He turned to Felicia. ‘You talk to the wife?’

‘The woman’s a basket case,’ she said, squinting against the vapours. ‘Not that anyone could blame her. Got Victim Services and the paramedics with her now, but it ain’t helping much.’

‘She tell you anything?’

‘Yeah. Hubby here’s got a brand new Lexus. LS600. Flagship of the fleet, apparently. It’s glossy black with lots of gold and chrome.’

‘Get a plate?’

‘Fox-lima-lima three forty.’ Before Striker could say more, she held up a hand. ‘Already broadcast it. Everyone out there’s on the hunt.’ She studied the car. ‘What you get in here?’

Striker moved further out of the garage, away from the fumes. ‘Go run the plate of the Civic.’

‘Already did over the air. It’s stolen. Obviously.’

‘Run it again. On our computer.’

Felicia gave him a queer look, then walked over to the undercover cruiser. She hopped in the driver’s seat, rotated the terminal, punched in the plate, then hit send. Ten seconds later, the computer beeped when the feed came back:

ON FILE.

Felicia turned back to face him. ‘Like I said, it’s stolen.’

‘The car’s not stolen, the plates are,’ Striker corrected. ‘Look when.’

She did. ‘Stolen just this morning. Seven hundred block of Howe Street. That’s the north end of District One.’ She scanned the report. ‘Without keys. No witnesses. No video. No nothing.’

Striker was silent. He moved back inside the garage, up to the driver’s door, and stared through the front windshield. Through the cracks and lines he made out the Vehicle Identification Number – the serial number unique to every vehicle.

‘Run this VIN for me,’ he called out to Felicia. He read out the eighteen letters and numbers, and she typed them into the computer, then read them back for confirmation. Again she hit send.

‘It comes back the same,’ she said, a few seconds later. ‘A ninety-four green Honda Civic, two-door. Stolen.’

‘When was it stolen?’

She looked at the screen, and her brow furrowed. ‘That’s odd . . . says here the car was stolen over nine days ago.’

‘That’s because it was.’

‘How—’

‘This is a different car from the one the licence plates were stolen from, just the same year and manufacturer.’

Felicia drummed her long clear fingernails on the terminal. ‘Why go to all the bother of stealing this car a whole week ago when they could just have stolen it today? Either way, the cops are gonna run the plate and find out it’s stolen. Makes no sense.’

‘It made sense to them. There’s a reason.’

Felicia’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘If anything, it actually increases their chances of getting caught – they had a stolen car with them for over a week.’ She stopped drumming her fingernails on the computer terminal, let out a tired sound, climbed back out of the cruiser. ‘Any ideas, Sherlock?’

‘Just one, but I need some time to think about it.’

Striker approached the vehicle. The Civic had already been searched once, but only cursorily. It needed more. He put on new gloves, then moved to the driver’s side door, which was already wide open. He looked around the immediate area, being careful not to disturb the dead body of Mr Vander Haven. A pack of Player’s Filter Lights was wedged under the driver’s seat against the middle console.

Strange.

When the gas fumes got to be too much, Striker leaned back out of the car and gasped for a breath of fresh air.

‘Any history on the registered owner?’ he asked Felicia.

She shook her head. ‘RO’s just some ordinary Joe from downtown.’

‘Get a hold of him. Find out if he smoked or not, and if so, what brand.’

She gave him a long look, her dark eyes holding a spark of resistance, then nodded reluctantly and turned back for the cruiser.

Striker continued rummaging through the car. He did so carefully. Vehicle searches were always a double-edged sword, not just because of the legal ramifications, but because of the difficulty in obtaining untainted evidence. DNA, microfibres, cellular material – it cross-contaminated with the slightest touch. Best case scenario would have been to leave the vehicle untouched for Ident, but Striker knew if he didn’t get in there now and search for clues, the passing time could be detrimental to finding Red Mask.

It was another no-win situation.

Striker did his best not to touch anything, not even the broken cubes of window glass. He deftly lifted the floor mats, opened the consoles, flipped through CD cases and registration papers. With two fingers, he picked up the pack of cigarettes and opened the top flap. When all he saw inside were ordinary cigarettes, he closed it and put it back down on the passenger seat.

Last of all was the key he’d found in the bloodied mud. It was a possible source of fingerprints, though everything Striker had seen so far suggested that Red Mask would not have been foolish enough to leave any prints behind.

Certainly not on the key.

Striker removed the first pair of gloves he’d touched the cigarettes with. Once he had a new pair on, he took the key from his shirt pocket and looked it over. It was black and silver with an H at the base, but there were no scuff marks on the steel, meaning it was new. He then studied the grey plastic fob and the yellow plastic happy face, looking for clues.

Felicia returned from the cruiser. ‘The registered owner’s name is Taylor Drew,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t smoke, and he says no one ever smokes in his vehicles.’

Striker looked up. ‘Good. Don’t touch the cigarettes, we’ll see what Noodles can find on them.’

She gave him one of her you-think-I’m-an-idiot? looks, and turned her attention to the items in his hands.

‘That’s what you found in the mud outside?’

Striker nodded.

‘Lucky,’ she said.

‘Strange,’ he corrected. ‘Even stranger is the fact he had a key at all. The car’s a stolen, right? Taken without keys. And there’s damage on the driver’s side lock, so we know how they got in.’ Striker held up the key. ‘But this is a Honda – the same key that starts the ignition also opens the door. So the question is, why break the lock to get in if you got the key that opens the door in the first place?’

‘Maybe the key that starts the car isn’t the same one that opens the door.’

‘Exactly,’ he said, then gestured at the steering column. ‘And why aren’t we finding a broken ignition plate and some loose wires in there?’

Felicia shrugged. ‘We’re dealing with extremely careful guys here. They know if any cop sees a broken ignition, they’ll think it’s a stolen vehicle.’

‘But the stolen plates would already tell them that.’ Striker turned the key-ring over in his hand, looked at the fob. It was a small grey thing. Completely generic. He pressed the button, but none of the doors or trunk unlocked. ‘The fob’s for something else.’

‘Garage?’ Felicia asked.

‘Maybe. Or an elevator. Or a building entrance.’ Striker looked at the yellow key-ring charm. It was connected by a short chain. He flipped it over. On the opposite side was a happy face, though someone had painted a bullet-hole between the eyes, with a red blood trail running down the centre.

Felicia scrunched up her face. ‘How quaint.’

Striker said nothing. He just kept thinking it over and rolling the happy face between his finger and thumb. He was in the same position, still thinking, when a marked patrol car pulled up. The engine was overheated, and it died with a rattle.

Constable Chris Pemberton stepped out, all six foot six and three hundred pounds of the man. Striker was six foot one and worked out hard with weights, yet Pemberton made him look ordinary. Pemberton was a five-year guy, solid for patrol, and soon to be on his way to a specialty squad.

Striker briefed him on the situation. ‘No one comes in or out except us and Ident. Keep a ledger with precise times. If Deputy Chief Laroche shows up and pushes his way in, make sure he signs the ledger. That prick has a pattern of contaminating crime scenes.’