by Sean Slater
It was her standard response.
Lately, everywhere he turned there were problems. Even the good things felt hard. And he was tired of it. He didn’t need any more stress put on his shoulders. And dredging up the memories of Amanda’s depression and suicide would only make matters worse.
He was avoiding all that. Purposefully.
Felicia suddenly made an Ohhh sound and seemed to catch on. ‘My God, Jacob, I’m sorry – I never even realized.’
He looked at her, confused. ‘Realized what?’
‘This. I mean, here we are at a suicide, and the woman has almost the same name as your wife. Mandy. Kinda like Amanda. I’m sorry, I should have known. I never even thought—’
‘You’re reaching here, Feleesh. And for the record, Amanda died a long time ago.’
‘What does that matter? My God, if I’d realized—’
‘A long time ago, Feleesh.’
She gave him an uncertain look, like she wasn’t sure which way to take the conversation. In the end, she kept quiet. The passenger window was still fogged up, so she took a moment to power the window down and up. When it remained fogged, she wiped away the condensation with her hand. Afterwards, she turned in her seat and met his stare once more. She spoke softly.
‘Maybe you should see Larisa one more time.’
Striker groaned. ‘Oh Jesus, not you, too. Leave it be, Feleesh.’
‘I’m just saying—’
‘You’re always just saying something. Serious. Just let it go for once, will ya? Let this one ride.’
Felicia’s eyes narrowed at the comment, and for a moment she looked ready for a fight. She tucked her long dark hair back over her ear and her mouth opened like she was ready to say more.
Striker looked away from her. He was in no mood for small talk or bullshit. And in even less of a mood for arguing.
DNA tests needed to be done.
Eleven
Before Striker could put the car into gear, the bright glare of headlights caught his eye. When he looked over into the centre of the street, he saw two men with video cameras and one woman with long blonde hair holding a microphone in front of a white media van.
The evening news.
‘Jesus, they’re here already?’ he griped.
Felicia sighed. ‘They must’ve seen the police lights and the dog track.’
‘Just say nothing and get in the car.’
Striker powered down the driver’s side window. The blonde woman took notice and hurried over, almost slipping in her high heels.
‘Detective Striker. Detective Striker!’ she called.
‘No comment,’ he said politely.
He tried to show no emotion. But it was hard. There was no doubt in his mind that he and Felicia would now be on the local news tonight, and that irritated him.
Felicia shook her head as she looked at the news crew. ‘Must be a slow night,’ she noted.
‘For them,’ Striker replied. ‘For us, it’s about to get busy.’
He put the car into Drive and pulled out on to the road. The lab was waiting.
For the first few minutes of the drive, silence filled the car. Felicia was reading through Mandy Gill’s long and troubled history, and Striker had taken a handful of aspirin to get rid of the headache that was growing behind his eyes. When they reached the corner of Clark and Broadway, Felicia looked up, confused.
‘Why are we going this way?’ she asked. ‘The lab is south.’
Striker said nothing as he navigated around a parked bus and continued west.
‘Jacob?’ she persisted.
He glanced over at her. ‘Using the police lab will take months,’ he explained. ‘Weeks, in fact, even if we could put a rush order on it. No, we’re going private on this one.’
‘Private? You know how much that costs.’
‘Don’t worry, I got it covered.’
‘You got it covered? Like, personally?’ When he didn’t answer right away, her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you up to now? How are we going to pay for this?’
‘Contingency fund.’
She gave him one of her probing looks, and Striker felt her hot black eyes bore into him. He ignored the feeling and pretended to be oblivious – like he always did when trying to avoid a discussion with Felicia.
They continued on to their destination, swerving in and out of the seven o’clock lingering rush-hour grind. When they reached the fifteen hundred block of West Broadway Avenue, Striker pulled over to the north side of the road and stopped in a No Parking Zone. He threw a Vancouver Police placard on the dashboard.
Above the Chapters book store, GeneTrace Laboratories occupied the top two floors of the Bosner Tower, a ten-storey, glass-and-steel monstrosity that took up the entire southwest corner of the Granville–Broadway intersection. The windows were all tinted black, and the moon and car lights reflected off the glass panes in a display that looked eerily festive.
Striker had been here before.
Many times.
Obtaining DNA results was an arduous and painful process if you went through the proper channels. The police lab was a nightmare – great technicians with no support. Wait times could be as long as two years, sometimes even three, if the crime was only a property-related offence.
With the private labs, a complete test with 16-loci quality could be attained in as little as seven days. Less, if the customer was willing to buck up. Private was always the best way to go. And as far as Striker was concerned, GeneTrace was the cream of the crop; they had state-of-the-art facilities and the latest, ground-breaking technology. All of which the customer paid for – and paid dearly.
‘What contingency fund?’ Felicia asked.
Striker just gave her one of his trademark smiles and opened the car door.
‘Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to.’
He grabbed the paper bag with the glove in it from the trunk, turned around, and marched across the street to the Bosner Tower.
Being just after seven, they had plenty of time. GeneTrace Laboratories was open until ten, though Striker often made arrangements for after-hours drops. The owners of GeneTrace were good businessmen.
