a Gmail account,’ she said. ‘I have a contact there.’

Before Striker could reply, Felicia was on the phone to her contact. Striker spent the time going over the prints with Noodles one more time, making certain there was nothing they had overlooked. Ten minutes later, when she finally hung up, she had a smirk on her face. She said nothing.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Whenever you need something, you just come to momma, baby.’

Noodles laughed at this; Striker did not.

‘Come on, Feleesh. What you got?’

‘She’s at a coffee shop in the Metrotown Mall. A place called Arabic Beans.’

Striker swore. That was Burnaby. ‘We’ll never get there in time.’

Felicia agreed. ‘We need to send another unit.’

Striker shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. She sees one of their cruisers and she’ll freak.’

Felicia’s eyes stayed on his. ‘We have no choice in the matter. She may be delusional, Jacob, but Larisa knows
something
. You said that yourself. And if you’re right – if there is more than one person involved here – then she’s in a lot of danger, too. She could get herself killed before we have a chance to catch her again.’

Striker said nothing as he thought it over.

‘I agree with Felicia,’ Noodles said. ‘And you’re running out of time.’

Striker shook his head and gave in. ‘Fine. But a plainclothes cop only. No goddam uniforms. I mean it. She sees one of them, she’ll bolt on us. Even worse, she’ll know we sent it and she’ll never trust me again.’

Felicia grabbed Noodles’s portable radio, then went over the air, asking if there were any plainclothes units out east near the Boundary border. When the answer was negative, she switched over to the Info channel and asked them to see if there was a plainclothes unit in Burnaby South, near the Metrotown Mall. There was one, and Felicia relayed the message to them.

‘Be discreet,’ she said. ‘This woman is
super
heaty.’

‘Copy,’ the unit replied.

Striker cut in. ‘Give me your cell-phone number and I’ll send you a photo of the target.’

The Burnaby South cop gave Striker his number, and Striker flipped through his iPhone photos till he found the one of Larisa the Sarj had downloaded from her personnel file back at the Victim Services Unit. He brought it up and sent the attachment. Moments later, when Felicia handed the radio back to Noodles, she looked at Striker and smiled.

‘It’s done,’ she said.

Striker didn’t smile back. He couldn’t – he was sick to his stomach. If Larisa spooked on this one and got away from them, there was no telling what might happen. Thoughts of suicide even crossed his mind.

He stood up from the chair and grabbed his keys from his jacket pocket.

‘Come on,’ he said to Felicia. ‘We’re going there, too.
Code 3
.’

Normally the drive from Main Street to Burnaby’s Metrotown Mall took a good twenty minutes. With Striker driving lights and siren the entire way, they made it there in less than ten, and ended up intercepting the plainclothes cops from Burnaby South.

Striker spotted their undercover cruiser turning off Kingsway and driving into the underground parkade. It made him shake his head; he had hoped for an undercover operative, not a plainclothes cop in an unmarked Ford. A white Crown Victoria stood out in the parkade like a lighthouse at sea. It was no good. If anything, it was detrimental. And to make matters worse, Larisa had spent three years working for Victim Services. She knew what an undercover police sedan looked like. Hell, she used to drive around in one of them while en route to calls.

‘Just get them the hell out of there,’ Striker said to Felicia. ‘Larisa will make them in a second, if she sees them.’

Felicia agreed. She got on her cell, called Burnaby South Dispatch, and had the unit pulled. Less than a minute later, the Crown Vic peeled out of the underground, leaving in its wake a loud squeal of tyres and a patch of rubber on the parking lot surface a foot long.

It was a
fuck you
from the other unit.

‘That idiot,’ Striker said. ‘Get their unit number. I want to deal with them later.’

While Felicia got the number from Dispatch, Striker drove them into the central part of the parkade and dumped the wheels behind a tall support pillar, hoping to blend in with the grey concrete. When Felicia got out and stared at the size of the parkade, a worried sound escaped her lips.

‘We got our work cut out for us on this one,’ she said. ‘This mall is huge. If she’s left the coffee shop, we’ll never find her in here.’

‘All the more reason to get going,’ Striker replied. He pointed to the escalator. ‘Arabic Beans is on the northwest side of the mall, below the movie theatres – the older ones, not the new Cineplex. You go round the Skytrain ramp and come in from the south; I’ll cut through the mall and come in from the north.’

