Snakes & Ladders

by Sean Slater

  The Burnaby South cop gave Striker his number, and Striker flipped through his iPhone photos till he found the one of Larisa the Sarj had downloaded from her personnel file back at the Victim Services Unit. He brought it up and sent the attachment. Moments later, when Felicia handed the radio back to Noodles, she looked at Striker and smiled.

  ‘It’s done,’ she said.

  Striker didn’t smile back. He couldn’t – he was sick to his stomach. If Larisa spooked on this one and got away from them, there was no telling what might happen. Thoughts of suicide even crossed his mind.

  He stood up from the chair and grabbed his keys from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Felicia. ‘We’re going there, too. Code 3.’

  Sixty-Five

  Normally the drive from Main Street to Burnaby’s Metrotown Mall took a good twenty minutes. With Striker driving lights and siren the entire way, they made it there in less than ten, and ended up intercepting the plainclothes cops from Burnaby South.

  Striker spotted their undercover cruiser turning off Kingsway and driving into the underground parkade. It made him shake his head; he had hoped for an undercover operative, not a plainclothes cop in an unmarked Ford. A white Crown Victoria stood out in the parkade like a lighthouse at sea. It was no good. If anything, it was detrimental. And to make matters worse, Larisa had spent three years working for Victim Services. She knew what an undercover police sedan looked like. Hell, she used to drive around in one of them while en route to calls.

  ‘Just get them the hell out of there,’ Striker said to Felicia. ‘Larisa will make them in a second, if she sees them.’

  Felicia agreed. She got on her cell, called Burnaby South Dispatch, and had the unit pulled. Less than a minute later, the Crown Vic peeled out of the underground, leaving in its wake a loud squeal of tyres and a patch of rubber on the parking lot surface a foot long.

  It was a fuck you from the other unit.

  ‘That idiot,’ Striker said. ‘Get their unit number. I want to deal with them later.’

  While Felicia got the number from Dispatch, Striker drove them into the central part of the parkade and dumped the wheels behind a tall support pillar, hoping to blend in with the grey concrete. When Felicia got out and stared at the size of the parkade, a worried sound escaped her lips.

  ‘We got our work cut out for us on this one,’ she said. ‘This mall is huge. If she’s left the coffee shop, we’ll never find her in here.’

  ‘All the more reason to get going,’ Striker replied. He pointed to the escalator. ‘Arabic Beans is on the northwest side of the mall, below the movie theatres – the older ones, not the new Cineplex. You go round the Skytrain ramp and come in from the south; I’ll cut through the mall and come in from the north.’

  ‘And if I find her, then what? Take her down right there?’

  Striker thought it over. ‘No. Don’t let her see you. Call me on the cell, and let me approach her on my own. If she runs, then take her down. We have to. It’s for her own good.’

  Felicia nodded. Without a word, she spun about and hurried for the escalator. When she reached the top and disappeared from view, entering the first floor of the mall, Striker turned around and ran for the north-side elevators.

  He hoped they weren’t too late.

  Despite the fact that Christmas and Boxing Day sales were long over, and all the New Year’s Day sales had ended three weeks ago, the mall was jam-packed with people. Gangs of teenagers with their baggy pants and skateboards hung out near the McDonald’s alcove, and adults with their children flooded the Gamespot counter. Everyone was making exchanges and new purchases. It being seven o’clock and dinner time for the late crowd, the Food Court was jammed.

  Striker took a moment to scan the area.

  Larisa Logan was Caucasian. At five foot seven and one hundred and forty pounds, she blended in well with most crowds. The last time he saw her her dark brown hair had been shoulder length and straight though it could be worn many ways. As if to make spotting her even more difficult, she also wore glasses and, sometimes, he recalled, coloured contacts.

  She was a hard target.

  Striker saw no sign of her in the Food Court, so he made his way down the east–west walkway. He found the mall doors, exited the building, and began rounding the building along the Kingsway boulevard.

