Dunbar school, the Shadow Dragon gangsters, and the Khmer Rouge war which was thirty years over and two thousand miles away.
He found none. Their best lead now was Patricia Kwan — who lay unconscious in the hospital. Doctor or no doctor, weak or strong, it did not matter. Patricia Kwan was the only chance they had of finding her missing daughter.
She would have to be woken up again.
‘Saint Paul’s,’ Striker said. ‘You drive.’
They switched places, and Felicia drove west on First Avenue. As they went, Striker logged onto the laptop, then initiated PRIME, the report programme all the municipal forces had adopted ten years earlier. Every Patrol call written was in this database, and it was one more check box on his list.
Felicia switched to the fast lane, looked over at him. ‘Any theories?’
Striker pulled out his notebook and set it down on his lap. ‘I’m running every damn name we got through the patrol database. See if we can get even a weak connection. Right now I’d be happy with anything.’
Striker got to work. He typed in the names of all four kids involved — the ones that were known targets: Conrad MacMillan, Chantelle O’Riley, Tina Chow, and the still-missing Riku Kwan. A few minutes later, he deflated.
‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Jesus Christ, not a one.’
Felicia looked over. ‘What do you mean, not one?’
‘I mean they’re not even in the system as entities. Goddam zilch.’
It was frustrating. Not one of the kids had a youth record, or any criminal history in any of the information systems. Not one was even listed as a Witness or a Property Rep, or even a Person of Interest, much less a Suspect Chargeable. The closest matches Striker could find were Patricia Kwan and Archibald MacMillan — the parents of Riku and Conrad. Kwan, as they now knew, was a Vancouver cop. Her entity was automatically entered into the system upon hire date. And Archibald MacMillan was a fireman, so he was listed the same way.
Striker told this to Felicia.
‘What hall is Archie at?’ she asked.
Striker scoured through the report. ‘Hall Eleven. Got a notation here in the remarks field — says he’s specialised. HAZMAT.’ Striker looked over at Felicia. ‘They deal with chemical spills, explosive substances, meth labs, unknown terrorist devices — all that shit.’
Felicia turned south on Main. ‘I know what HAZMAT is, Striker. Christ Almighty, how junior do you think I am?’
‘Stands for Hazardous Materials.’
She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You’re such a shit. Any of the other parents come up?’
He focused back on the computer screen, scanned through the electronic pages. ‘No, not that I can see. The only Chows listed are all low scores, and there isn’t even an O’Riley on file.’ He used the touch-pad to close the extra windows, bringing him back to his original request of Archibald MacMillan. ‘Interesting though. Hall Eleven is at Victoria and Second — that’s District Two.’
‘What’s interesting about that?’
‘Both Archibald MacMillan and Patricia Kwan work in District Two, yet they live in Dunbar. And both their kids go to the same school.’
Felicia shrugged as if to say, So? ‘A lot of cops and firemen live in Dunbar,’ she said. ‘It’s a good family place. Try to cross reference them.’
Striker read through their histories. There was a lot.
Patricia Kwan had written over two hundred calls the past year. Pretty standard for a patrol cop. Everything from Break amp; Enters to Homicides. Archibald MacMillan had been to sixty-three calls, most of which were gas leaks and car accidents.
Striker cross-referenced their names. ‘Interesting…’ he said.
‘What you got?’ Felicia asked.
‘Nothing astounding, but they’ve only been to one call together. Just a few months back, in fact. A house on Pandora Street, Seventeen Hundred block.’
‘That’s the industrial area,’ Felicia noted. ‘What kind of file is it?’
He clicked on the link and waited until the incident number popped up.
‘Okay, there’s actually two calls here,’ he said, ‘and they’re linked. First one came in as a Suspicious Circumstance, then later the same night, it was linked to an Arson call at the same address.’ He queried the number and got back a generic CAD call with only the address and time listed. There was nothing in the remarks field. Not even a name. Frustrated, he ran the incident number for a report and got back a three-word message.
‘Event Not Found,’ he said. Meaning it was either non-existent or locked for security reasons.
‘Any badge number associated?’ Felicia asked.
‘Nothing.’
Striker called Info, asked if they could bring up the report. But the same message came back to them as well. Irritated, he closed the CAD call.
‘I want to see that house on Pandora,’ he said.
‘It’ll have to wait,’ Felicia told him. ‘We’re here.’
Striker looked up from the laptop screen and saw the tall steel gates and old red brick of the hospital before him.
They had reached St Paul’s.
Sixty-Nine
Red Mask stood in the east wing of St Paul’s Hospital and looked through the windowed door that led into the Critical Care Unit. In there was Patricia Kwan.
His next target.
He was dressed in janitor’s clothes, which he’d taken off the old man he’d killed in the next wing. He also wore latex gloves — so he would leave no prints — and a gown overtop his clothing. With only one good arm, the baggy gown hampered him in reaching his pistol, but the uniform was necessary to enter the CCU. So he left the back straps loose.
It was the best he could do.
On the other side of the doorway, Patricia Kwan’s room was under guard. Red Mask had expected no different. A young cop, about twenty-five years old, leaned on the doorframe. He looked bored. With the exception of the nurses and orderlies who roamed the walkways, no one else was around.
And this was to Red Mask’s benefit.
He carried the jar and duct tape in his left hand. The weight of his tools was not much, minimal really, but the stress it put on his shoulder was alarming. He closed his mind to the pain and focused on the task at hand.
In his right hand, he carried a small oxygen tank, one he’d stolen from the cancer ward. He had taken two of them, and purposely left one by the CCU entrance doors. The tanks were pressurised and heavy, about thirty pounds.
It would be more than enough.
He waited patiently for the nurse to leave, then swiped the keypad with the janitor’s access card and entered the Critical Care Unit. He looked at nothing as he made his way down the corridor, just kept his eyes straight ahead, as if he were a tired man finishing his shift. When he neared the cop, he glanced left. Saw that the man wasn’t paying attention.
It was the only opening he needed.
Mustering as much strength as his shoulder would allow, he swung the oxygen canister; the cop spotted the movement and raised his arms — but the reaction came far too late. The oxygen tank impacted with his face, smashing his head into the door and breaking his nose. He dropped to the floor, as limp as rice noodles.
Red Mask took no chances. He drove the tank into the cop’s face one more time, then opened up Patricia