And cops got preferential treatment.
Inside, the waiting area looked more like a trendy cappuccino shop than a science laboratory. Black leather Casa Nova sofas, white marble floors, and stone-and-glass coffee tables were the norm. Standing tall in the centre of the foyer was a hand-etched sculpture of a pair of chromosomes, made from transparent glass. Behind that was a thick granite countertop, on which stood several black leather folders, which looked more like fancy menus at a five-star restaurant than catalogues for DNA testing.
Felicia walked ahead and picked one up.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘They do everything here from paternity tests to mitochondrial DNA.’ Her eyes turned to the price list and her brow lifted. ‘For this kind of dough, they should at least offer us a martini while we wait.’
Striker grinned. ‘Martini? Hell, they should offer us lines.’
He’d barely finished speaking when the front-desk clerk returned. He walked, almost stork-like, in huge awkward strides with his head bobbing forward with each step; Striker half expected the man to preen himself. His face was thin, and it looked disarmingly young behind the glasses he wore. When he spoke, his voice was high. Fluttery.
‘Good evening. Welcome to GeneTrace. How can I help you?’
Striker approached the counter and badged the young man – an action which seemed to leave no impression on the young clerk – then dropped the brown paper bag with the glove in it and the brown paper bag with the glass shard in it on the granite countertop and met the man’s stare.
‘Vancouver Police,’ he said. ‘We need DNA on this glove. And anything you can do with this glass shard – there’s a leather strip on it we think is from the glove. We’ll need it matched.’
‘That’s not a problem.’
‘We need it done fast.’
&nbs
p; ‘That is also not a problem.’ He spoke with an air of arrogance.
Without another word, the clerk pulled a form and a pen from beneath the counter and handed it to them. When Striker accepted the form and began filling out the necessary details – type of test required; suspected location of DNA on the item procured; and all the necessary contact numbers – the clerk cleared his throat.
‘And do you have a suspect comparison sample?’ he asked.
Striker shook his head. ‘We want the results run through the DNA Databank. See if there’s any Known Offender hits.’ He met the man’s stare. ‘And we want the results in less than forty-eight hours.’
The clerk frowned. ‘I said fast was not a problem, not light speed.’
‘This is important.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ the man said, and that arrogance was back. ‘Unfortunately, the lab is extremely backed up right now – we’ve been tasked with assisting the Pickton investigation. So even with a rush, it’s going to take some time.’
‘Like I said, we need them fast.’
The clerk’s face took on a distant, detached look, as if this was a line of questioning he was all too used to. When he spoke again, his speech sounded prepared and overused. ‘This is DNA we’re talking about, Detectives, not fingerprints. The culture has to be grown.’
Striker put on his best smile. ‘So it’s not like CSI ?’
The clerk’s face tightened for a moment, then lost the frown. A grin spread his lips and he let out a small laugh.
‘Expect four days,’ he said. ‘Three at the minimum. But leave the sample with me and I’ll see what I can work out with the lab people. Forty-eight hours seems quite unlikely at this point in time, but you never know.’
Striker cast Felicia a glance. After she nodded, Striker turned back to face the clerk. ‘Thanks. We really appreciate your assistance with this.’ He shook the clerk’s hand, then handed him a business card and wrote his personal cell number on it. ‘Call me the moment you know. Night or day.’
‘Of course.’
The clerk rubbed his nose and read through the DNA form, making sure all the boxes were properly filled out and checked. When he reached the bottom of the page, he looked up and met Striker’s stare.
‘And what authorization number should I use?’ he asked.
Striker didn’t hesitate. ‘Eleven thirteen.’
He saw Felicia flinch at the mention of the badge number, but he paid her no heed. Seconds later, when the clerk excused himself to print up the proper labels for the sample and grab one of the Time Continuity forms the police required, Felicia rushed up to the counter and elbowed Striker.
‘What the hell is wrong with you? That’s Laroche’s number.’
Striker shrugged. ‘Has to be. With a bill this big, only an inspector can sign off on it.’
‘But he didn’t sign off on it – we haven’t even spoken to him yet.’
Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? I must’ve been mistaken then, because I could’ve sworn you told me he’d given us authorization.’
Her reply was cold. ‘No. I didn’t.’
‘Hmm. Must’ve misheard you then.’
‘Jacob—’
‘We really need to communicate better in the future.’ When her cold look remained fixed on him, he added, ‘Just be happy he took the badge number. Otherwise we would’ve had to use Plan B.’
‘Plan B?’
‘You would’ve had to sleep with him.’ When she didn’t laugh and her glare remained the same, Striker splayed his hands in surrender. ‘Come on, Feleesh. It’ll be fine. Trust me.’
She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve heard that one before, Jacob. You’re going to get us suspended.’
He stopped leaning on the counter and turned to face her. ‘That won’t happen. And besides, you know how it works around here – you honestly think Laroche is going to authorize private funding when all we got right now is circumstantial evidence? Lots of luck.’
‘That’s exactly my point.’
