‘You don’t need an invitation here.’ He swung his arm outwards to guide her into the den. Spotted the clock above the fireplace. Saw it was well past twelve. ‘Jesus, you’re still working?’ he asked.
‘Just the small stuff.’
‘You mean Laroche?’
She grimaced. ‘Hardy-har-har. Anyhow, I’m done for the night.’ She took off her jacket, threw it to Striker, who hung it on the coat-rack. ‘I was down at Ident with Noodles for the past hour. Poor guy looks like he’s gonna keel over any minute. He better lose some weight or he’s gonna have a heart-attack. I swear, he needs to think of his health once in a while.’
‘Speaking of which, you should be in bed.’
‘Is that an invitation?’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
She ran her fingers through her long hair, loosening it, then moved into his personal space. The humour left her eyes, and was replaced by the vulnerable look of honesty. ‘I was worried about you, Jacob.’
‘So you’re not here for my gun.’
She sighed. ‘Boy, you really know how to kill a moment.’
He raised his hands, palms forward, to signal he had no intention of arguing, then offered a quick apology. He led her into the living room, where he crashed down on the couch and beckoned her to join him. Felicia sat down at the end closest to the fireplace, where she basked in the heat.
‘Freezing out there.’
‘I’ll get you something.’ From the closet, Jacob grabbed a heavy wool blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. He then went to make them a couple glasses of rye with hot water and lemon.
In the kitchen, Striker put on the kettle, then took the bottle of Wiser’s from the cupboard and put it on the counter. When he went to open the fridge door to look for lemons, something distracted him. Stuck on the outside of the fridge door was a small yellow happy face. It was just one of the many junky trinkets Courtney had stuck up there — a magnetic picture clip holding a photo of Amanda from their last Christmas together; a scattering of magnetic letters, from which Courtney had spelled out BRITNEY; and this small round happy face.
Similar to the one they’d found in the stolen Honda Civic.
The magnet was weak, and it came away with little resistance. Striker rolled the happy face between his fingers, and knew he would have to see the stolen Honda Civic again. He put the magnet in his pocket, and the kettle began to whistle.
He finished making their drinks. When he returned to the living room, Felicia looked warmer and relaxed. He offered her one of the mugs and asked, ‘What were you helping Noodles with?’
She took the mug, cradling it between her fingers, relishing the heat. ‘Evidence log. And tagging. They found Black Mask’s machine gun, by the way.’
‘The AK-47? Where?’
‘Serving counter, I think. In the cafeteria. The Emergency Response Team had already seized it during their clear.’
‘Ballistics-’
Felicia held up a hand. ‘Already being done as we speak. Prints, swabs, ballistics — you name it. The amount of work is insane.’ She sipped her drink, licked her lips, and her eyes took on a faraway stare. ‘Funny, all my life I’ve wanted one of these calls, dreamed about being even a small part of an actual Active Shooter situation, and then — bang! — here I am, dead smack in the centre of it, and I just can’t wait for it to end.’
‘It burns you out.’
‘Like gasoline.’
Striker sipped his rye and lemon, gave her a hesitant stare, then looked down at his drink.
‘What?’ she asked.
He didn’t want to say it but had to. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure it’s over.’
‘Not this again.’
‘Yeah, I know, don’t go looking for zebras. I always knew Laroche was a clown, but funny, too? Wow, how lucky am I!’
‘Jacob-’
‘Hey, you asked, and all I’m doing is pointing out the facts. Some of them — a lot of them — don’t add up with these gunmen.’ He put his drink down on the table, then started counting off the problems on his fingers. ‘One, why disable the security system if they’re gonna be foolish enough to carry ID in their pockets? And for that matter, why would Red Mask — Raymond Leung — blow off Que Wong’s head and hands?’
‘To conceal his identity.’
‘Of course. But why do that if Wong is carrying ID? It doesn’t make any sense. And why do it if he was just going to run home and kill himself. If he’s on the run, why kill himself at all?’
Felicia shrugged. ‘Panic? Fear? Family embarrassment? A twisted sense of honour? Who knows. We’re not dealing with rational people here.’
‘But that’s point number two. You see, I think we are.’
Felicia grinned darkly over her drink. ‘You think an Active Shooter is rational?’
‘The purpose might be irrational, but the plan itself was put together on good logic. Don’t kid yourself, Felicia, it was solid. Think about the facts: what kind of car did they steal for their getaway? A 1994 Honda Civic. Dark green. Not only is it the most common stolen car on the road, but they picked the most common year and colour.’
‘Actually the Dodge Caravan is number one on the stolen list.’
‘Fine,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll give you that, the Civic is number two. But tell me this, which vehicle would you choose, knowing there was a chance of a police pursuit? A clunky old van that rolls a corner at fifty miles an hour, or a small sports car that can blend in anywhere?’ When Felicia didn’t respond, Striker asked her: ‘You think that’s a coincidence?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Okay, fine, I’ll give you that too. But what about point number three: the time of the shooting. Nine a.m., on the dot — the exact time when Alpha shift is on break. Only cars we had on the road out there were Bravo Shift, and because it was still early enough, no Charlie units had cleared. There couldn’t have been a better time for a weak police response.’
Felicia hedged. ‘The timing could boil down to pure luck.’
‘All right — but then what about point number four — and this is a big one: these pricks had gun-fighting skills. Pure and simple. They were good. And I still have a real problem believing the gunmen we were duelling with back there in the cafeteria were nothing but a group of disgruntled computer science kids. Kids with no criminal history. No police files. Christ, not even a firearms licence.’
‘I know it looks off, Jacob, almost ridiculous, but Columbine was the exact same.’
Striker let out a frustrated sound. ‘Then what about the calls made before the shooting started?’
‘What calls?’
‘Twenty minutes before the shooting started, there were two 911 calls placed from Oakridge Mall. Fake gun calls. Robberies. We sent five of our Bravo units up there to deal with it, so they were way out of the picture when the real shootings started. What do you call that? Just another coincidence?’
Felicia thought it over, then said, ‘It sounds well-planned, true. But that kind of thing happens all the time — even in the Skids. Look at all the drugged-out zombies that hang out on those streets. If they can do it, anyone can. God knows it doesn’t take a criminal mastermind to divert police resources.’
‘I know that, Felicia, but I’m not talking about these things on an individual basis; I’m talking about them collectively. When added up, the shootings appear to be more than luck and decent planning — they look like a hired hit.’
‘A hired hit? You mean pros?’
‘Yes, professionals. Or at the very least someone with some type of army experience. Like a disgruntled soldier come back from Afghanistan. Or a hired mercenary. Someone with real know-how.’
Felicia looked doubtful. ‘Why would a hired soldier be involved with Saint Patrick’s High School students?’
Striker put down his mug. ‘That’s a whole different issue. Despite what Laroche is telling people, we still
