Sean Slater - The survivor

She showered and got dressed. Then ignoring a slew of missed calls from schoolfriends, she called Raine’s cell.

Got nothing. She then remembered Raine was using the new iPhone Que had lent her. She called that number, too.

Got nothing but an automated message service.

Courtney cursed. She left a message, then snagged some money from the top of Dad’s dresser and headed out the front door. Starbucks was only two blocks away and she wanted an Americano and something loafy. She’d barely gotten two steps down the walkway when she saw the police car out front. A hunky cop in uniform stepped out, marched towards her. He was young, about twenty-five, and hot. Short brown hair, dark blue eyes, and a dreamy smile.

‘Back inside, Courtney,’ he said.

She blinked. ‘What?’

‘Gunman from the shooting’s still out there.’

She thought it over, nodded. ‘I know — but I’ve got nothing to do with that.’

‘Your father’s orders.’

She felt her cheeks blush. ‘I’m almost sixteen, I can do what I want.’

His face tightened. ‘Come on, kid, you’re putting me in a bad situation here.’

Kid?

She felt her warm cheeks grow hotter. Knew they were red; knew she was blushing bad. So she spun away from him, scampered back up the steps and went inside and slammed the front door behind her. For a second she just stood there in the darkness and felt the humiliation wash over her. She walked through the house to the back door, saw another marked cruiser out back, and saw the cop inside on his cell phone. The guy hung up, then looked at the house, as if he’d been warned she might come that way.

It was so totally embarrassing. She grabbed the portable phone from the kitchen, called Dad, waited. It was picked up after three rings.

‘Morning, Pumpkin.’

‘What the hell is going on?’

He made a surprised sound. ‘What-’

‘You got cops outside the house, front and back — they won’t let me leave.’

‘It’s for your own protection.’

‘I don’t need any protection. I’m supposed to meet Raine and Bobby today.’

‘You can see them when we find this guy.’

‘Well, how long will that be?’

‘A while.’

‘But the Britney concert’s tonight.’

He cleared his throat, made a sound like he was thinking. ‘There’s no way you’re going to any concert. Not with this whack-job still out there somewhere.’

‘But you didn’t let me go the last time she came!’

‘Oops, I did it again.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘It’s a concert, Courtney. Nothing more.’ He spoke impatiently to someone in the background. ‘Look, I’m at work here and I need you safe. I need you home.’

‘But the Parade of Lost Souls is also-’

‘I’ll make it up to you later.’

‘But Dad ‘You’re not going and that’s final.’

‘It’s not FAIR!’ She slammed the receiver back on the cradle and let out a scream. She picked it back up, called Raine again, and still got no answer. After the voice greeting, she left a long message about what a jerk Dad was, then hung up the phone and looked back outside. The cop was still there, focusing on the house. Really watching it. Like she was a prisoner or something. A friggin’ prisoner.

She ran back to her room, looked at her Little Red Riding Hood costume, thought of the Parade of Lost Souls, and how Bobby Ryan was going to be there, and how Melissa Jones was going to be there, in her skimpy hot Catwoman costume with her big boobs hanging out everywhere — and there was no way she was going to let Bobby be alone with slutty Melissa at the Parade of Lost Souls.

No way ever.

And that meant only one thing. She was going to get out of here.

She just had to find a way.

After leaving the Kwan residence, Striker made sure that both patrol cops — both marked units — were still outside the front and back doors of his own house on guard detail. With the discovery that Patricia Kwan was a cop, everything felt that much closer to home, and he worried about Courtney. With her safe and out of the way, he could rest easier and better focus on the investigation.

Which was now taking them to strange places.

He drove towards Felicia’s, stopped for a red light at Granville. While waiting for the green, his cell went off. The screen told him it was Noodles, so he picked up.

‘Friends of the Friendless,’ he said.

Noodles laughed. ‘You’re one lucky SOB, my friend.’

‘Gimme some good news.’

‘How’s this: got a partial print back in the van. Driver’s side window.’

Striker felt a stab of excitement, leaned forward in his seat. ‘Got a name?’

‘Most likely, it’s Anthony Gervais.’

It was a name Striker knew well. ‘Most likely?’

‘The print is only a partial. But I’d bet money on the ID.’

Striker nodded absently. ‘I’ll get right on it.’ He hung up and slid the cell back into its pouch.

Anthony Gervais. Better known as Chinese Tony. To find his print in a murder vehicle was surprising.

At quarter to seven, Striker picked up Felicia. When she came out of her house — a quaint little duplex just off Commercial Drive, down near McSpadden Park — her dark brown eyes looked sharper than he’d seen them the past two days. More focused. When she hopped inside the cruiser, he handed her a Starbucks Grande Vanilla Latte and a piece of lemon loaf with strawberry icing.

She took it, didn’t eat. ‘Patricia Kwan’s a fucking cop?’

He nodded, drove west on East Fifth. ‘Vancouver Police Department. One of our own.’

‘How? Someone would’ve known her. Or recognised her. Or… something.’

‘She’s worked the odd side for the last year, so the even guys never see her. And before that she was seconded to Surrey. One of those joint task forces — Fraud, I think. So with the exception of a few Call Outs, she’s been gone for over five years.’

‘She still should come up in the system.’

‘She does.’ Striker took a sip of his coffee, switched into the right-hand lane. ‘In all the chaos no one thought to run her — we were all too preoccupied with saving her life, I guess. Not that it matters. We would’ve found out eventually.’

‘Sooner is better.’ Felicia stared out the window at the darkness of the city. ‘Jesus Christ, Jacob, where the hell is this woman’s kid?’

Striker wished he had an answer. After turning north on Commercial, they drove along Venables Street, over the Georgia Viaduct, into the downtown core. It wasn’t until they reached Burrard that Felicia even asked where they were going.

‘Comox Street.’

‘Shouldn’t we be getting back to Ich? The feed should be translated by now.’

‘Nope. The feed isn’t translated yet. I just talked to Ich before picking you up, and the translator Mosaic sent over couldn’t do it. Said it was some strange dialect, and that they’d be sending someone else.’

‘This is bullshit.’

‘You’re preaching to the choir, kid.’

Felicia looked at the tall skyscrapers that were slowly popping up, one by one, as the downtown core grew closer. ‘Why Comox Street?’

Striker stopped for a bus that was swinging out into the lane. ‘To see Anthony Gervais.’

‘You mean Chinese Tony?’

‘The one and only.’

‘Why him?’

‘The van we found on Gore and Pender — the one with Kieu and the two thugs inside — well, we got a partial print back on the steering column. Three guesses who it belongs to, and the first two don’t count.’

Felicia frowned, said nothing, sipped her latte.

‘What?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I’ve dealt with Chinese Tony a million times. He’s a maggot, that’s for sure, one of the worst property crime toads out there… but he isn’t a killer.’