The Survivor Read Online Free PDF Page B

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