  Outside, the night was as dark as a day-old bruise. The sidewalk was frosted over. Only the street and walkway lamps illuminated the area, turning everyone more than twenty feet away into silhouettes.

  Striker passed a few clusters, making sure he saw the face of each person and paying even closer attention to any lone individuals that sneaked off the path. When he rounded the bend and came within sight of the coffee shop, Arabic Beans, his heart clenched and his hopes evaporated.

  Sitting outside Arabic Beans was an unmarked Crown Victoria sedan. A Vancouver Police car. Its red and blue lights were flashing and its spotlight was turned on.

  ‘What the fuck?’ escaped his lips.

  Before Striker knew it, he was running. Racing down the long strip of corridor towards the coffee shop. He passed the Happy Gate Sushi shop and the Muffin Inn, and finally the Save-on-Foods store.

  When he came to within fifty feet of Arabic Beans, he spotted Felicia coming the other way. The hard look on her face told him that she felt the same confusion. What the hell was going on? And just as importantly, who the hell was in Arabic Beans?

  Striker got his answer less than ten steps later.

  The tinted glass door to the coffee shop slowly opened and two figures emerged. The first one was a short Asian woman Striker recognized but could not place. The second figure was easily distinguishable, and the sight of the man made Striker’s blood hot. With his long ponytail hanging down from his balding head, and wearing a bright red dress shirt with matching tie, was Bernard Hamilton of Car 87. The Mental Health Team.

  They were here for the warrant.

  Striker ran right up to the man. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  Bernard Hamilton smiled. Smiled like he wasn’t surprised in the least to see them. ‘We’re looking for Larisa.’ He winked. ‘Got a tip she might be here.’

  ‘A tip? From who?’

  Bernard just kept smiling. ‘Never identify a source,’ was all he said.

  Striker looked around for Larisa, did not see her.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Not here,’ Bernard said. ‘I checked out the entire place. She left long before we got here.’

  Striker looked at Felicia, whose face appeared as tight as his chest. ‘Watch the front,’ he told her, and headed into the coffee shop.

  The place was small and dark with a mirror behind the front bar that reflected back the blue lights of the Arabic Beans neon sign in the window. Behind the bar stood a tall thin black man. He was washing mugs.

  Striker approached him and got his attention. ‘You see a white woman in here? Five foot seven. A hundred and forty pounds. Brown hair?’

  The man put down the mug and frowned. ‘I see lots dem people in here,’ he said. His voice was deep and smooth, and he spoke the words slowly, with all the patience in the world. His accent reminded Striker of the Hondurans he’d dealt with in the skids so many times during his time in Patrol. ‘Dis is Metrotown, man. Always real busy.’

  Striker fished out his iPhone and opened up his photos folder. He scanned through the pictures, found the one of Larisa and showed it to the man. The barista took a long look, then shook his head.

  ‘Never seen da girl.’

  ‘You got video surveillance?’

  ‘Naw, the owner’s too cheap for dat, man. We’s lucky to have lights on in dis place.’

  Striker cursed. Without another word, he left the front counter and began searching through the shop. He started in the rear, checking both washrooms and finding them empty. Then he began making his way among the patrons. There were fewer than ten in total, and only four of
them were women. Two Asian, one black, and one white woman. She was over six foot.

  Striker tried to contain his temper.

  Larisa was gone; they had missed her.

  Again.

  He was about to leave Arabic Beans when his eye caught the row of monitors along the far wall. There were five in total, and the first four all faced towards him, each displaying a stark white Google screen from the Firefox web browser.

  The last terminal was turned to face the wall.

  Striker walked over to the area. He searched the chair and floor for anything that might have been dropped. A purse. Some ID. Anything to show that Larisa had been here. Anything to lead them to a new location.

  But he found nothing.

  He reached out, grasped hold of the monitor, and turned it so he could see the screen. What he saw was alarming. The screen was white, just like the others, but the application running wasn’t Firefox, but Microsoft Word. Typed across the screen was one brief message. When Striker read it, his heart plummeted:

  Car 87?