‘Well, whatever happens, I’ll wear it. As far as I’m concerned, I thought he had approved this. Whoops. My mistake.’
‘Let’s just get the hell out of here,’ she said.
‘We can’t go just yet. He needs me to sign the continuity form,’ Striker said.
Felicia just gave him one of her sharp looks before turning away. She shook her head, brushed her long dark hair over her shoulder, and focused on the gigantic painting on the far wall – a recreation of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam, except in this painting, Adam wasn’t touching God, he was touching a spiralling strand of DNA.
Striker watched Felicia from behind, feeling the cold shoulder she was giving him. It was all right; she had reason to. He completely understood that. What he was doing could get them into major shit. Yet again. And sooner or later, a suspension was bound to happen. Lately, he’d been cutting more corners than a Vancouver taxi driver. But he couldn’t help it.
That was the only way things ever got done around here.
He was just about to force some conversation with Felicia – try to smooth things out a little – when his cell went off. He whipped it out, read the screen and saw Mike Rothschild’s name. He picked up.
‘Sergeant,’ Striker said.
‘Hey, Snow White, how’s life in the forest?’
‘We’re real busy here, Mike.’
Rothschild laughed at his irritation. ‘I got some news for you.’
‘Good news?’
‘Yeah. The camera cunts showed up.’
Striker felt his jaw tighten. ‘The media? Again?’
‘You said it. What ya want me to tell them?’
‘Who the hell leaked?’
‘Find me a magic mirror and I’ll tell you.’
Striker thought over their options. Dealing with the media was always a hassle. They distorted facts to make articles more sensational, and they had no respect for a person’s privacy. Whether the victim was alive or dead, young or old, passed away or horribly mutilated and murdered – it was irrelevant to the media. All that mattered was how many viewers were watching. Or how many papers sold. Everything was numbers and headlines.
‘Tell them it’s a suicide at this point, but the investigation is ongoing.’
‘Done.’
‘That’s all and no more, Mike – I want to keep a tight lid on this one. Real tight.’
‘So I shouldn’t tell them we suspect Taliban involvement.’
Striker smiled grimly at the comment. ‘At least then I’d have a suspect.’
He hung up the cell and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was pressure there, building up behind his eyes. The aspirin did jack shit; the headache was growing.
He should have expected it. So far everything was going sideways. Mandy was dead. A suspect had escaped. Felicia was pissed at him again. And now the media had shown up, asking questions on a case where he still had no real proof of anything. What was this – a strange suicide? A date-rape overdose? A snuff film?
Or something even more dark?
The thought left him sick. A ball of stress was knotting up his insides, getting tighter and tighter with every turn. This call was a bomb, he knew, and the fuse had already been lit.
Sooner or later, it was going to blow up on them.
Twelve
How much time had passed, the Adder had no idea. Whenever the sounds returned – the laughter, the thunderous cracks, the screams and then the silence – he always scrambled for his white-noise device. Only when it was turned on full, with the headphones jammed right into his ears, was there ever peace. And time had little meaning.
Regardless, time had passed. And his mind had finally calmed to a much more logical level where he could think again. Rationalize. Assess.
He got the glove.
This was disconcerting. Not because it made him easier for the police to identify or catch, but because it had never happened before. This was an unprecedented error.
The first time he’d ever come up Snake Eyes.
From now on he would have to be smarter than that. From now on he would wear a layer of latex beneath the leather gloves. As a necessary precaution. Because the damage was already done.
There was a link now.
With that notion came the other thoughts – the ones that left a tingling sensation running amok throughout his insides. Had he touched anything when the glove had been torn off? And if so, what? Had he left fingerprints back at the scene?
He felt his facial muscles tighten with the thought, and he could not relax them. This cop was smarter than most. He had connected the fridge trays with his hiding spot. And he had remained calm and logical and tactical. When the big detective had zeroed in on the fridge, the Adder had had no choice but to react.
No choice.
The anxiety swelled up again, too much to contain. And the Adder leaned back and let out a sorrowful sound. He crawled across the cold cement floor to the far wall with the cabinet. He took hold of the edges, then paused for a moment to look up at the hatch in the ceiling.
It was locked and in place.
Safe.
The Adder slid the cabinet out of the way. It was heavy and scuffed on the floor as he did it but, like always, he got it to move.
Located in the wall was a small hollow. There lay his silver container – his own personal holy grail. A case which he cleaned and polished several times a day, so much that it glowed like a mercury halo. Inside it were his DVDs and Blu-ray discs.
Inside it was his salvation.
He took hold of the case, removing it so gently, so carefully. He set it down on the soft burgundy towel he kept on the ground, then opened the case. He stared in wonder. Two rows of DVDs and Blu-ray discs. His files. His wonderful, beautiful movies. Thirty-six to be exact.
There should have been thirty-seven.
Mandy Gill’s movie was still missing. And it was going to be a problem.
The sight of the empty DVD space brought the darkness back, but before the thought could settle in his mind, the bell went off. The noise so sharp – not only in its sound but in what it signified – that he stiffened like he’d been whipped across the back with a belt.
