they were going.
‘Comox Street.’
‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to Ich? The feed should be translated by now.’
‘Nope. The feed isn’t translated yet. I just talked to Ich before picking you up, and the translator Mosaic sent over couldn’t do it. Said it was some strange dialect, and that they’d be sending someone else.’
‘This is bullshit.’
‘You’re preaching to the choir, kid.’
Felicia looked at the tall skyscrapers that were slowly popping up, one by one, as the downtown core grew closer. ‘Why Comox Street?’
Striker stopped for a bus that was swinging out into the lane. ‘To see Anthony Gervais.’
‘You mean Chinese Tony?’
‘The one and only.’
‘Why him?’
‘The van we found on Gore and Pender — the one with Kieu and the two thugs inside — well, we got a partial print back on the steering column. Three guesses who it belongs to, and the first two don’t count.’
Felicia frowned, said nothing, sipped her latte.
‘What?’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘I’ve dealt with Chinese Tony a million times. He’s a maggot, that’s for sure, one of the worst property crime toads out there… but he isn’t a killer.’
‘I don’t know what he is,’ Striker said. ‘But I do know this — he’s got a condition not to be in any motor vehicle without the registered owner present, so he can have fun explaining how his prints got inside that van.’
‘You said it’s only a partial print — that’ll never hold up in court.’
Striker gave her a quick look. ‘He doesn’t know that.’
‘Maybe not, but he’s a tough little shit. Doubt he’ll talk.’
‘Then we revert to plan B.’
‘Plan B?’
‘Yeah. I know a dark secret about Chinese Tony most others don’t.’ Striker flashed her a nasty grin. ‘And at a time like this, I’m more than willing to use it.’
The sun was breaking through the tops of the Stanley Park trees as they drove down Comox Street and stopped in front of Hedgeford Estates. The apartment building was a twelve-storey, made of grey concrete slabs and black mirrored glass. The sunlight glinted off it.
Striker hated the place. It was a favourite abode of mid-level drug traffickers, and it pissed him off that a dial-a-doper like Chinese Tony could live here when he was collecting welfare — an amount which, on its own, couldn’t pay the rent.
‘His unit’s right there,’ Striker said, and pointed. ‘The side that flanks the walkway.’
The target suite was number 112, which meant the main floor, north-east side. The ground-floor location was no fluke; it gave Chinese Tony a quick escape exit when the cops or other enemies came around.
‘He’ll probably run,’ Felicia said.
‘I’m counting on it.’
‘You want the talk or the knock?’
He smiled. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’ll flip you for it.’
‘Seniority.’
‘You really gonna play that card again?’
‘Till the day I retire.’
Felicia frowned, then left for the building’s front entrance.
Striker waited just outside the patio doors to Chinese Tony’s apartment, hidden by a row of bushes. Behind him, a redbrick walkway circled the parking lot, turned north towards the tennis courts then trailed off into the lagoons of Stanley Park.
He watched the harsh fall winds blow leaves across the court. It was cold, but he left his long coat open for better manoeuvrability. He checked his watch. It was just after eight in the morning, and that was good. Chinese Tony would most likely be home. The prick did most of his crimes at night.
Striker waited for his cell to ring. It did. He picked up.
‘You set?’ Felicia asked.
‘Do the talk.’
‘Okay.’ He heard, ‘Police! Open up!’ And seconds later, the soft grating sound of the patio doors sliding open.
Striker peered through a break in the hedge and spotted the man they were after.
Chinese Tony was a white guy — he’d gotten the nickname from being the only white kid to hang with the Gum Wah Boyz way back in the late nineties. He was a scrawny little puke — always had been, but he’d grown even thinner since Striker had last seen him.
Using his own product, Striker knew. Common mistake.
Chinese Tony’s cheeks were sucked in, and his eyes were deep round hollows. New scars marked his face, the largest one trailing from his left eye and disappearing under his chin. His dark brown hair was shorter than before, cut jagged and bowl-like, real greasy. He wore the usual dirtbag attire — holey blue jeans and a black hoodie — and he came scrambling across the backyard patio like a cockroach running from the light. He crossed the yard, hopped the fence -
— and Striker nailed him in the chest with a hard elbow.
Chinese Tony went reeling backwards. He hit the gate, his legs gave out, and he collapsed. When he looked back up again, his eyes were cloudy.
‘What the fuck?’ he started.
‘Why you running from the police, Tony?’
‘Who the… Detective Striker?’
‘I’m touched you remembered.’ Striker grabbed the man’s arm and was surprised at the bone thinness. He flipped Tony over so that he was prone on the grass, then handcuffed him. When the cuffs were double-locked behind his back and Felicia came walking around the building into the common area, Striker hoisted him back up to his feet.
‘Why were you running from the police?’ he repeated.
‘I got no warrants.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I ain’t breachin’ nothing. Seen my PO just yesterday. So fuck you. You got nothing, man. Nothing.’
Striker grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, pulled him close, spoke quietly. ‘Listen up and listen hard, you little maggot. I got three dead bodies in a vehicle down on East Pender, and witnesses are pointing you out as the driver. I’d say that’s something.’
‘I was home.’
‘Did I even say when this happened?’
Chinese Tony licked his lips, said nothing.
‘Also, we got a couple prints off the steering wheel,’ Felicia added. ‘Good ones, too. Or else we wouldn’t be here wasting our time.’
‘I was sleeping, see? Ali K was here, too. He’ll tell you that.’
Striker looked at Felicia, and she smiled. The only person who could possibly be Chinese Tony’s alibi would also be the same person who had been the passenger in the stolen van.
Striker grinned. ‘Ali’s prints are in the vehicle, too, Einstein. Got any other stories you want to throw out there?’
Chinese Tony’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out.
Striker made a point of laughing. ‘Your story’s got more holes than a box of Cheerios.’ He tightened his grip on Tony’s hoodie, pulled him even closer. Whispered, ‘I don’t give two shits about the motor vehicle breach, got it? What I care about are the dead bodies.’
‘I already told you, I wasn’t even in no van.’
