was done, he was fairly certain that the first letter in the licence plate was a J.
The rest of the letters and numbers were impossible to make out.
He snagged a disc from the shelf, slid it into the tray, and burned a copy of the feed for the Forensic Video Unit. They could do wonders with digital files nowadays, but Striker had little hope in what they could find. The problem wasn’t just the clarity – it was the angle.
J was likely as good as it would get.
He saved the file on the hard drive, started a new video timeline for the store, then left the office and closed the door behind him. He’d barely gotten three steps into the store before he ran right into Felicia, who was rushing in through the front doors.
‘You get anything?’ she asked.
He gave her a flat look. ‘It’s a Beamer. Dark, possibly black. An X5, just like we thought. The first letter in the plate looks like a J. But that’s as good as it gets.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘Any video on your end?’
‘No,’ she said, then smiled. ‘But I did one better – I found us a witness .’
Fifteen
They drove two blocks down to the warehouse where Felicia had already gotten the business owner, John Gibson, to start writing up a proper witness statement. GPT Industries – Gibson Plastics & Tubing – was a square cement warehouse that sat on the corner of Vernon Drive and Franklin Street.
Striker knew this area well. They were dead smack in the heart of the Franklin industrial area. He had done a hundred stings here over the years, all related to sex and drugs because it was the hottest spot for all different flavours of the sex-trade industry. When someone on Franklin Street said they blew their tranny, they weren’t talking about the transmission of their Oldsmobile.
The warehouse was old, looked ready to crumble, and sat less than a hundred metres from the train tracks and overpass. Striker pulled their cruiser up front and parked in the gated lot. With Felicia by his side, he walked under the broken yellow neon sign that now read only GPT Indust and climbed the cement stairs.
Inside the warehouse, the air was no warmer than the freezing chill outside. All the workers had long gone home for the day, and because of that the place looked deserted. The air stank of diesel oil and some type of plastic glue. Together, the two scents produced a strange, caustic smell.
They entered the main office.
John Gibson was sitting behind an old monstrosity of a desk that looked to be made of metal. He was an older man, probably mid-sixties, with a short, wiry build and thinning grey hair. His hands were dirty and calloused, but they looked strong enough to tear phone books in half.
In front of him on the desk sat his statement, already written. Even from where Striker stood, the writing looked like chicken scratches on the page. It was full of spelling errors. Striker said nothing; it was typical for this area. And for all the bad grammar and spelling errors, he appreciated getting the statement. It was one more than they already had.
Gibson looked up with a pissed-off expression on his face. ‘Back already, huh?’
Felicia smiled. ‘Yes, we finished up with our other witnesses. This is Detective Striker.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Striker said.
When John Gibson just grunted and gave a half nod, Striker grabbed the statement paper and read it over. The statement was brief, not even half a page long. Most of it was no more than a nonsensical rant. Clarification on many points was necessary. He skimmed down to the part about the driver and the licence plate.
What he saw made him smile.
The details on the driver were vague at best – the person was unidentified with no description – but whoever the driver was, he was definitely alone. And, more importantly, the last two numbers in the plate were listed.
Seven and nine.
Striker looked up at the old man. ‘Seven and nine? You’re sure about that, Mr Gibson?’
‘Damn right, I am. One