Striker nodded. ‘Outpatient care.’
‘Christ Almighty.’
Striker looked at the room keys hanging on the board. ‘Did Billy actually live here, himself?’
Janice almost spit out her coffee. ‘Here? No, never.
Sarah
did. She was why he always came by. They were part of that EvenHealth programme, you know. For all the good it ever did them.’
That got Striker’s attention. ‘Not a fan of the programme?’
She waved a hand. ‘
Please
. It’s all fluff – just like the doctor who created it. Everything is image. Stats. That’s how he makes his money, you know. By getting people out of government care so it costs the taxpayer less money. He gets a percentage of costs saved.’
‘You got proof of that?’
‘It’s what people in the profession say.’
Striker said nothing. He just made a note of this, then flipped through the pages of his notebook. So many of the words seemed to jump out at him.
Billy Mercury. EvenHealth. Dr Ostermann
and
Dr Richter
.
Medications and mental illness – it was becoming a common theme.
He finally looked up and refocused on Sarah Rose. ‘No forwarding address?’ he asked.
Before Janice could respond, Felicia knocked on the door. Striker let her in. She was breathing hard from running and her eyes looked like dark fire. ‘I got it,’ she said. ‘Sarah’s latest res. It’s out east. The one place we should’ve looked in the first place.’
‘Where?’ Striker asked.
‘Where you think?’ she teased.
The sour tone of her voice gave it away.
‘Hermon Drive.’
Hermon Drive was a complex of communal housing, situated in District 2, far out east in the North Renfrew area. Although dilapidated in its own right, the complex was one step up from the shit of the skids and the concrete jungles of the Raymur Street slums, but that was as far as the sugar-coating went. The road was a short slope, composed only of low-income box apartments built in the fifties. Only the poor lived here.
And that included Sarah Jane Rose.
Striker and Felicia had been here too many times to remember over the years. For all the bad calls. Anything related to drugs or mental health.
They drove towards the area. They took East Broadway all the way out, then parked a half-block away and walked in on foot. Far above, the sun did nothing to ward off the cold, and the wind blustered hard against them.
As they made their way down the sloping crest of asphalt, Striker saw several groups of kids hanging out and watching them. Teenagers, for the most part. Fewer than half of them would see Day One of grade twelve, but they were street smart. Had to be to survive around here.
A few pointed and a couple called, ‘Six up.’
Street slang for
cops nearby
.
Felicia smiled. ‘I think we got them fooled.’
Striker smiled at that. The only people who were ever fooled by the undercover cruisers and suits were the normal folk living in middle and upper-class areas. Criminals and the poor always knew the cops with a single glance. Criminals because they were always being arrested, and the poor because they were so often the victims.
They located 3103 Hermon Drive, and Striker slowed his pace. Half the buildings were covered with scaffolding and old green tarps from where they were repairing water damage. Striker took note of all this. The place looked ready to fall down all around them.
They found Sarah Rose’s address. It was located in a set of row-homes. The windows were all barred, and the paint was flaking and dirty. Sarah Rose’s unit was situated at the east end, beside a playground where children rarely played. Inside the townhome, the lights were all on, but there was no movement inside.
‘Want to call for a second unit?’ Felicia asked.
Striker shook his head. ‘Not yet. Just put us out.’
Felicia did. She got on her cell, called Dispatch, and let them know the address. ‘Put us already on scene,’ she added. By the time she hung up, they were walking in between the two bushes that flanked the front walkway.
Striker reached the front alcove and studied the door. It was made from solid wood, lighter in colour than the frame. When he looked at the hinges, he realized that the door actually opened
outwards
, which was unusual for these places. He took a moment to study the next-door neighbour’s doorway and saw that it was quite different. The wood looked darker, older. He turned to face Felicia.
‘Was there anything in the computer about a break-in here?’
‘No, nothing was listed in PRIME.’
He didn’t like the answer. The door had been fortified for some reason. Why? Was Sarah Rose afraid of something?
Or someone?
