The location alone made Sheldon Clayfield Target One.
Striker signed onto CABS — the Criminal Automated Booking System — and punched in the name, bringing up Clayfield’s mug-shot. Staring back at him was a thin, pallid man, pushing well into his fifties. He had deep lines under his eyes and around his mouth that looked well earned by hard times. His dyed black hair was swept up on both sides like a pair of falcon wings — a ridiculous attempt to cover his bald spot.
‘Who’s that?’
Striker craned his neck and saw that Felicia had come up behind him.
‘Hopefully, he’s the man who rigged our stolen car.’ Striker rubbed his hands over his face, felt his blood pressure rising.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘There’s just… a lot.’
‘You need to relax.’
He laughed. ‘How can I? We got too many things going in too many directions. It’s like a bag of marbles someone dropped, each one rolling where it’s gonna roll.’
‘And we’ll work through them.’
Her calmness bugged him, and he wondered if maybe she didn’t see it all. He started counting off the problems on his fingers. ‘One, we got a headless gunman and we don’t even know his identity. Two, we got tattoos on White Mask we can’t define. Three, we got three kids we know were targeted more than the others, and we don’t know why. Four, we got someone out there who made a hidden compartment for these pricks, and we haven’t found him yet. And five, we still haven’t even heard the audio from the school feed yet because of goddam Laroche’s interfering. And all that doesn’t even include Red Mask. We have no idea where he is or when he’ll strike next.’
‘At this point, we still don’t know that Red Mask wasn’t Leung.’
‘Raymond Leung is not Red Mask, Feleesh. I know it.’
Felicia’s face relaxed for the first time that morning. She smiled and gently brushed her fingers through his hair.
‘It’s your second day back, Jacob.’
‘I know that.’
‘Relax. Or you’ll end up back on stress leave.’
He looked around the room and felt tired. Hard to believe this was only the beginning. ‘We’re falling deeper and deeper into a hole here, Felicia.’
‘It’s an investigation, remember? One thing at a time. And right now it’s ten o’ clock.’
‘So?’
‘So let’s get going,’ she said. She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘We got some parents to meet.’
The words hit Striker like a hammer.
Meeting with the parents — it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Talking to them was going to be as hard as the shootout with Red Mask.
Thirty-Five
They had to drive by the school, which was a bad idea as far as Striker was concerned. Too many memories were still raw, and there were too many questions to answer. As if to shove this fact in his face, a horde of camera crews sat outside the front of the school, like spiders lurking in their webs. They were filming the mass of flowers and cards and baskets spread out all over the front lawn, where a makeshift memorial had been set up to honour the dead. Streams of people were out front, most of them still looking around in numb disbelief.
Striker eyed them all with a dark foreboding. ‘You recognise any?’ he asked.
Felicia shook her head. ‘Nope.’
‘Good.’ He drove on by the crowds towards the Chow house. ‘How many of the parents we meeting?’
‘Two.’
‘Just two? Where are the rest?’
Felicia pulled out her notebook to get the names right. ‘Conrad MacMillan, the Grade Eight kid that was killed, his parents are Archibald and Margaret. Archie’s on his way back from Scotland as we speak. He was over there dealing with an ailing father when all this happened.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yeah, welcome home. So just Margaret’s coming down.’ She read on. ‘William and Stefana are Chantelle O’Riley’s parents. They were all prepared to meet with us till Stefana had a meltdown. William was already on his way over, but he turned around to deal with her. Called back and said it was too soon, said they needed some time. A day or two, at least.’
‘And what about Tina Chow’s parents?’ Striker said the words with unease. Courtney had known Tina and Conrad.
And so had he.
Felicia cleared her throat. ‘Parents are Stanley and Doris Chow. Stanley’s taken their youngest child away from all this, so we’re just meeting with Doris.’
‘Three dead kids, two parents. Christ.’
‘There were other kids shot too, Jacob. Twenty-two dead, and the injured count is still unreported. We can talk to their parents too, if need be.’
He shook his head. ‘Not at this point. The others were random. We’ll see what we can find here first.’
They drove quickly past the school, turned right at the next corner and cruised along Hemlock Glen. They soon spotted a white two-storey with a white picket fence to match. Out front were two black Mercedes. It was the Chow house. Two women stood beside the backyard gate. One was Asian, the other white. Both were standing there as still as lawn furniture. Not talking. Not really doing anything. Just staring off into space.
The Asian lady blinked out of her stupor and held up a hand.
‘That’s them,’ Felicia said.
Striker pulled over. The half-frozen gravel crunched beneath the car’s tires. He stopped, turned off the ignition, then looked at Felicia.
‘You go with Margaret MacMillan, I’ll take Doris Chow. We’ll compare notes later.’
She nodded her agreement. ‘Focus on the Debate Club.’
‘Debate Club?’
‘I know it sounds odd, but after talking to Caroline and some of the teachers, it’s the only link I can come up with. Chantelle O’Riley and Tina Chow were in Grade Ten, but by all accounts they never spoke to one another outside of class, and they hung out in completely different social circles. As for Conrad MacMillan, he was in Grade Eight and didn’t talk to any of them — except for in the Debate Club. Conrad and Chantelle and Tina all belonged to it: so far, it’s the only connection we have between the three.’
Striker thought this over as he undid his seatbelt. ‘You ready?’ he asked.
‘No, but when has that ever mattered?’ She opened up the door and got out.
Striker followed, feeling sick to his stomach. He had no idea what to say to the women.
While Felicia and Margaret MacMillan walked down the bark mulch path to the east side of the house, Striker steered Doris Chow southward into the garden. He had never met Tina’s mother before but could immediately see the resemblance.
Doris was small, five foot at best. Thin, too. But not a lightweight. She looked strong and wiry, in good shape for a forty-ish woman. Her hair was naturally black, though it had a burgundy tint. It was swept back into a ponytail, held in place by a lime green scrunchie that stuck out against her hair and purple jogging suit. She wore no make- up, so the lines under her eyes and around her mouth gave away her true age, but she got away with it because she was naturally good-looking.
They walked on, talked.
Striker took his time with her. They discussed the little things first. The unimportant matters: how long she
