Striker’s eyes moved on until they found the vehicle he was looking for. The stolen Civic.

Red Mask’s ride.

Striker moved to the bay door and took hold of the handle. The rollers were rigid and in desperate need of oiling. The metal made a sharp, grating noise as Striker reefed down hard on the chain and rolled the steel door open. It was barely three-quarters up when Felicia drove the cruiser inside the bay. She climbed out, shivered from the cold, zipped up her suede jacket.

‘Coffee after this,’ she said. ‘Immediately.’

Striker agreed. He closed the garage door and turned towards the Civic. The yellow copy of the Ident Form was trapped beneath the driver’s side windshield-wiper. Before he could read it, Felicia snatched it up. She held it in her long, thin fingers, her clear nails digging into the paper. She finished reading, made a face, deflated.

‘Not a single goddam print in the car.’

‘You didn’t really expect any, did you?’ Striker looked inside the vehicle. One clear bag sat on the front passenger seat, tagged after processing for fingerprints and DNA analysis. It held the key-ring and keys, complete with fob and happy face. Someone had written No Prints in thick black felt on the bag. The member’s badge number and the incident number were included.

Striker looked at the badge number, saw it wasn’t Noodles, and it pissed him off. He liked Noodles. Noodles was the best. Then he looked over the paperwork and saw that the cigarettes had also been processed:

Prints positive. Subject: Quenton Wong.

Striker stared at this for a long time, then showed it to Felicia.

‘It puts him in the car,’ she said.

‘No. It connects him to the car, the shooter, or anyone connected to either one. But how, we don’t know.’

Striker removed his long coat and draped it over the work bench. He put on a fresh pair of latex gloves, then moved over to the metallic whiteboard on the west wall, where numerous yellow forms were hanging by clip-magnets. He shifted them all to the left side, exposing a large patch of white steel, then returned to the Civic.

Felicia joined him. ‘So Que’s prints are on the cigarettes, and now he’s dead. Great. So aside from knowing he’s somehow connected, all we got is another dead end on our hands.’

Striker corrected her. ‘This has been anything but a dead end.’

She furrowed her brow.

‘It’s not just about the prints,’ he explained. ‘It’s about why they stole the car a whole week before the shootings.’

‘And you got an answer for that?’

‘I think so.’ He pulled Courtney’s happy face magnet from his pocket and handed it to Felicia. ‘What do you see?’

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.’

Thirty

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.