Sean Slater - The survivor

‘Up there,’ Felicia said. ‘Third floor.’

Striker looked up, nodded. Heard the loud bass thump of rock music. ‘Sounds like a party.’

‘Rock rock till ya drop, old man.’

Striker grinned, ignored the comment.

The building faced directly onto Water Street. Front and centre were the double doors, made mainly of tinted glass. They were locked. Striker hit every single buzzer on the panel until the owner of Rag-Dog Recording Studios answered, said his name was Treble, then buzzed open the door to allow them entry.

Inside the foyer, the loud din of rock music blasted down from above, hard and heavy, yet somewhat muffled by the old walls and floor. On the west wall was a directory — a plain blackboard with white plastic lettering. Striker scanned it, located Trans-Global Enterprises. It was listed as 301 — the only business on the third floor.

‘All alone,’ he said. ‘Convenient.’

There was no elevator, so they started up the stairs. The staircase was dim and had no windows, and the wooden steps that were painted brown squeaked beneath their weight. It stank, too. When Striker breathed in, he detected an old musty smell, which was quickly replaced by the skunky scent of freshly smoked BC Bud. It got stronger as they hiked past the second floor, where Rag-Dog Studios was located.

They continued up.

At the top of the staircase was an ordinary wooden door, painted the same drab brown as the stairs and boasting a dirty-paned, wired window. Trans-Global Enterprises was stencilled across the face in thick black script.

They stood on either side of the door, listening for several seconds. When it remained quiet, Striker knocked. No one came. He tried the door knob, found it locked, and cursed. There was no manager on site — they’d already played that card when trying to gain access to the building — so there would be no getting a master key.

Strike stood back, assessed the strength of the door. It was decent quality, made of good wood.

Felicia read his thoughts, intervened. ‘We gonna need a warrant on this one?’

He took out his police knife and held it up. ‘Already got one.’

‘Jacob.’

He ignored her, flicked open the blade. It was good stainless steel — sharp, strong, and eight inches long. Worked good on locks, especially ones where the wood of the frame was old. In the past, he’d used it too many times to count.

Felicia made an unhappy sound. ‘If we go in like this, anything we find won’t hold up in court.’

‘We don’t have time for a warrant, Feleesh.’

‘What if it’s alarmed?’

‘All the better. We were just en route to Headquarters when the alarm rang out. We came to investigate.’

‘Sure, after we broke in. What if there’s a camera?’

‘There’s not.’

Striker stuck the tip of the blade in between the lock and frame, and then put pressure medially. The wood was stronger than he’d anticipated, and it resisted, making him put his body weight into it. Eventually, the frame bulged and groaned, and the lock scraped against the wood, then made a sharp clashing sound as it popped out of the slot and the door creaked open.

No alarm went off, and Felicia’s face relaxed a little.

‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker yelled, loud enough to be heard over the rock music below.

No reply.

Inside, all the lights were on, but the place looked vacant. Striker leaned through the doorway and scanned his surroundings.

The first room was a waiting area, holding a front desk with a phone, fax, and ledger. In the centre of the waiting room was a wooden table holding an assortment of magazines, which were fanned out to show their covers. Flanking the table were two rows of ordinary waiting-room chairs. And to the north was a white oak office door with a black-and-gold faceplate on it. Manager.

Next to the door was a large square window. All the blinds were closed, blocking off the view.

Striker looked at Felicia and nodded. When she nodded back, they stepped inside the office. To the left, running down from the secretary’s desk, was a short hallway with four more doors. All of them plain brown wood. All of them closed. None marked.

‘Police!’ Striker announced one more time.

Again, nothing.

Felicia signalled that she would clear the hall. He covered her as she went. One by one, she opened each door and cleared each room. She walked slowly back, her pistol hanging at her side.

‘They’re empty.’

‘Storage?’

‘No, just empty. Not even a box.’

Striker frowned. He moved forward to the manager’s office, tried the door knob and found it unlocked. He swung open the door. Inside was an office containing one expensive-looking desk made of black wood that took up most of the space. The desk sat against the far wall, giving whoever sat in it a full view of the office and a perfect view of the north shore mountains. Next to it, a file folder cabinet stood in the corner.

Striker walked over, opened all the drawers.

Empty.

He went back to the desk, opened all the drawers there too. He found pencils and erasers, and staples and yellow Post-it notes. All office supplies. Nothing of investigative value.

‘Maybe they closed down,’ Felicia said.

Striker shook his head. ‘Cigar smoke in the air — I can still smell it. Even more than the pot from downstairs. Someone was in here. Today.’

Just then, Striker heard the soft whirring of a fan. He looked over and saw a computer terminal sitting on the floor at the far end of the desk. The soft blue activity light was blinking. He moved around the desk, looked at the monitor, saw it was black. He moved the mouse and the screen blinked as the screensaver turned off.

Written across the screen was one message.

KillDisk complete. Drive Override 100 %.

Striker balled his hands into fists. He had no idea what had been on those disk drives, but no doubt it had been crucial. Implicating, if not damning evidence.

It was another lost link in their case.

Felicia let out a weary sound. ‘We’re too late.’

‘Maybe Ich can still find something.’

Felicia got on her cell and called in support — Patrol, Ident and the techies. While she was talking to Dispatch, Striker’s cell went off. He picked it up and looked at the screen, hoping to see Courtney’s name. Instead he saw Ichabod’s number — the main line from Forensic Audio. He shoved the cell against his ear.

‘Tell me it’s good news, Ich.’

‘Depends how you look at it,’ Ich replied. ‘Either way, I got your audio from the school.’

A half hour later, Striker and Felicia parked out front of the Tech Facility on Tenth Avenue. The grimy old building looked about ready to crumble. It was a completely unearthquake-proof structure in a city full of treacherous faultlines. Striker climbed out of the cruiser and looked up at one of the security cameras that panned down on him.

He wondered if anyone was monitoring it.

Felicia slammed her door. She bundled up her jacket, then turned her pretty, tired eyes towards Striker. ‘Any guesses what Ich found?’

‘Something’s weird. I could hear it in his voice.’

He climbed the front stairs, used his swipe card to gain access, then entered the foyer and flashed his badge to the security guard inside the safety booth. The door leading inside the main building clicked open. Striker walked through it with Felicia in tow.

The Tech Facility was, in essence, the Department’s catchall. It housed everything from Forensic Audio and Video to the headquarters of Vice, Drugs, and the Emergency Response Teams. Each of these divisions had long been pleading for better resources and a home of their own, which included a modern facility, but in a time of high taxes and budget cutbacks and a declining economy, they were forced to make do with what they had.