He reached out and rapped on the door. It was hard and let off a solid-sounding
thunk-thunk-thunk
. As they waited for a response, Striker took a quick look behind them at the building that was in a state of disrepair. Probably another leaky condo. On the other side of the road, in one of the ground-level suites, someone was watching them. A lone figure standing just behind the sheers and drapes. Striker nodded at the man, but received nothing in reply.
It was typical for the area. Police unfriendly.
‘No one’s home,’ Felicia said.
Striker rapped harder. He leaned over the railing and tried to look through the kitchen window, but the lower portion of the glass was bevelled, and the upper portion was too high to see through. He tried the front door, found it locked.
‘Any phone number for this res?’ he asked.
Felicia shook her head. ‘None listed. Tried Info, too. They got nothing.’
‘Hold the front then,’ he said.
When Felicia nodded, Striker made his way around the building, cutting through the empty playground. Once there, he frowned. The rear of the townhome belonged to a separate residence altogether. The buildings faced back to back, which meant there were no windows facing south.
And no rear entry.
The front was the only way in.
When he returned to the front, Felicia nodded to the adjoining row-home. ‘No one’s home there, either,’ she said. ‘Actually, it looks like it’s unrented right now.’
‘Big surprise.’ Striker removed a folding knife from his inner jacket pocket and opened the blade.
Felicia took note. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making entry.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Exigent circumstances.’ He assessed the lock. It was made from steel and appeared strong, but the wooden frame of the doorway was bowed and old. ‘Mandy Gill is dead. Billy Mercury is clearly off his rocker. And now Sarah Rose isn’t answering her front door.’
‘Which means she could be out getting groceries, for all we know. We haven’t even checked Billy’s place yet.’
‘This is more urgent.’
‘We don’t even know if Sarah lives here,’ Felicia said.
Striker just smiled at her. ‘Well, we’re about to find out.’
Striker angled the knife in between the lock and the frame, put pressure medially, and a loud
crack!
filled the air. The door popped open and swung lightly outwards.
Felicia swore, then drew her pistol. ‘This’ll never hold up in court.’
‘My evidence, not yours,’ he said, then stepped inside the foyer.
The first thing Striker noticed upon making entry was the smell – a strong burned stink. Directly ahead of them was a long narrow stairway leading down, and that confused Striker momentarily as he tried to understand the layout. There was no upper floor, no main floor – that belonged to the back suite. All Sarah Rose’s apartment owned was the lower floor. And this looked like the only way in and out.
‘This suite should be illegal,’ Felicia said.
Striker said nothing. He just studied the way ahead. Down the stairs, which descended directly in front of him following the small foyer, there was light. Artificial, not natural. Everything looked dim and hazy.
‘There’s smoke down there,’ Felicia noted.
When Striker’s eyes adapted, he saw it, too. A thin veil of smoke floated through the air. Looking down the stairs into the murky darkness of the lower floor gave him a bad feeling. The smoke seemed heavier to the right, in what appeared to be a small kitchen area. But from this upper angle it was difficult to tell.
‘Hello?’ Striker called out. ‘It’s the Vancouver Police! Is anyone home?’ When he received no answer, he gave Felicia the nod. ‘Stick together on this one. There’s no cover.’
‘Keep close to the wall,’ she said.
He agreed.
They started down the stairs. Striker took them two at a time, until he felt his shoes touch the hard concrete of the bottom floor. The burned smell was stronger here. He immediately looked around and could see an empty living room and kitchenette to his right, a hallway leading left, and another room at the end of the corridor ahead. No matter which way they walked, they would be exposing themselves to some degree.
He didn’t like it.
He looked around the area. In the living room, the TV was turned on, the sound muted. On the table sat a container of box wine, some prescription pill bottles, and a bag of Miss Vickie’s Sea Salt & Vinegar chips.
‘Watch the hall and our backs,’ Striker told Felicia.
‘Got it.’ She moved up behind him, using the wall as poor cover.
