‘They normally knock it over like that, or just get inside?’
The man turned and looked at the garbage can, scowled. ‘Usually they just get inside.’
‘These racoons you got round here, they ever tip over one of those cans?’
‘Well, no, actually…’
Striker met the man’s eyes. ‘You see them knock over that garbage can?’
‘Nope.’
Striker nodded. ‘Thanks. Take care.’
The man walked away without saying more. Once he was gone, Striker turned to Felicia and saw the strange look she was giving him. He gestured towards the lane.
‘Those garbage cans are damn near full,’ he said. ‘Must weigh sixty pounds each. They don’t tip easy.’
‘And you think our guy did it.’
‘Sure as shit wasn’t Rocky the Racoon.’ Striker backed the car up a few more feet to give them a better view. He pointed. ‘Look at where the cans are placed,’ he said. ‘Right at the mouth of the lane. It’s exactly where Red Mask would hit one of them if he was driving too hard, too fast. Think about it. He comes down this way, north on Discovery. At the last second, he sees a good place to dump, or maybe a flash of red and blue lights. Who knows? Either way, he cranks the wheel too hard, takes the corner too wide, and what’s he gonna hit — anything that’s placed on the north side of the road at the very mouth of the laneway.’
Felicia raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re reaching.’
‘You got to reach if you wanna grab something. Get your gun ready, we’re clearing this lane.’
He gripped his pistol in his right hand and steered with his left as they edged forward into the alley. For the first third, he saw nothing. No good places to dump. No movement of any kind. Certainly no green Honda Civic with the rear windshield blown out.
Then, near the halfway point where the road widened, he spotted something. A small patch of torn-up grass on the south side of the road — a muddy portion that looked disturbed.
Striker hit the brakes, pointed it out to Felicia, saying, ‘Cover me.’
He got out and approached the breezeway.
It was a small patch of land, rectangular in shape, maybe thirty feet by fifteen, and it flanked a closed garage. The land here was a mixture of mud and gravel and crabgrass, running from the kerb all the way back to a giant willow tree that fronted the yard.
Striker walked over to the willow tree and looked down. In the mud, there were tire tracks, fresh ones. Their deep grooves were wider at the base of the tree, as if a car had suddenly and violently shifted. Lying across the tracks were a few willow tendrils. Striker looked at the tree and saw a horizontal gouge across the bark.
Right about bumper level.
‘Something hit this tree,’ he said to Felicia, ‘and not long ago. These marks are fresh.’ He knelt down on the cleanest patch of grass and looked at the impression in the mud.
‘Is it a Civic tire?’ Felicia asked.
‘How should I know?’
‘You’d think five years in Ident would do something for you.’
He gave her a dry look. ‘Only way to know for sure is with a casting, and that’s a job for Noodles.’ He analysed the tread prints. The impressions were clean, the near-frozen mud of the lawn holding the shape together. The lateral edge consisted of two longitudinal striations; the medial sections were composed mainly of 60-degree chevrons.
Felicia came up beside him, bent over for a better look. ‘You getting anything there, Columbo?’
‘First off, I prefer Sherlock,’ Striker said coolly. ‘Or at the very least, Matlock. Secondly, it’s impossible to tell if it was a Civic or not. But whatever it was, the tires are probably one hundred and ninety-five millimetres, which would translate into a fifteen-inch wheel diameter. Most likely.’
‘And what the hell does that mean?’
‘It means,’ he said, ‘that a smaller vehicle made these impressions. Something like a Honda Civic or a Toyota Tercel. Anything more specific than that requires lab work.’
Felicia nodded, and Striker looked back down. Something else in the mud grabbed his attention. He took a closer look, blinked. Dark brownish flecks coloured some of the blades of grass. They were indiscernible in the churned mud of the tire tracks, but against the greenish-yellow of the crabgrass, they became visible in the mid-morning light.
‘We got blood.’ Striker took out a pair of blue latex gloves from his suit-jacket pocket. Put them on. He reached into the darkest area of the mud, where there was a faint glint of something silver, and took hold of a small object. When he pulled his hand back, he held a key-ring. Attached to it by three separate chains were a grey fob, a small plastic happy face, and one ordinary key.
The make was Honda.
In the half-second it took for Striker to stand back up, Felicia had already gotten on her portable radio. She broadcast their location, requesting a second unit. Once she was off, Striker got her attention. He pointed to the north side of the garage, where the bay door was located, and she nodded. When she circled to the lane, he readied his pistol and approached the side door of the garage.
Both exits were covered.
The side door was white, freshly painted, and matched the stucco on the walls. Striker pulled his Maglite flashlight from his inner jacket pocket, turned it on and set the beam to cone. He gripped the cold steel of the door knob, turned it, felt it click.
The door fell open an inch.
Inside it was black. Still. Silent. And the air smelled of gas.
Striker seized the moment. He kicked the door all the way open and swung inside the garage, keeping low and moving right, getting out of the ambient light and blending into the darkness as fast as possible.
‘Vancouver Police!’ he announced. ‘Make yourself known.’
But no one responded.
He moved the flashlight in large wide circles, hitting all four corners of the garage. The room contained nothing but a small car. One flash from the Maglite showed Striker the car was green. A second flash caught the stylistic H insignia of a Honda Civic.
Striker shone the light inside the vehicle. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, their head tilted back at an unnatural angle. The body was completely still. And too short to be Red Mask.
Striker stepped closer, looked.
It was an old man. Small. With thinning white hair.
His face had been shot off.
Seven
Fifteen minutes later, Striker stood ten feet back from the Honda Civic, where the driveway met the lane. The harsh fall winds had lessened, but they were just as cold, and went right through him as if his coat were nothing but porous cheesecloth.
He dialled his daughter, put the cell to his ear and listened to a busy signal. His pulse escalated. It was the third time since the shootings that he’d tried to call Courtney, and the third time he hadn’t been able to reach her. He wondered if her voicemail was full.
‘For Christ’s sake, pick up.’
Courtney hadn’t been at the school when the shootings occurred; Striker knew that. Principal Myers had already told him she’d skipped class — yet again — and he had little doubt she would be at one of her two favourite malls, Oakridge or Metrotown Centre. Striker didn’t know what he was going to do when he found her: hug her, or rant and rave. He’d already called his neighbour, Sheila, and she was now scouring the malls looking for Courtney.
But so far no word had come back.
He swore, and slid the BlackBerry into the pouch on his belt. He tried to focus, to get his head back into the game. Work was always the best diversion; it had gotten him through the worst of the last six years, and besides that, he was damn good at it.
He assessed the scene.
Inside the garage, the interior light was now turned on, revealing the true extent of the damage the Honda Civic had taken. The rear window was partially shattered. The rest was full of holes and spider-veined. The driver’s side window had been blasted right out.