Robbery, Assault, even DVACH, the Domestic Violence and Criminal Harassment section. They were sent to assist the gang squads with anything required, no matter how important or trivial the task.
The entire Department was on high alert, as were all the surrounding areas — New Westminster, West Van, Port Moody, Abbotsford and the RCMP. All were geared towards the same goal: finding Shen Sun Soone. He was arrestable for murder on multiple counts, and considered the highest level of threat. Flagged as a possible suicide- by-cop, because there was little doubt he intended to have police kill him in a gunfight.
Like leaves caught in a whirlpool, the thoughts circulated in Striker’s head. He drove past First Avenue and the Fire Hall came into view.
Fire Hall Eleven was located on Victoria Drive, just east of Commercial. Situated north of McSpadden Park, it was shrouded by the darkness of the forest overhang. When Striker pulled into the driveway, at just before six o’clock, the only light chasing away the charcoal greyness was that of the car’s headlights and the hall itself.
Striker parked in front of Bay Three and walked inside.
Fire Chief Brady Marshall was dressed in a creased white shirt. He looked like an average guy, five foot ten and maybe two hundred pounds. A bit of a belly. Harsh blue eyes that were partly hidden behind bushy grey eyebrows. He sat behind a large desk that was so clean it looked polished with wax. A half-empty bottle of apricot brandy sat on the desk in front of him.
Striker pointed at it. ‘I thought rum was your drink of choice.’
Brady smiled behind his walrus moustache. ‘It is, and it’s gone.’
‘We’d get fired for that,’ Felicia said.
‘So would we — if anyone knew.’
Brady let out a boisterous laugh and waved Striker and Felicia closer. His cheeks were ruddy, as if he’d been out shovelling snow all day.
‘I got the folder you wanted,’ he said. ‘Though I’ll tell you, it was a bit of work. Thing got filed in the wrong place.’ Brady reached into the drawer, pulled out a thick green file. He met Striker’s eyes, looked truly concerned. ‘Any luck out there?’
‘Yeah, all bad,’ Striker said tiredly. ‘We know the gunman’s identity, but we can’t locate him.’ He stopped talking for a second and looked at Felicia. She was standing there, playing with her phone. She flipped it closed, looked up.
‘This is my partner,’ Striker said. ‘Detective Santos.’
‘My pleasure,’ Brady said. He didn’t stand, but he did reach out and shake her hand.
‘Likewise,’ was all Felicia said.
Then Striker got down to business. ‘So what can you tell me about this Pandora Street fire?’ he asked.
Brady shrugged. ‘Kind of what you’d expect. Typical Suspicious Circumstance call that turned into an Arson. I’ve given the report a quick read. It’s not overly detailed, but it’s not lacking either.’ He flipped through the pages. ‘Why you so interested in this anyway?’
‘I think it’s somehow related.’ Striker circled the desk, looked over Brady’s rounded shoulders. ‘What are the specifics?’
Brady ran his finger down the page. ‘Accelerants were used, which is typical. White gas, most likely.’
Striker thought it over. ‘How long it take for your units to respond?’
‘We were on scene in less than ten minutes from the time the call was made.’
‘That about right?’
‘Depends on the night, but yeah.’ Brady picked up his coffee cup, snagged the bottle of brandy, and poured some into it. Striker could smell the booze. When Brady looked back up at Felicia, he smiled.
‘On my time now,’ he said in his defence. He offered them some, and they both declined.
Striker took the report from Brady’s hands and flipped through it until he reached a page with a header that read: Pertinent Structure Details. Reading through it, he found some interesting details.
‘Says here something about stasis-foam being used…’
Brady finished sipping his apricot brandy and made a smacking sound with his lips. He wiped his hand under his overgrown moustache and nodded. ‘Yeah, we lucked out on that one. The fire was going good when we got there — a real beast — but, thankfully, the house was filled with that stuff.’
‘Stuff?’ Felicia interrupted. ‘What exactly is stasis-foam?’
Brady looked up at her. ‘Well, essentially, it’s just insulation. But it’s a high-end quality product — kind of like a flexible, mouldable foam. We don’t see a lot of it, since it’s cost-prohibitive. Used mainly in high-friction areas where heat might be a factor.’
Striker noted this. ‘Such as?’
‘Well, hot machinery, for one. Super computers, too, because it’s also a fire-retardant.’
Striker flipped through the rest of the pages, then closed the folder and sat down on the desk. The entire structure squeaked and moved beneath his weight. He looked at Brady for a long moment, then asked, ‘You seen any other houses with this stuff?’
‘Not many. Like I said, it’s expensive. ’Bout ten times the cost of regular insulation. And not all that easy to get here in Canada. You got to order it in from the States, so you get stuck with the extra shipping costs as well.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Striker held up the report. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘Sure.’ Brady raised his cup. ‘It’s a copy. But make sure you destroy it when you’re done.’
‘Thanks, Brady. It helps.’
‘Just find this fuck.’
Striker nodded. He and Felicia left the fire hall the way they’d come and hopped back in their cruiser. When Striker started the engine and drove onto Victoria Drive, he headed north this time, and Felicia gave him a questioning glance.
‘Where we going?’ she asked.
‘To where this entire nightmare started.’
She furrowed her brow. ‘But Saint Patrick’s High is west of here.’
‘We’re not going to the school,’ Striker said. ‘We’re going to that house on Pandora Street. All the answers are there.’
Eighty-One
Shen Sun hung up the pay phone. This was the third time he had called Father, but he was not home. Which meant he was at either the Chinese Society Social Club on Pender or playing Mah-jong somewhere in Strathcona.
His absence put Shen Sun at a disadvantage.
He slammed down the receiver and turned away just in time to see a patrol car drive by. Inside the cruiser were two young cops — a man and a woman. The woman cop gave him a long, hard look, said something to her partner, and the car immediately turned at the corner.
Circling the block.
Shen Sun cut into the north lane. His head felt swollen from fever and his legs moved like a pair of rubbery stilts. He passed through the industrial section to Raymur Street, below the overpass, where the she-males and transsexuals plied their trade. This was the so-called bad area, a place of drugs and sex and violence. Yet it was also a good place. A lot of honest hard-working people lived here. Poor people.
Like Father.
Shen Sun crossed the road and hurried across the train tracks, under the cover of shadow. On the other side of the gravel path, the ground swept upwards. It was steep, but Shen Sun climbed it. At the top, he followed the bush line a few hundred metres south to a small hollow. He crept inside. From this vantage point, he could see the valley below — the train tracks, Raymur Street and, most importantly, Father’s small town home.
Everything appeared calm.
Father’s unit faced onto Raymur Street. The front door was closed, the drapes were open. However, the living-room light was on, which was disturbing, because Father had grown up poor. Lost electricity was lost money.