  Betrayed me again!

  I can’t believe it.

  You were my only hope, Jacob.

  My only hope.

  Sixty-Six

  When the reward was over, and after the Girl had left him, the Adder left the soft comfort of the bed and approached the bar. From it, he took a bottle of sparkling mineral water – Sémillante, from France – and uncapped it. As he drank some down, the bubbly fluid tingling the back of his throat, the Adder thought of the Girl. He could still feel her warmth against his body. Her wetness all around him. Her tender sweet taste on his lips. Now that she was gone, he felt like something was missing.

  It was very, very odd. He could not understand it.

  He got dressed and exited the Special Room. He found the hatch in the floor, opened it, and started down the rungs of the ladder. He’d made it less than a quarter of the way down when he heard the Doctor and the Girl, speaking somewhere above him.

  ‘Did you please him?’ the Doctor asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Well . . . yes, he seemed pleased.’

  ‘Did he ejaculate?’

  Pause.

  ‘Answer the question, girl.’

  ‘He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t always—’

  Slap!

  Then . . . crying.

  ‘Come here,’ the Doctor ordered.

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Lift up your skirt.’

  There was another moment of silence, and then the Girl let out an uncomfortable sound. ‘Please, you’re hurting me—’

  ‘Shut up! . . . Look, there – he ejaculated.’

  The Girl made no reply, only another uncomfortable sound.

  ‘Do not make me do this again. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  There was silence. No more conversation. Just the sound of footsteps walking away down the hall.

  The Adder did not move from the ladder. He stayed there, rooted to the spot like a gargoyle, and replayed the dialogue in his head. Over and over again. And a strange feeling rose up inside him. One he didn’t like. The Doctor was stirring things up. Old things within him. Bad things. Feelings.

  It was the Doctor’s fault.

  Like a distant, growing thunder, the laughter started in the Adder’s head. And he closed his eyes, as if this would somehow shut out the sounds. Before they could expand on him again – before they could crash down on him like cold lightning – he climbed back down the ladder, opened up the dumbwaiter, and grabbed his recording equipment from the shelves. He shoved it all into a burlap sack, along with a drill, screw-gun and some screws.

  Then, with the burlap sack slung around his shoulder, the Adder crouched down low and climbed inside the dumbwaiter. He then began climbing up the old chute, one bracket at a time. He headed for the second floor.

  For the room that was forbidden.

  Sixty-Seven

  Striker and Felicia spent the next half-hour checking out the rest of Metrotown Mall, but Striker knew in his heart it would be a wasted effort. Larisa had seen Bernard Hamilton of Car 87, and she had hightailed it as far from Burnaby South as her legs would carry her.

  Their one big chance, destroyed.

  While Felicia did another run around of the main level, Striker attended the security office and spoke to the two guards inside. He emailed the office a copy of Larisa’s picture and told them to scour the footage and see if they could find her.

  He had little hope of success.

  By the time he was done and leaving the small office, Felicia was already outside waiting for him. She had two cups of Tim Horton’s coffee in her hands and a tired but determined look on her face. Striker took one of the paper cups from her, said thanks.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘She’s gone,’ was all Felicia said.

  Striker could not help but scowl as they headed back to the car. ‘This is such bullshit,’ he griped. ‘That fuckin’ Bernard. He’s royally screwed it for us on this one.’

  Felicia nodded. ‘I wonder who his source is.’

  Striker took a sip of his coffee. It was too sweet. As usual, Felicia had put sugar in it. ‘There is no source,’ he said. ‘Never was.’

  ‘Then how—’

  ‘Hamilton was eavesdropping on our conversation when we went over the air,’ he said. ‘He heard you on Dispatch, then he listened in when we switched to Info and requested a Burnaby unit to attend here. He caught on. Figured out we were coming for Larisa.’

  ‘You really think? That’s pretty devious.’

