‘Oh come on, you eat two pastries and two fancy lattes every day, what could this hurt?’
She made a face, but reached for the bag.
As they continued down Broadway, Striker pulled out his cell and noticed he had a missed call from Janet Jacobson, the former Vancouver Vice cop who had now moved on to greener pastures. He called her back but the line was busy and he didn’t leave a message. They drove towards the industrial section where Triple A Autobody was located.
Sheldon Clayfield’s business.
Felicia pulled out the Filet-O-Fish. ‘So fill me in again, who is this Clayfield guy?’
Striker swallowed a mouthful, then wiped a smear of Big Mac sauce from his lips. ‘Clayfield is one of the five guys Meathead told us about. I’ve narrowed it down to two who work in the Lower Mainland that are even capable of making a hidden compartment like that. Clayfield’s got a history of it, and a long list of other shit for drug running. He made a real good compartment for a drug trafficker last year, and was caught by Drugs. They dropped the charge for information. And I got word of another one he made six months before that. It gives us leverage.’
‘Great. What about the other guy?’
‘His name is Chris Simmons. Works out in the Valley, on the border of Mission. Remember Janet Jacobson — used to work in Vice? — she transferred out to Abbotsford a few months back. I contacted her back at the office, when you were setting things up with the parents. She’s checking Simmons out for us, but Clayfield is ours. Run him on the computer and bring up his associates.’
Felicia nodded and typed in his name as Striker drove north on Knight Street. After a few blocks, she made a frustrated sound.
‘This guy’s got over a hundred associates in here,’ she said.
‘See which ones are listed under Triple A Autobody. It’s Clayton’s shop. They will be our connection to Clayfield and the Honda.’
She did. ‘Okay. Got eight now. Place must be a chop shop.’
‘That, and a whole lot more.’
They got stuck at a red. Striker cursed softly under his breath, grabbed his own coffee which sat unchecked in the drink holder. It was still hot.
‘Check out the Intels of every associate,’ he said. ‘See if any of these guys have been linked to other modified vehicles.’
Felicia scanned through the reports, read for a while in silence. By the time the light turned green, she found what she was looking for. ‘Okay. We got two guys here with a whole lot of history. Tony Rifanzi, and a guy named Ricky Lomar.’
Striker had never heard of either of them.
‘What work have they done?’ he asked.
She read on. ‘Lomar’s done a lot of compartments, some in the dashboard, some under the seats, and some in the floorboard and wheel-wells. Always drugs though.’
‘And Rifanzi?’
‘Same. Just a lot less.’
‘He’s done a lot less, or he’s been caught a lot less?’
‘Good point.’ Felicia clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. ‘Looks like Rifanzi’s work is a higher level. He’s been suspected of using hydraulics and electronics in the past; Lomar’s stuff has always been lever activated, somewhere in the car.’
Striker said nothing, he just let this information digest.
His cell phone rang and he snatched it off his belt, hoping it was Courtney. The display told him otherwise. It was Janet Jacobson. He answered, listened for less than a minute, then thanked her and hung up.
‘Well?’ Felicia asked.
‘Turns out Simmons has been under surveillance for the better part of three weeks on unrelated matters. He’s out. That leaves only Clayfield.’
They had reached East Hastings Street, only three blocks from their destination, when Felicia made an oh- shit sound as she finished reading through the reports. ‘We’ve hit a snag here,’ she said. ‘Rifanzi’s actually on the jail slate. Been in there since late last night.’
Striker thought it over. ‘For what?’
‘Fight at a strip club — the Number Five Orange. Assault Causing Bodily Harm.’ She skimmed the electronic pages. ‘Report says he was pretty coked up. Christ, another friggin’ investigative dead end.’
Striker stopped the car on the north side of Franklin Street, the 1500 block. Triple A Autobody was only a half block away.
‘Dead end nothing,’ he said. ‘He’s just given us a pass into the fast lane.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Striker grinned. ‘Watch and learn, my young apprentice. Watch and learn.’
Thirty-Eight
There was nothing special about Triple A Autobody. It was just a two-bay garage with two hoists per lane. Three guys were working inside, one black, two East Indian. All of them were tattooed and beefy. Hardliners. Each one of them gave Striker and Felicia a sideways look as they walked in through the back bay door and poked their heads around.
‘Place smells like motor oil and freshly-smoked pot,’ Striker said loudly. ‘A Workers Compensation Board no- no.’
Without a word, the black guy put down the tire he was holding, turned and walked into the back office.
Striker gave Felicia a wink. ‘He must be getting us the welcome mat.’
A small smile broke her tight lips, and it made him feel good.
‘Or the red carpet,’ she added.
Striker grinned.
A tall guy with thinning white hair came out of the office. His build was skinny, but his gut was huge — a big distended belly, like he had cancer or a tapeworm or something. He was stomping more than walking, and his hands were balled into fists. He wasn’t even halfway across the garage before he said, ‘This is private property. What the hell do you want?’
Striker didn’t respond. He just stood there and waited for the man to get close enough so that he wouldn’t have to raise his voice. When the man was a few feet away, Striker recognised him from the mug-shots. It was Sheldon Clayfield all right, but he had aged badly since the photo was taken. His thinning hair was now pure white — and not a healthy white either, but an I-shat-my-pants-one-too-many-times white — and the lines in his face were deeper than some canyons.
‘Sheldon Clayfield?’ Felicia asked.
‘You know it is.’
‘Somewhere we can talk?’
The man placed his hands on his hips, making his large gut look more pronounced. ‘Here’s as good a place as any.’
Before Striker could reply, a customer walked through the front door. Striker grinned. ‘You sure about that, Clayfield? Involves stolen cars, dead children, and a few rather sensitive names.’
The words knocked the tough look off Clayfield’s face and he blinked. Just a second really, but that was all it took.
Striker knew they had something here.
‘Office,’ Clayfield finally grunted. ‘No point in disrupting my workers.’
He turned around and walked away with far less attitude than he’d come out with. Felicia and Striker followed. Clayfield ushered them inside, said he had to deal with the customer first, then left.
Striker listened to their conversation as they waited. He also looked around the office.
It was small, had no windows, and stank of stale cigarettes and old coffee. One desk and three chairs filled
