‘Good work, by the way,’ Striker added. ‘Looked damn near factory made. Almost as good as the one you did for that drug trafficker last year – what was his name, Whitebear? – or the one you made six months before that, for Jeremy Koln.’

Clayfield swallowed hard, looked helplessly around the room.

Striker pretended not to notice. He gave Felicia a look. ‘What time is it?’

‘Too damn late,’ she said. ‘Let’s just lock this place down and charge this prick – it’s a good stat for us anyway.’

‘Ah fuck it,’ Striker agreed. ‘You’re right.’ He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to get a hold of Dispatch. Told them who he was. ‘We’re gonna need a pair of two-man cars down here after all. And the wagon. I got to transport someone to jail.’

‘Okay, okay, okay,’ Clayfield said. His face had gone white, highlighting the red splotches of his skin. His breath was coming in wheezy puffs. He slammed his fist against the locker near the wall and yelled, ‘That fuckin’ Rifanzi!’

Striker paused, said into the phone, ‘Hold up on that wagon for a moment. I’ll call you back.’ He put the phone away and met Clayfield’s stare. ‘You’re not the fish I want, Clayfield. I want the man who booked this job. He’s the real connection to the gunmen.’

Clayfield’s expression crumbled; his eyes took on a pleading look.

‘It was just done as a favour,’ he said. ‘Honest. He gets me supplies, this guy – from Japan. I was just paying him back for what I owed.’

‘I’m losing patience.’

‘I never even knowed it was stolen, for chrissake!’

‘Just give me a goddam name.’

Clayfield’s eyes turned down and away, and suddenly he looked a whole lot smaller than his six foot frame. When he spoke, his voice broke.

‘Edward Rundell,’ he croaked.

Thirty-Nine

The moment Striker and Felicia returned to the car, they ran Edward Rundell over the computer. The man came back completely negative. No criminal history. No reports written in the PRIME database. No nothing. And for a moment, Striker felt that maybe Sheldon Clayfield was smarter than they’d given him credit for.

Striker got on the phone. He called Jimmy Hensley in Fraud, told him Edward Rundell was some kind of liaison between the car modifier and the gunmen, and asked if he’d ever heard of him.

The answer was no.

Striker then called Chogi Saurn in Drugs, Jillian Wiles in the General Investigation Unit, and Stephan Fanglesworth, known as ‘Fang’, who worked in Financial Crime. He asked them all if they’d ever heard of an Edward Rundell. The resounding answer was no.

Edward Rundell just didn’t exist.

‘Try Info,’ Felicia suggested.

Striker did. He got on the Info channel and ran Rundell over the air. Again, no criminal history came back on the man. He did get a British Columbia Driver’s Licence, but even that was a problem. There was no phone number on file, and the address listed as the primary residence was in the 1600 block of Turner Street in Vancouver – an address Striker knew didn’t exist. The thought made his head hurt, and he put a hand over his left temple. Something felt wrong in there, like he had too much blood in his brain.

Felicia nudged him. ‘Want some Tylenol?’

He said sure, and she handed him some. Then she pulled out her cell phone, scrolled through her long list of contacts, and dialled. ‘Rundell’s got to have a number,’ she said. ‘It’s just unlisted. I’ll try a few contacts I have.’

‘How many phone company sources you got?’

‘About ten or so.’

‘’Bout ten? I got one.’

She smiled. ‘We’re women. We talk.’

Striker just nodded and let the pill dissolve in his mouth. He wished he had some water to go with it, but there was only cold coffee. While he waited, he hit the unit status button to see what else was going on in the city. He did this often. It was a habit of his, ever since his days in Patrol. He liked knowing what was happening elsewhere, especially the parts he was passing through. There was nothing worse than getting that call over the air requesting you to stay out of someone’s stakeout scene right after you’d driven through it in your police car.

Nothing on the unit status grabbed his attention. He pulled out his BlackBerry and tried home again. Surprise filled him when it was picked up.

‘Hello?’ Courtney said. Her voice was light.

‘Courtney, it’s me.’

She made a sound like she was surprised, like she was expecting someone else. ‘I thought you were a friend.’

‘Raven?’

Courtney let out a frustrated exclamation. ‘Raine, Dad! She’s only, like, the most important person in my life. God, she’s my best friend and you don’t even know her name – how uncool is that?’

‘You’ve never even introduced us.’

‘Because you’re never around.’

‘I was around for six months. On leave – for you. You never even brought her around once.’

‘Only because you’d embarrass me.’

‘What? How would I—’

‘Look, I can’t talk right now, Dad.’

‘Can’t, or don’t want to?’

‘Fine, have it your way. Don’t want to.’

Striker felt the faint traces of anger sparking up. ‘You know, at some point you’re going to have to deal with things, Courtney, and not just get angry and run away all the time.’

‘Run away? I’m the one running away? Call the bank, Dad, you need a reality check.’

‘Courtney—’

The phone died, and Striker bit his lip. Wanted to yell right there in the car. But Felicia was on the phone with one of her contacts at Telus, one of Canada’s largest phone providers. So he sat there, stifling his anger with the cell stuck to his ear, wondering if he’d get a friendlier reception from Clayfield and the boys back at Triple A Autobody. When he pouched the phone on his belt, Felicia hung hers up in tandem.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

She made a face. ‘Rundell has no hard line whatsoever. He might operate primarily from a cell.’

‘Lovely.’

‘Well, it’s not a total dead end. Janie’s going to run him through all the systems, see what she can come up with. Promised to call us back sometime today.’

Striker thought it over. There were other databases they could use to find this man, but some of them took warrants. All of them took time. It was not how he wanted to investigate matters, but regardless of his personal choice, it was a route they might yet have to take. He looked at Felicia. ‘How long is “sometime today”?’

‘Knowing Janie, I’d say less than two hours.’

‘We’ll give her the time then.’ He looked around the area they were parked in. It was nothing but square stucco building after square stucco building. They were all warehouse-type businesses with the odd repair shop or processing plant stuck in between.

Striker started the cruiser and powered down the window a crack. The moment he did, he was hit by the strong smell of diesel fumes and garbage. He put the car in drive and headed for 312 Main Street. Headquarters.

At his side, Felicia took the tube of Alco-rub from the glove box and spread some of the transparent gel on her palms, rubbing it vigorously between her fingers as it slowly evaporated.

‘That office was disgusting,’ she said. ‘I got sticky stuff all over my hands.’

Striker gave her a grin.

‘Don’t even go there,’ she warned him.

He didn’t.

When she was finished with the Alco-rub, he asked her to check the unit status again. Felicia tapped the touch-screen a few times, then waited for the computer to beep and bring up the information. When it did, she read through the District Two unit status.

‘This is interesting,’ she said. ‘Got a Charlie unit here. They went on a traffic stop that quickly turned into a Suspicious Vehicle file. They called for radio priority.’