  ‘I know it is, and I know Bernard.’ Striker thought of how they had also coincidentally run into Bernard at 312 Main Street when checking for warrants. There were too many coincidences with the man. He turned to Felicia. ‘Run a history of Bernard’s unit status. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he was closer than we were when we made the call to Burnaby. It’s how he got on scene so fast.’

  Felicia grabbed the computer and ran the Remote Log. After a few seconds, she nodded. ‘You’re right, he was already out here at the same time we made the call. He put himself out at Boundary and Adanac Street.’

  Striker glanced over at her. ‘Recognize the location?’

  ‘Mapleview,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly. He was probably there looking for Larisa. Or trying to get information.’

  ‘But why? Why would he care so much?’

  Striker gave her a bemused look. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? Bernard doesn’t care. When was the last time you saw him put in this kind of work for any other mentally ill patient?’

  ‘Well, never.’

  ‘Exactly. Bernard just wants to be the one to save Larisa. Think about it. She’s a former employee of the Vancouver Police Department. A Victim Services worker, no less. And she’s been through hell and back. Now Bernard Hamilton – caring community cop and all-around godsend – comes along and rescues her from her mental illness. Think of how he’d spin that one.’

  Felicia nodded. ‘More glory in his bid for Cop of the Year.’

  ‘Exactly. The worst part is he knows he’s actually putting her in greater danger – and ruining our chances of getting her back safely. But he doesn’t care. Because he wants to be the one who scores on the arrest.’ Striker felt his entire body grow tight with anger. ‘He’ll never get that award. Not ever. Because everyone knows what he’s all about. He doesn’t care about Larisa or any of them.’

  ‘He cares about the publicity,’ Felicia said.

  ‘He wants publicity, I’ll make sure he gets some,’ Striker said. ‘Starting off within the department.’

  Felicia gave him a curious look, and he smiled at her darkly.

  ‘Later,’ he told her. ‘When the time is right.’

  A half-hour later, at exactly eight o’clock, they drove back over Boundary Road municipal border and entered the City of Vancouver.

&nb
sp; ‘We’re looking at this the wrong way,’ Striker said. ‘Let’s stop trying to find out where Larisa went and find out why.’

  Felicia gave him an odd look. ‘We already know why.’

  ‘Do we?’ he asked.

  ‘The medical warrant.’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s something else she’s running from here, something besides the medical warrant. There has to be. Think about it. The woman emailed me and told me she believed Mandy was murdered. She also had Sarah’s name written down in her place. At the time, we thought it was all part of her mental illness. But now I wonder.’

  Felicia nodded. ‘It was almost like she had proof.’

  Striker thought of all the opened DVD cases they had found on the floor of Larisa’s ransacked rancher.

  ‘We need to find out what that proof was,’ he said.

  Felicia opened up the laptop with a renewed sense of energy about her. ‘Let’s go over everything one more time.’

  Striker pulled over to the side of the road. He opened up his notebook, then the file folder of all the evidence he had collected back at Larisa’s rancher. There was a ton of stuff. Stories. Articles. Newspaper clippings.

  One thing stuck out more than all the rest. It was the article from the Vancouver Province newspaper about the man who committed suicide at the Regency Hotel. Someone had used a thick pen to write LIES! LIES! LIES! across it.

  Striker read through the article, saw that the victim’s name was Derrick Smallboy. The man was said to have suffered from depression, addiction and fetal alcohol syndrome.

  A hell of a trio.

  Striker found the article intriguing, in a dark sort of way. ‘Run this name,’ he said to Felicia. ‘Derrick Smallboy. Age twenty-eight.’

  She did, and after a moment the feed came back.

  ‘He’s deceased,’ she said.

  ‘I know that; he’s the guy from this article. Read up on him, tell me what you find.’

  Felicia did. After a long moment, she looked up with a shocked look on her face. ‘Holy shit, Jacob, look at this. Says here that Smallboy suffered from depression, FAS, alcoholism, and schizophrenia. This guy was really messed up. He ended up throwing himself off the top of the Regency Hotel.’