Striker stopped washing his hands. ‘What you got, Ich?’
‘Just follow me,’ he said. ‘There’s something both of you need to see. Something really, really… strange.’
Eleven
Every one of Red Mask’s senses felt warped.
He marched eastward along Pender, moving deeper into Chinatown. He’d abandoned the Lexus long ago. It was no longer a concern. His entire focus was the pain in his shoulder. It pulsated, moving through his body like long jellyfish tendrils. Already it had forced him from consciousness once. Much time had been lost because of it.
He could not afford for this to happen again.
The Fortune Happy Restaurant sat in the heart of Chinatown. Its dirty gold awning was splattered with blood-red lettering. The location had been chosen by Kim Pham, not for its size or layout, but for its address.
Number 426. This was very important.
Red Mask pushed through the front doors, smearing blood across the pane. Inside, the smell of ginger crab and black bean sauce hit him. It made his stomach contents rise, and he fought them down.
Seated patrons gawked as he struggled by into the kitchen area. Behind him, the mutters of anxious customers arose. A high-pitched clatter, like frightened birds. Yet in the kitchen, no one — not the chef, not the waitresses — so much as flinched or made eye-contact.
It was as if he were a ghost.
At the rear of the kitchen was the black door. Red Mask pushed through it. Almost immediately the smell of whisky found him. Mah-jong tiles rattled loudly, sounding like marbles dropping on granite. And there was cigar smoke, too. Thick and heavy.
Red Mask scanned the room. In the far corner, Kim Pham, ever the gracious host, was offering fine whiskies to the clientele. He was thirty, and dressed as he always was — in a white suit, with a white shirt, black tie, and a pair of gold wraparound sunglasses on his head. His oily black hair had blond tips.
When Kim Pham looked up, his eyes darkened. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ He grabbed two of his men. ‘Get him downstairs — and call the doctor. Be quick!’
Two men, dressed in suits as yellow as egg yolks, wrapped their arms around Red Mask’s waist and guided him with force towards the stairwell, which quickly descended into a long, dark tunnel.
Down, down, down they went.
And Red Mask let them sweep him away. His head was empty and light — a balloon rising out of reach. He was floating now. Floating far away. To that dark and horrible place where not even the spirits could reach him.
Twelve
Striker hurried out of the boys’ changing room and headed down the hall. As he went, he scanned the walls and ceiling for any closed-circuit television. Cameras didn’t take long to find. They were mounted high on every corner. They were old models — big black boxy things. Striker noticed that they didn’t pan down or follow him as he walked.
That was not good news.
Striker followed Ich and Felicia on their way towards the security room. Up ahead, he heard Laroche’s nasally tone, so he cut away through the assembly hall. Inside, the elevated stage was empty and looming, and the room had a haunted feel.
The scene before Striker shocked him. Drying smears of blood coloured the stage’s front, and a yellow Star Trek costume had been left behind. Its fabric was splattered with red and torn. The sight made Striker realise he had gotten it wrong: the shootings hadn’t started in the cafeteria, but somewhere down here — in the hall or auditorium. It had all been such a panic, the exact details were hard to pull from his memory.
He looked around.
High above, Striker saw another camera. This one was silver and grey. Smaller. A newer model than the ones in the hall. He needed to know what its eye had seen.
As he cut through the opposite doorway into the next hall, before the door had even swung closed, he felt someone bump into his chest. He didn’t have to look down to see the person’s face to know who it was. He noted the small stature of the man’s frame, and out of the corner of his eye, saw a glimmer of that unnatural black hair, gelled heavily back and patted down with perfection.
Deputy Chief Laroche.
‘Striker!’ he said.
Striker stopped walking and faced the man he had moments earlier tried to avoid.
The DC was five and a half feet tall and less than one hundred and fifty pounds. Small in comparison to the normal population; puny by police standards, where the average cop was five foot ten and an even two hundred pounds.
‘Sir,’ Striker acknowledged.
‘I’ve been looking for you — have you turned in your clothes?’
‘Of course.’
‘And your gun?’
Striker forced a grim smile. ‘I’m fine, sir, thanks for asking.’
The Deputy Chief furrowed his brow. ‘What?’
‘Just informing you of my well-being. I’m sure that was your primary concern. I mean, one of your officers being in a shootout and all.’ When the Deputy Chief didn’t respond, but just stood there, hands on his hips, chest pushed out for dramatic effect, Striker added, ‘I didn’t want the worry weighing too heavily on your mind right now, when you’ve got so many press conferences to attend. God knows, those have to be stressful.’
The Deputy Chief’s lips compressed into a straight line. He looked around, as if to see who else was present. Striker looked too. He saw a few Global TV cameras just outside the front entrance, where a smear of yellow police tape blocked access.
The Deputy Chief cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, Striker, it’s good. Good you’re unharmed. That was my first concern.’
‘Of course it was.’
When the Deputy Chief said no more, Striker looked back at Felicia, who stood beside the assembly-hall door. Her face was more strained now than it had been during the shootout.
‘Felicia is okay, too. In case you were wondering.’
The Deputy Chief stood there silently, letting the words digest.
‘Your gun, Striker,’ he finally said.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s being seized.’
‘That’s understood, sir. And you’ll have it once this incident is over.’
For a moment, the Deputy Chief said nothing. His eyes narrowed. Then: ‘It’s not a request, Detective Striker, it’s an order.’
Striker leaned forward, so that he was towering over the man. Leaned so close he could smell the oily sweetness of Laroche’s hair gel and the cigarette smoke on his breath.
‘Nice speech, sir,’ Striker said. ‘Now it’s my turn. First off, you’ve got my clothes, be happy with that. But you ain’t getting my gun — not until this incident is entirely over. And don’t bother spouting out any of that policy bullshit to me because safety supersedes policy — and what we have here is a legitimate safety concern.’
‘This is hardly-’