Striker stepped inside the living room and adjoining kitchenette. On the stove was a cast-iron pan with the element below it glowing red. He looked at the switch and saw it was set to High. He moved up to the stove and looked inside the pan. In it was the source of the burned smell. It made him frown.
‘Coffee granules.’
‘Oh fuck me,’ Felicia said.
Striker felt her concern. There was a reason for it. In the old days, before the influx of proper breathing apparatuses, the burning of coffee granules was sometimes used by cops – as well as murderers – to hide the smell of a dead body.
To see them burning in the pan was not a good sign.
He turned off the element.
With the kitchen, bathroom and living room both cleared of threat, he made his way down the hallway towards the lone bedroom. The door was half open, the light also on. When he reached the archway, he peered inside the room.
The bed was messed, piles of clothes spotted the floor, and the bureau was covered in old newspapers. Some pill bottles, too. The drawers were left open. Everything was a mess, but the room was empty. The closet, too.
Striker picked up one of the prescription bottles from the bureau. Most of the writing had faded, but the name was readable.
Sarah Jane Rose.
‘We’re definitely in the right place,’ he called out. ‘She lives here.’
He rejoined Felicia in the hallway, then took the lead. Gun at the low-ready, he made his way towards the final corridor to the left. There, all the lights were turned off, and Striker didn’t like it. After a few more steps, he liked it even less. The burned smell of the coffee grounds faded and was replaced by a new stink. One all too familiar.
‘Shit, we got us a DB,’ Felicia said.
Striker nodded. ‘Don’t lose focus.’
He stared ahead and let his eyes adapt to the gloom. The corridor was long and narrow with no room to move. There were no doors on either side, just a single room at the end. An office, or a second bedroom maybe.
Regardless, it was a bad place for entry.
‘Hold back,’ he said to Felicia.
‘What?’
‘Just hold here.’
‘No way, I’m coming with you.’
Striker never took his eyes from the darkness ahead. ‘It’s a fatal goddam funnel, Feleesh. If someone starts shooting we’ll both be screwed. At least from back here you can cover me.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. Just
hold
.’
Felicia said nothing more. She repositioned herself in the doorway of the living room for better cover, and Striker made his way down. With every step, the darkness thickened and the smell got worse. Dirty, foul . . .
oily
.
He reached the doorway of the last room, peered slowly around the corner, studied the room. It was dim. At the far end, near the top of the wall, was an iron-barred window. It was small, less than a foot high and two feet in length, built obviously to give the room a trace of natural light.
And it did, just barely.
Within that cone of natural dimness, Striker could see a recliner positioned in the very centre of the room. Seated in it, with her feet up and facing the opposite way, was a woman. Her hand dangled off the armrest, her fingers clutched tightly into a fist.
Striker scanned the room one more time to be sure there were no threats. When he saw none, he made entry into the small room and slowly rounded the person in the chair. When he reached the front and studied her face, his stomach tightened.
It was the woman from the photocopied picture Dr Ostermann had given him. It was Sarah Jane Rose. And judging from the amount of rigor on her face, she’d been dead for quite some time. They were too late again.
Another woman was dead.
When the two cops went inside the building, the Adder tied the long laces of his leather mask and pulled up the hoodie of his kangaroo jacket, fully hiding his face. He left the Command Room by cutting through the sheers and drapes, and climbing out of the front-room window. The frozen blades of grass crunched beneath his feet.
He hurried down the slope, then raced across Hermon Drive, the cold wind blowing through the eye slits of the mask; the screw-gun dangling from his tool belt. In his hands, he carried a burlap sack, filled with the metal brackets, a package of thirty ten-inch wood screws, and the four cans of Steinman’s wood varnish.
The fifth can he kept separate.
When the Adder was close enough, he opened it, then threw both the can and the lid into the bushes that flanked the front walkway of Sarah Rose’s townhome.
Up ahead, the front door was slightly open.
The Adder took note of this. He rounded the lot and came in from the side; no point in being seen just yet. When he was close enough to the doorway to smell the burned coffee grounds inside the unit, he slowed down. Reached the entrance. Peered inside.