Felicia reached out and touched his arm. ‘You can’t save the world, Jacob.’

‘She was one girl.’ He looked back at all the reports and felt sick to his stomach. ‘Anyway, she had no siblings. And only one cousin, a guy named James John Gill. You’d know him better as Jimmy J.’

‘Jimmy J? – You mean Gonzo?’

‘The one and only.’

Felicia thought it over. ‘Didn’t he die over six months ago? In that meth lab explosion on Blenheim?’

Striker nodded. ‘Damn near obliterated himself.’ He thought it over for a while, then added, ‘They never did recover all the money.’

‘Because it was blown to shreds.’

‘Was it?’ he asked. That was probably the case, but there were no absolutes in this world. Definitely not in the business of policing. He took a moment to write this down in his notebook, then picked up his half-full coffee cup and rolled it back and forth in his hands. He was just about to return to reading the computer screen when Felicia made a hmm sound.

‘What you got?’ he asked.

‘Maybe something, maybe nothing. Listen. There was a driving complaint. Brand-new SUV, a Beamer—’

‘Probably an X5.’

‘Sure, whatever.’ Felicia was terrible with makes and models. ‘Anyway, the complaint came in just five minutes after you went over the air requesting a canine unit. This guy was really flying. Doing nearly a hundred, according to the complainant. And he blew right through a stop sign. Almost caused an accident. Never even stopped.’

Striker thought this over. ‘Where?’

‘Vernon Drive and East Hastings Street.’

‘That’s not far from Mandy’s place,’ Striker noted. ‘Just a few blocks east and north.’

Felicia nodded. ‘It’s real close. Vehicle was racing north, then made a hard left turn on Franklin. That’s when the complainant lost sight.’

‘Any details?’

She read on. ‘The vehicle was dark, maybe black, with shiny chrome mags.’

‘That’s standard dress, right from the factory. Any plate?’

Felicia just shook her head. ‘Not even a partial.’

Striker thought this over and dumped out his cold coffee. He sat up in the chair and smiled.

‘No plate yet,’ he said. He stood up and grabbed his notebook.

‘Where are you going?’ Felicia asked.

‘Put on your coat,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Vernon and Hastings. I’ve been there before. That intersection has a Chevron on the southeast corner.’ Striker’s smile widened. ‘They got video.’

Fourteen

The Chevron gas station located on the corner of East Hastings Street and Vernon Drive was a magnet for trouble. Had been ever since Striker joined the VPD. And the details showed that: the front door was always locked after ten; the front window was made out of safety glass; and the bathroom used a black light source for illumination, not white, because it made it harder for junkies to shoot up in there when they snuck inside. All in all, Striker had been to the Vernon Drive Chevron more than a hundred times, kicking out the junk monkeys and drunks, and chasing down shoplifters and armed robbers.

Because of this, he knew the staff well.

‘Hey, Wanda,’ he said as he entered the store.

The large woman with the wild hair looked up from behind the register and beamed. ‘Detective Striker!’ she said in an overly loud voice. ‘Now just where have you been, my big beautiful man?’

‘Cloud eight,’ he replied. ‘Still trying to work my way to Nirvana.’

Wanda laughed in big heavy gusts, then hurried around the counter. She was a big woman. Her hips were so wide they barely fitted through the desk opening, her knees were knocked, and her breasts were so large and heavy they came close to popping the buttons of her uniform. She gave Striker a bear hug that lasted embarrassingly long, then let go almost unwillingly.

Felicia stood there watching the show with a half-smile on her face. She gave Striker an odd look, and he just shook his head. He’d known Wanda Whittington for over ten years now, and the woman would never change. At five foot five and nearing two hundred and forty pounds, no one would ever be accused of calling the woman dainty. But her build was never what he noticed; it was her heart. Wanda was a good person.

Striker introduced the two women, then got right down to business.

‘We need help,’ he said to Wanda. ‘A big SUV came rampaging through here, sometime between four-twenty and four-forty earlier today.’

Felicia nodded. ‘The driving complaint was called in at exactly four twenty-eight.’

‘Do you remember it?’ Striker asked. ‘This guy was apparently driving balls to the wall.’

Wanda Whittington thought it over, her big brown eyes taking on a faraway look behind her chubby, freckled cheeks. She scratched at her hair, then let out a frustrated sound and shrugged.

‘It was just so damn busy today,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ Striker said. ‘Either you saw it or you didn’t. Was anyone else on shift with you at that time?’

She absently rubbed the knuckles of her left hand. ‘Well, Davie was supposed to be working with me today, but he never showed – he’s probably drunk again. You know how he is. Called in three times last week saying he was sick, but everyone knows he’s on the sauce. And on the cheap stuff, too. Likes the red can.’

Striker just nodded. He’d known Davie for almost as long as he’d known Wanda. A nice, harmless guy. But he had a problem, no doubt. Like half the population down here.

He looked past Wanda, past the black-light washrooms, at the manager’s office. The door was painted blue and had a brand-new peephole installed. It was closed and more than likely locked.

‘You still got video back there?’ Striker asked.

Wanda nodded. She returned to the register, locked the till, then grabbed the office key they kept hidden behind the moneydrop box. She rounded the counter and passed Striker by.

‘Follow me, my beautiful man.’

She walked up to the blue door, unlocked it, and disappeared inside. Striker started to follow her. When Felicia didn’t join him, he stopped and turned to face her. ‘You coming?’

She didn’t respond at first, she just kept looking out of the window. To the north. ‘The caller said the Beamer turned left on Franklin,’ she recalled. ‘Vernon and Franklin . . . isn’t that the corner where we attended that suicide last year – the one in front of the plastics warehouse?’

Striker nodded, seeing her point. ‘They got video, too.’

‘I’ll head down there and see what I can dredge up. In the meantime, you finish here. Pick me up down there when you’re done.’ She leaned close, smiled, and whispered, ‘Want to borrow my rape whistle in case things go bad?’

‘You mean in case things go well.’ He smiled back at her, then shook his head. ‘If I can handle you, I can handle anyone, especially Wanda. I’ll pick you up in twenty.’

Felicia just rolled her eyes, gave his face a pat and left the store. With her gone, Striker locked the front door for Wanda – to prevent anyone from coming inside and stealing products – then entered the back room.

To reach the office, he had to cut through a small narrow stock room. Walls of motor oil, and candy bars filling the shelves. Everything smelled of lemons from the car deodorizers.

Tucked away in the far back corner of the store was a small nook, used to house the security system. Wanda was already standing over it, leaning forward over the desk. With her there, there was little room left for anyone else – much less a man of Striker’s six-foot-one, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound size. He did his best to lean over her shoulder and watch the security surveillance feed.

The video system was new, and that made Striker smile. The old one had been a software program called Omni-Eye. Striker had used it before. The program was slow, buggy, and crashed halfway through most of the applications – especially when burning video evidence for court. It was also not uncommon to burn the video, then leave with a blank DVD.