She’d driven to Downtown Eastside and returned to the building that housed the Retro Adult Lounge Club. She’d paid the worn-looking redheaded woman cash for a room upstairs. No credit card record, no name given. All her stuff was in her car now, and she’d muddied up the plates, obscuring the registration. If need be, she’d return to the seedy hotel again tonight, because there she had finally managed to sleep despite the bass thump of the music coming from the basement and reverberating through the walls. It had been almost 10:00 a.m. when Stacey Warrington’s call had roused her.
Stacey had gotten Angie’s message, and she’d run the DNA profiles and ballistics first thing this morning, in spite of the fact she’d heard the rumors of Angie’s termination. She’d called at once with the results.
Angie replayed their conversation as she continued to study the house.
“The DNA profile from one of the semen samples is a match to Milo Belkin.”
“What about the second sample?”
“Nothing in the convicted offender index, but we did get a hit with an unknown individual in the crime scene index. Blood and saliva evidence were left at a crime scene—”
“Which crime scene?”
“The 1993 drug bust involving Milo Belkin and Semyon Zagorsky.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Not a chance. The unknown individual appears to have been wounded in the gun battle with police before fleeing the scene. He left blood. Same DNA as the blood was also found on cigarette butts in the cube van when it was impounded.”
“The cradle semen contributor could be the 1993 cop killer?”
“Possibly. If he was firing a .45 caliber. You’d need to check the cradle case ballistics against ballistics from the 1993 shoot-out.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Stace. While I have you on the line, could you do me one last big favor?”
A hesitation. “Ange, I don’t know what’s going on, but—”
“Have they told you yet, officially, that I’ve been terminated?”
“Not officially.”
“Then you don’t know, right?”
Another pause, then a soft curse. “This could be a firing offence.”
“Only if you know. Please. It’s just a quick criminal record check.”
“What’s the name?”
“Nadia Moss. She was the complainant in the sexual assault and battery charge against Belkin that was later dropped.”
“Give me a second . . . Okay, yeah, she’s got a record. Minor. Possession and soliciting.”
“Thanks. What her last known address?”
Another moment of hesitation.
“I promise, Stace—last thing ever.”
“Somehow I don’t believe you, Angie. Here you go. Last known address, 4527 Rayburn Avenue, East Vancouver.”
And that was the house Angie was parked outside now.
After her call from Stacey, Angie had bought another burner phone in East Van. As much as she wanted to call Maddocks and let him know where she was, she also didn’t want to call him. The less he knew about what she was doing, the less she’d compromise his job, his career. Besides, he’d try to stop her. So would the RCMP—another reason to switch out phones and kill her credit card trail.
She reached for her black cap on the passenger seat and pulled it neatly onto her head, straightening her ponytail in the process. She checked herself in the flip-down visor mirror, although she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was just to prove to herself that she still existed, even though she had no job and was now a cipher erasing traces of her own movements. A pale, haunted face looked back at her. Zero makeup. Zero illusions. She flipped up the visor and got out of her vehicle.
She jogged across the street, headed up the small garden path, and climbed the wooden stairs to the porch. She knocked on the front door. She knew someone was inside—the lights were on, and she’d seen movement in the upstairs window.
Rain plopped from the eaves. She could hear traffic on a busy street a few blocks over and the wail of distant siren.
The door opened a crack, chain lock engaged. A woman peered through the crack.
“Yeah?” she said.
“I’m looking for Nadia.”
“Who’s asking?”
“A friend. Used to dance with her in the late nineties. I’m visiting town, heard she was still around.”
The woman looked her up and down. “She’s not here.”
“But she does live here?”
“Yeah.”
“You a roomie?”
“Pretty much. It’s her house—she owns it. I’ve been renting upstairs from her for six years now.”
“Know where I can find Nadia today?”
“She’ll be at the club later. Works most nights from ten till late.”
“Club?”
“If you danced with her in the nineties, you’ll know which club. That much hasn’t changed.” She shut the door with a snick. Angie heard the lock turn. She ran her gaze over the house one more time. So Nadia Moss still worked at Club Orange B, and clearly she wasn’t doing too badly for herself off her club earnings.
CHAPTER 52
Maddocks’s hands tensed on the wheel as he drove to the surveillance location. It was already late Monday afternoon, and he hadn’t been able to locate Angie. Bowditch’s comment to Takumi ran through his brain.
What appears inconsistent with suicide, however, is the fact he was in the middle of writing a letter to his daughter, Mila.
Angie had said that she believed her twin might have been named Mila. Coincidence?
He drew to a stop at a red light. Traffic was snarling up. He turned on his radio to hear what might have caused the backup. He tuned it to the local news channel.
“Breaking news. The Vancouver Sun is reporting that the dismembered foot that washed up in Tsawwassen shares the DNA of the Vancouver Island female police officer who recently shot and killed notorious sex killer Spencer Addams, a.k.a. the Baptist. The officer is also the angel’s cradle child who was abandoned in 1986.”
What?
Maddocks hit the brakes and pulled over into a parking lot. He turned up the volume.
“This revelation came from forensic psychiatrist and true crime author Dr. Reinhold Grablowski, who helped profile the Baptist and who worked with Detective Angie Pallorino. Dr. Grablowski has secured a book deal to tell the remarkable story of an abandoned and abused child turned sex crimes cop who was recently disciplined for excessive violence of her own. Unofficial word is that Detective Pallorino’s position with the MVPD has since been terminated and that she has now gone missing. According to Dr. Grablowski, Detective Pallorino had begun remembering pieces of her past, and she may have gone off-grid to search for her biological parents. Tune in to West Coast Host for more on the breaking story after the national news.”
He called Angie. Still no answer.
Maddocks scanned quickly through his phone contacts, hit Reinhold Grablowski.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said as soon as Grablowski answered. “You could be putting her life in danger. She’s a cop, for Chrissakes—”
“Was a cop,” Grablowski said.
It hit. Hard. Her career really was over. He drew his hand over his hair.
“Now she’s a disgraced ex-cop gone off-grid,” said the shrink.
Even better for his ratings. The mystery cradle child was now a missing woman, hell alone knew where. But when the mob got wind of this, if they were the same guys who’d offed Belkin and Zagorsky, and Elaine and Stirling Harrison, then Angie was in big trouble. Grablowski had effectively put out a mass message saying, This is the woman you need to find and silence—she’s remembering stuff. He’d stuck a giant target on her back. Maybe the mob had found her already.