‘And if I find her, then what? Take her down right there?’

Striker thought it over. ‘No. Don’t let her see you. Call me on the cell, and let me approach her on my own. If she runs, then take her down. We have to. It’s for her own good.’

Felicia nodded. Without a word, she spun about and hurried for the escalator. When she reached the top and disappeared from view, entering the first floor of the mall, Striker turned around and ran for the north-side elevators.

He hoped they weren’t too late.

Despite the fact that Christmas and Boxing Day sales were long over, and all the New Year’s Day sales had ended three weeks ago, the mall was jam-packed with people. Gangs of teenagers with their baggy pants and skateboards hung out near the McDonald’s alcove, and adults with their children flooded the Gamespot counter. Everyone was making exchanges and new purchases. It being seven o’clock and dinner time for the late crowd, the Food Court was jammed.

Striker took a moment to scan the area.

Larisa Logan was Caucasian. At five foot seven and one hundred and forty pounds, she blended in well with most crowds. The last time he saw her her dark brown hair had been shoulder length and straight though it could be worn many ways. As if to make spotting her even more difficult, she also wore glasses and, sometimes, he recalled, coloured contacts.

She was a hard target.

Striker saw no sign of her in the Food Court, so he made his way down the east–west walkway. He found the mall doors, exited the building, and began rounding the building along the Kingsway boulevard.

Outside, the night was as dark as a day-old bruise. The sidewalk was frosted over. Only the street and walkway lamps illuminated the area, turning everyone more than twenty feet away into silhouettes.

Striker passed a few clusters, making sure he saw the face of each person and paying even closer attention to any lone individuals that sneaked off the path. When he rounded the bend and came within sight of the coffee shop, Arabic Beans, his heart clenched and his hopes evaporated.

Sitting outside Arabic Beans was an unmarked Crown Victoria sedan. A Vancouver Police car. Its red and blue lights were flashing and its spotlight was turned on.

‘What the fuck?’ escaped his lips.

Before Striker knew it, he was running. Racing down the long strip of corridor towards the coffee shop. He passed the Happy Gate Sushi shop and the Muffin Inn, and finally the Save-on-Foods store.

When he came to within fifty feet of Arabic Beans, he spotted Felicia coming the other way. The hard look on her face told him that she felt the same confusion. What the hell was going on? And just as importantly,
who
the hell was in Arabic Beans?

Striker got his answer less than ten steps later.

The tinted glass door to the coffee shop slowly opened and two figures emerged. The first one was a short Asian woman Striker recognized but could not place. The second figure was easily distinguishable, and the sight of the man made Striker’s blood
hot
. With his long ponytail hanging down from his balding head, and wearing a bright red dress shirt with matching tie, was Bernard Hamilton of Car 87. The Mental Health Team.

They were here for the warrant.

Striker ran right up to the man. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded.

Bernard Hamilton smiled. Smiled like he wasn’t surprised in the least to see them. ‘We’re looking for Larisa.’ He winked. ‘Got a tip she might be here.’

‘A tip? From who?’

Bernard just kept smiling. ‘Never identify a source,’ was all he said.

Striker looked around for Larisa, did not see her.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘Not here,’ Bernard said. ‘I checked out the entire place. She left long before we got here.’

Striker looked at Felicia, whose face appeared as tight as his chest. ‘Watch the front,’ he told her, and headed into the coffee shop.

The place was small and dark with a mirror behind the front bar that reflected back the blue lights of the Arabic Beans neon sign in the window. Behind the bar stood a tall thin black man. He was washing mugs.

Striker approached him and got his attention. ‘You see a white woman in here? Five foot seven. A hundred and forty pounds. Brown hair?’

The man put down the mug and frowned. ‘I see lots dem people in here,’ he said. His voice was deep and smooth, and he spoke the words slowly, with all the patience in the world. His accent reminded Striker of the Hondurans he’d dealt with in the skids so many times during his time in Patrol. ‘Dis is Metrotown, man. Always real busy.’

Striker fished out his iPhone and opened up his photos folder. He scanned through the pictures, found the one of Larisa and showed it to the man. The barista took a long look, then shook his head.

‘Never seen da girl.’

‘You got video surveillance?’

‘Naw, the owner’s too cheap for dat, man. We’s lucky to have lights on in dis place.’