Sean Slater - The survivor

She flipped it over. ‘A happy face. Where did you get this?’

‘Courtney had it on the fridge, next to her Britney magnets,’ Stiker said. ‘Put it on something metal. Like the whiteboard over there.’

She did, and the happy face stuck. She pulled it off the board and looked back at Striker. ‘It’s magnetic. So?’

Striker returned to the Civic. According to the notes on the Ident bag, there were no prints on the key-ring and the items had already been swabbed for DNA. So there was no fear of cross-contamination. However, taking no chances, he gloved up with fresh latex. He took the key-ring complete with key, fob, and happy face out of the bag and held it up for Felicia to see.

‘This happy face is magnetic, too.’ He gave the key-ring an underhand toss across the room. When it hit the metallic whiteboard, the key-ring and fob fell down towards the ground, but the happy face stuck hard, holding everything up.

He looked at Felicia and smiled. ‘That tells us everything.’

Felicia played with Courtney’s happy face and shook her head. ‘It tells me nothing.’

Striker tried to explain it from a different angle. ‘How many keys do you see on that key-ring?’

‘One.’

‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘There’s two. The Honda key, and the happy face — which is a key in its own right. Magnetically-speaking.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that’s why they stole the car a whole week before the shootings: they were modifying it somehow.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s something hidden in that car.’

Felicia stood in the dim lighting of the police garage and stared blankly at the small yellow happy face that was stuck to the metallic whiteboard.

‘You lost me,’ she said to Striker. She walked up to the whiteboard. Stopped. Studied the happy face.

It was a circular piece of plastic. Dark yellow with the standard smile painted onto it. The only difference was the bullet-hole that had been painted in the centre of the forehead. The happy face was attached to the key-ring by a ten-centimetre chain, just like the fob and Honda key.

‘So it’s a magnet,’ Felicia said again.

Striker took Courtney’s happy face magnet from Felicia and put it on the board next to the one from Red Mask’s key-ring.

‘Take them off the board,’ he said.

When Felicia tried, Courtney’s came off easily. But she almost broke a nail on Red Mask’s version. She swore. ‘Okay, it’s a really, really strong magnet.’

‘And it separates from the key-ring.’

Felicia made a face, as if she was tired of playing Twenty Questions, but Striker didn’t notice. To prove his point, he pried the magnet from the board, then found the snap attachment in the chain. He rolled it between his fingers, gave it a firm squeeze, and the chain broke in half, separating the happy face from the rest of the key-ring. He handed it to Felicia.

She took it. ‘Early birthday present?’

‘Something like that.’

Her voice took on a curious tone. ‘So how’s it gonna open something in the car that, so far, no one else has found?’

‘The clue is the magnet. It completes a circuit, probably somewhere near the steering column or radio. If you hit the right spot, it’s like plugging in a power cord. Once we got power, the fob will open the hidden compartment.’ He gave her a nod. ‘Go to the passenger side.’

She did. ‘How do you know this?’

Striker reached the driver’s side. ‘I’ve seen it before with the gangs. And I took some courses down in Virginia with the DEA. Once I knew this key was magnetic, I suspected there might be a hidden compartment. Let’s hope I’m right.’

They gloved up with fresh latex, then Striker leaned inside the car and scanned the dashboard. He took the Honda key from the Ident bag and placed it in the ignition. ‘Usually, the car has to be turned on to complete the circuit.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Felicia asked.

‘Look on top of the dashboard, see if you can find any marks or scratches.’

Felicia started to lean inside the car, then stopped. She took a moment to tie her hair back — the last thing she needed was to leave her own DNA there for investigators. Once done, she scanned the top of the dashboard. It was dark green and made of smooth vinyl. Appeared very ordinary.

‘Nothing here. No marks of any kind.’

Striker cursed. ‘Put the magnet on top of the dashboard. Your end.’

She did. ‘Okay.’

‘The magnet should complete the circuit, the fob should activate it.’ He put the key into the auxiliary position, and all the dash lights came on. ‘Now slowly slide the magnet across the dash towards me, just a half-inch at a time.’

Felicia moved the happy face as requested, inch by inch, and each time Striker pressed the button on the fob. Nothing happened. They did this across the entire dashboard.

Nothing.

A frustrated sound escaped Striker’s lips. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. His skin felt itchy. The police garage was a cold, draughty place, but inside the Civic, it felt hot and claustrophobic. Small dots of sweat dampened his brow. The sweet smell of Felicia’s perfume was getting to him.

He stood back from the vehicle and took a short walk to the other side of the garage. It gave him some space — room to think. He stood in the corner for a long moment, going over everything in his head.

I must be missing something.

He turned, looked back at the car and saw Felicia standing there, her coffee-depleted patience thinning. Her long dark hair had been sprayed down and combed out, but it was obvious she’d slept on it wrong all night. A thought occurred to him.

‘Is the radio turned on?’

‘Radio?’

‘Inside the Civic. Is it on?’

Felicia looked inside, shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Christ. The radio is part of the circuit.’

He marched back to the car and leaned inside the driver’s seat. The radio was brand new, one of those disc, radio and mp3 players, all built into one. There was no brand name anywhere on the device. Just a plain black faceplate with all the LEDs turned off. Striker pressed the power button, and the faceplate lit up in bright neon blue. The screen said DISC, but nothing was playing. He grabbed the happy face magnet, handed it back to Felicia, and grinned.

‘One more time.’

Like before, Felicia placed the magnet down on the far end of the dashboard. Striker grabbed the remote, and they started the entire process all over again. When they reached the midway point of the dashboard — with the happy face magnet positioned directly above the D in DISC — Striker hit the fob and an unseen electronic lock disengaged somewhere. The click was sharp, audible, and it was followed by a soft whirring sound.

Felicia flinched. ‘What the hell is that?’

Before Striker could respond, the entire front section of the dashboard came apart. The front half moved forward, away from the baseboard. It lowered towards them on a pair of automated, gliding hinges, revealing a hidden compartment that went deep under the dashboard, back towards the engine area.

Striker smiled.

‘That’s the jackpot.’

Ten minutes later, Striker and Felicia draped brown paper over a work table, then laid out everything they’d found inside the hidden compartment. The list was brief but significant:

One Benelli shotgun, single-barrel, pump-action.

Two 40-calibre Glock handguns. Pistols. Modified to be fully automatic.

Ammunition, boxed and open. Slugs and 40-calibre. Hollow-tip variety and steel-cased Full Metal Jacket.

And one ordinary brown legal-size envelope with over ten grand in cash inside.