Deputy Chief Laroche.
Striker scanned the yard and quickly located Inspector Beasley — the biggest brownnoser in the Department. He stood near the patio. The Deputy Chief was standing beside him, just in front of the hatchway leading into the ground. He was holding a white handkerchief to his thin lips, and when he caught sight of Striker, his face tightened and he took the handkerchief away.
‘I want a word with you, Detective.’ He marched over to Striker, and in a flash, Inspector Beasley was at his side.
Striker glanced at Beasley. ‘Brought the cheerleader, huh?’
The Deputy Chief wasn’t distracted. ‘Why wasn’t I notified of this address before you came here? And why wasn’t the Emergency Response Team called in? Jesus Christ, Striker, you didn’t even go over the air with it.’
Striker nodded. ‘That’s what you wanted to say to me?’
‘What the hell else would it be?’
‘How about “Good job — you found the killer”.’
‘How can I commend you when your results are based on luck?’
Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Luck?’
‘You didn’t follow even one proper procedure on this one — not one.’
‘I located the goddam gunman.’
‘And jeopardised your life in the process. And the life of your partner, too. And those of however many other cops might have had to come after you if things had gone poorly. Your recklessness will be documented.’
Striker laughed darkly. It was a typical response of Laroche; why had he expected otherwise? And really, what the fuck did the Deputy Chief know anyway? The man was a carpet cop; he had put in the minimum amount of time required for Patrol, then spent the rest of his twenty-four-year career in non-operational sections — and not even Investigative units. Places like Recruiting, and Training, and Human Resources. Hell, he’d even had a stint in the Graffiti Squad. All of his placements had been positions with the least stress. Away from the danger. Away from the violence.
It was a wonder he could even fire his gun any more.
‘You can turn in your gun now,’ Laroche said. ‘The immediacy of this incident is over.’
‘Over?’
‘I’m officially downgrading it.’
Striker looked beyond the Deputy Chief to where Noodles was taking pictures of the hatch. Standing next to him was Felicia. Her dark brown eyes focused on him with an almost pleading look. There was tenderness in her stare, and concern.
Striker looked away. Focused back on Laroche.
‘I wouldn’t be downgrading anything, if I were you, sir. Not just yet.’
Laroche gave a deep-bellied laugh. He looked back at Inspector Beasley. ‘And why is that, Striker? Why shouldn’t I downgrade it? Come on — enlighten us all with your wisdom.’
‘Well, for one, we only think we have all three shooters,’ Striker said. ‘Nothing has been confirmed. We don’t know for sure that Raymond Leung was actually the same guy we had a shootout with at the school.’
Laroche beamed. When he spoke again, there was condescension in his tone.
‘We know Sherman Chan was involved. And Quenton Wong, too. We got the bodies. Now we have their best friend and roommate, found dead in the red mask. What else would you have us believe?’ The Deputy Chief stepped closer and put a hand on Striker’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you came back too soon. Maybe you should go back on stress leave. Just for a while.’
Striker shrugged Laroche’s hand off his shoulder. ‘I’m back for good.’
Laroche smiled. ‘Fine then. But I’ll give you a little bit of advice, Striker. One that’ll get you through a lot in this profession. When you’re in a field full of horses, don’t go looking for zebras. All you’ll find is more horses.’
‘I don’t know about that. I already found a jackass.’
The Deputy Chief’s smile never faltered. ‘Always quick with the wit, aren’t you? Right down to the bitter end — and this is bitter, I am sure.’ He stepped forward, to within a foot of Striker, so close he had to look up to see Jacob’s face. ‘The immediacy of this file is over, and the case will be downgraded. Immediately. You can turn your pistol over to your partner. Consider it seized.’
Striker’s automatic reaction was to argue, but the more he thought it over, the more he had to admit that, this time, the Deputy Chief was right. If the immediate danger was over, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. His firearm was evidence now — had been since the first shooting — and for him to refuse to surrender it now that all three shooters had apparently been caught would put him in breach of the Police Act.
He relented.
‘You can have the goddam gun. I’ll hand it in first thing in the morning — when I know with certainty that this thing is over.’
An uncomfortable look flitted across the Deputy Chief’s face. It was as if he was wondering how much further he could goad Striker until it blew up in his face. The battle was already won; there was no need to push it further. And in the end, he opted to leave it be.
‘I will allow you that,’ he said, stressing the word allow. ‘But have it done by nine. And not a minute later. Otherwise it will be seen as a breach.’ He looked over his shoulder at Felicia and smiled wide. ‘You hear that, Detective Santos?’
She moved closer. ‘Yes, sir. Nine a.m.’
‘On the button.’
Striker walked over to the primary scene, where Noodles was working. Something tugged at the back of his mind.
‘You got a time of death, Noodles?’
Noodles stood up from his squatted position and said, ‘He’s stiff enough. Been a few hours, that’s for sure. Sometime this morning, I’d say.’
‘After nine-thirty — or before?’
‘If he’s Red Mask, it’d have to be after.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
Noodles shrugged. ‘We’ll know more when the autopsy’s done.’
‘You check the lividity?’
Noodles gave him an irritated look. ‘Stop bustin’ my balls, Shipwreck. Check with the Medical Examiner when she’s done.’
Striker frowned. ‘Is Kirstin Dunsmuir doing it?’
‘Yeah. The Death Bitch herself.’
Striker told Noodles to expedite what he could and keep him informed, then walked towards the back of the yard. He needed to get away from everyone. Far, far away. As he walked, his phone vibrated and he snatched it up.
Call Missed, the screen read.
Judging by the time that had passed, it must have come when he was clearing the house. He called his message box and, seconds later, heard the most wonderful sound he’d heard in as long as he could remember:
‘Hey, Pops, it’s me. Just got in and was wondering when you’d be home from work. I pulled out some fish for dinner — God knows you’ve probably chowed down on enough fast food your first day back. Anyhow, call me if you’re not gonna make it, okay? The Court is out.’
The call ended.
Striker hung up the phone, smiled, and before he knew it, he was chuckling. Christ, Courtney had no clue — no friggin’ clue — about all that had happened today. Insane, but true. And he wondered: did fifteen-year-old girls ever listen to the news? Even on the radio?
It didn’t matter.
He slid the BlackBerry back into its pouch and turned around. Canned laughter from Inspector Beasley boomed again, and Striker ignored it. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he truly didn’t care. Not about Laroche or the crime scene or his position in Homicide. He didn’t care about any of it. His daughter had called. She was safe and waiting for him.
He was going home.
Twenty-Five
Striker left their undercover cruiser with Felicia and got Patrol to drive him home. It was well after seven p.m. and the day had been a long one. Every muscle in his back and legs groaned with stiffness as he plodded up the front sidewalk on aching feet. Since he’d left the crime scene at Que Wong’s residence, the inky blackness of the night had deepened, stealing away the moon and stars. Leaving him with only icy rain and wicked winds.