In answer to the query the screen above the computer terminal keyboard lit up with green letters: Query vehicle registered MVB Victoria: Almore Flood, 307 Lagoon Drive, Apt. 404, Vancouver.
Below this there was a postscript note: A. Flood is detective. Vancouver Police Department. Major Crimes squad.
You're kidding! Sparky's fingers typed into the computer.
Then snapping the.38 cylinder shut. Sparky removed the half pound bag of cocaine and a screwdriver from under the passenger's seat and climbed out of the car.
7:31 p.m.
"Where do we go from here?"
"I think you should phone your husband and tell him we're on our way. He can take it from there," Al Flood said.
"Have you told anyone else about all this?"
"No. You're the only one. It's a tricky situation. A Vancouver Police Detective can't just march into the RCMP Red Serge Ball and arrest one of the dancers. Not for a crime which is closed and already filed away. Besides, your husband was head of the Headhunter Squad and I was working under him. He should know first."
"God, there's going to be hell to pay somewhere down the line. Not only does the Force have a multiple killer in its midst, but it also shot down the wrong man."
Al Flood nodded. "The shooting of Hardy itself won't hurt. He was going for a knife and had lit a cop on fire. He was also involved in cocaine trafficking. But as for the Head-hunter case, the shit will hit the fan."
Genevieve sighed heavily. "Poor Robert," she said.
Al Flood reached out and put his arm around her. "Let's make the best," he said, "of a dirty situation. The killer will be there tonight at the Red Serge Ball. Am I correct that this particular celebration is to honor the members of the Head-hunter Squad?"
"Yes. In fact both the Commissioner and the Governor General of Canada will be attending. Robert is to receive the Commissioner's Commendation. That's the highest honor that the Force can bestow."
"Then let's you and I go to the Ball and take the evidence with us. We'll get your husband aside and tell him what I found. I'll keep out of sight just to stay on the safe side, and you bring him to me.All three of us can then decide what to do and how best to protect the Superintendent. If he makes the arrest personally it might help salvage something from the wreckage. The phone's in the kitchen."
They were still standing in the bedroom at the rear of the apartment. For a moment Genevieve DeClercq glanced out through the window that faced on the alley and noticed for the first time that it had begun to snow. Then she turned from the window, from the heads on the bed, and went out to the kitchen in order to make the call.
Not until the ninth ring was the phone at the Seaforth Armouries answered. Whoever it was who picked it up, he was very, very excited.
"Armouries," the man said. "Daykin speaking."
"Hello. My name is Genevieve. Superintendent Robert DeClercq is my husband. May I please speak to him?"
"Sorry, Ma'am. Don't know him. I'm just a caterer. If you'll hold on a second I'll get a Mountie for you."
"Thanks," Genevieve said.
As she waited the woman could hear pandemonium in the background. It seemed to her as if a hundred voices were all talking at once. There was no music. Her eyebrows knitted in wonder.
"Mrs. DeClercq?" a voice asked through the telephone receiver.
"Yes."
"Jim Rodale here."
"Sergeant, I've got to talk to Robert. It's imperative."
"He's not here yet. We expect the G-G, the Commissioner and the Superintendent any moment. They went for a drink at the Governor General's club."
"What's going on in the background? It sounds like a drunk."
"Do you know Bill Tipple?"
"Yes, I've heard of him."
"We think he just got killed. Not minutes ago a bomb blew one of the cars in his garage apart. We fear he was in it."
"Good God!" Genevieve exclaimed.
"I just sent Rabidowski out to join the VPD who are already at the scene. Jack MacDougall is also on the way. I'm waiting for Robert, to tell him, then I'm going too."
"How, Jim? Why? What could be the reason?"
"Bill had just started an investigation into West Coast organized crime. He might be on to something. It might be a hit. We think he was leaving his home for the Ball and had just got into his car. Bomb probably worked off the ignition. We'll know more shortly."
"My God!" Genevieve said. "Will the horror ever stop?"
"The party here is over. That's one thing for sure."
"Jim, if you're waiting for Robert, you must give him a message. Tell him that I'm on my way and to please wait for me. Tell him that it's urgent. I'm with one of my students and he has a very serious problem. Tell Robert that he's a policeman, that it's a matter of life and death."
"I'll make sure he gets it," Rodale said.
"Good, I'm on my way."
They both hung up.
By the time Genevieve returned to the bedroom Al Flood was packing up. He had wrapped each one of the shrunken heads in a piece of tissue paper, and after placing his diary in the bottom of an Adidas athletic bag, had packed them in on top. As she came into the room he was placing the dull black object into the towel pouch at the side.
"There's a modern theory," the woman said, "that the strong compulsions of many sex offenders have more of a biological origin than previously believed."
"Why's that?" Flood asked, zipping up the bag and crossing to his dresser where he pulled out a drawer. He removed a holstered gun from inside and clipped the Smith and Wesson.38 snubnose to his belt.
"At Johns Hopkins Medical Institute in Baltimore they've been studying sex hormone levels, brain metabolism and brain structure in deviant offenders. The results indicate that psychological problems may not be the dominant cause of perversion. They've also found that a chromosomal abnormality called Klinefelter's syndrome offers a clue linking deviant behavior and gender identity. Children born with the disorder have an unusual arrangement of chromosomes in their cells. This syndrome appears a lot among sex offenders."
"Do you think the same sort of thing is going on here? I think this one's psychological." Flood picked up the Adidas bag and moved toward the door. "My Volvo's parked down stairs. We'll take it and talk on the way."
He reached for the light switch. The last thing that Genevieve saw in the room were all the magnificent photographs of planets, of stars, of asteroids and nebulae tacked up on the walls.
This time she did not look out the window at the snow falling in the alley beyond the zigzag fire escape attached to the rear of the building. Nor did she see the pair of eyes peering in at them.
7:42 p.m.
So, Sparky thought, descending the fire-escape steps three at a time, no one else knows. Unless she yakked on the phone. The parking lot was deserted.
It was, dark down there with only the occasional naked light bulb protected by a wire cage throwing off a dim light. Concrete support pillars cast great shafts of shadow. From far off, somewhere hidden, came the throb of a boiler. There were no people. Just cars. Parked between white lines.
Sparky went straight to the Volvo and, using the screwdriver, pried off the left front hubcap. The space inside the disc was small but it would hold the cocaine. Working the plastic bag in around the wheel nuts, Sparky replaced the cap and hammered it back on with the handle of the screwdriver.
Suddenly there was a sharp sound, a scraping off to the left.
Then there was laughter.
Sparky drew the Smith and Wesson from its Sam Browne holster, ducking at the same time in behind the car. "Bet you can't do this!" a young voice yelled. As the killer peeked over the hood, two boys, aged seven or eight, came down the concrete ramp into the parking lot. One of the youngsters was balancing with one foot on a skateboard. The other ran beside. "Come on! Gimme a try!"