LITMIR.BIZ

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street, driving in the same direction when the Honda passed him at a high rate of speed. He caught a glimpse of two people in the car, both wearing baseball caps and he thinks dark sunglasses. He also thought they were Asian because of their black hair, but he wouldn’t swear to it. He never got a plate.”

      “So what makes you think it wasn’t some punks who were out drinking and lost control?”

      “Because the driver didn’t lose control. Anyone else accidentally hitting a curb and bouncing onto a sidewalk would have tried to veer back. There aren’t any signs of that.”

      “Maybe going too fast,” offered Connie. “Once committed, the next available escape route past all these parked cars was the next apartment entrance.”

      “There is also no sign of braking and they would have had a clear view of the victim prior to hitting her. I don’t think they were drunk. We were supposed to think that. Bet there aren’t any prints on the broken bottle.”

      Connie studied the route the car had taken. None of the vehicles parked along the curb appeared to have been hit. There were a few broken branches from a hedge, but other than that, the car had managed to drive down a narrow pathway.

      “That’s the other thing,” said Rankin, after Connie looked at the scene. “To take that route and not hit anything significant isn’t the sign of a drunk. It took some skilful driving.”

      “Or lucky,” suggested Boyle.

      Rankin shook his head. “As I told you before, I’ve been doing this work for twenty years. I’ve been to hundreds of fatalities and thousands of accidents. Believe me, this was no accident.”

      “Who’s the victim?” asked Connie.

      “A seventy-four-year-old woman who was walking her sister’s dog. The dog was killed too.”

      “You run the vic’s name?”

      “Yes. It’s Betty Donahue.” Rankin frowned. He knew what he had to say didn’t fit his theory. “There’s nothing on her. Not even a parking ticket. She lives in West Van and is a retired schoolteacher. So is her husband.”

      “What’s the sister like?” asked Connie.

      “Nancy Brighton. She was one of the first ones on the scene. She’s still bawling her eyes out. I got someone to take her back home and sit with her.” He pointed and said, “She lives in the house halfway down the block between the two apartment buildings. The one with all the flowers.”

      “Anything on her?” asked Connie.

      “Nope. Also retired. Used to be a Crown prosecutor.”

      “No kidding?”

      “Yeah, but it was long before our time. I feel sorry for her. Her husband passed away two years ago from cancer. There are only two entries on the system for her address. One four years ago from her husband complaining of a noisy party from one of the apartments. The other was from Nancy last week. She spotted some woman stashing dope under one of the bushes in her front yard.”

      “How much dope?” asked Connie, with obvious interest. “Maybe someone got the wrong person?”

      “That’s just it. The woman was only charged with possession, so it couldn’t have been much. She had a non-injury MVA and the other driver called the police. She then panicked and tried to hide the dope before the members got there, but Nancy spotted her doing it and tipped them off when they arrived.”

      “Straight possession. Hardly worth killing someone over,” noted Boyle.

      “Who was charged with the drugs?” prodded Connie. “Any gang connections?”

      “No gang connections noted on the system. It was a university student by the name of Mia Parker. She also doesn’t have any record … or won’t unless she’s convicted.”

      Connie looked at the long streak of blood, skin, and hair on the sidewalk from where the bodies of the woman and the dog were dragged under the car. She gave a nod of her head where the trail ended at the emergency blanket. “You’re positive it was intentional?”

      “Yup, I’m positive.”

      “Then how would they have known when to drive down the street at the precise time to run over her?” mused Connie. “They were two blocks away when they passed the witness.”

      “I don’t know,” replied Rankin. “Maybe they kept circling the block.”

      “If they were professional enough to set all this up to make it look like an accident, they would be professional enough not to draw attention to themselves by driving round and round the block,” said Connie. “I want the plates of every vehicle on the street.”

      “Already done,” replied Rankin.

      “Have any left since you arrived?” asked Connie.

      “No. I didn’t think I should let anyone leave until you gave the go-ahead, but so far, nobody has even tried to leave.”

      “Good job.”

      “So you believe me that it was intentional?” asked Rankin.

      “Not yet,” replied Connie, “but I won’t rule it out, either. I’ll treat it as a homicide for now and see where the investigation takes us.”

      Connie looked at Boyle. “Start canvassing the neighbourhood for other witnesses.”

      Boyle let out a big sigh and frowned at Rankin to show his disgruntlement.

      “I also want to check every apartment security camera within a four-block radius.” Connie looked at Rankin and said, “If you’re right, the only way they could have known when to strike would be to have a spotter. Maybe we can pick something up from a security —”

      Connie quit talking when Rankin raised his hand for her to pause as he answered his portable police radio. A blue Honda Accord had been located minutes ago. It had been reported stolen yesterday, but was found abandoned in an alley after being set on fire.

      Connie frowned as she recorded the licence plate from the car in her notebook. Too coincidental for it not to be the same car. Would a couple of drunks out joyriding in a stolen car think to torch it? Possible. She looked at the narrow distance that the car had travelled before driving over the woman and the dog. If Rankin is right, what’s the motive? Petty possession of drugs doesn’t seem serious enough …

      Two hours later, Connie and Boyle reviewed the security-camera footage from two different apartment buildings at each end of the block. The apartment at the end of the block showed a white delivery van going past on the street moments before the blue Honda Accord roared into view on the sidewalk and bounced back out onto the street.

      Connie zoomed in on the licence plate on the Honda from where it drove out of the apartment entrance. She wasn’t surprised that it matched the stolen car. The glare off the Honda’s windows made it difficult to see who was inside, only that the passenger was wearing a ball cap.

      She reviewed the footage again. The delivery van had passed the first apartment building five hours earlier before passing the apartment at the end of the street. Like the Honda, it was not possible to see who was driving.

      “Maybe the van lives in the area,” suggested Boyle.

      “Maybe,” replied Connie.

      Neither of the apartment cameras was able to see the licence plates of vehicles passing on the street, but one camera was able to zoom in and give Connie a name on the door of the van. It was for a Vietnamese restaurant in Vancouver called Hanoi House.

      Boyle phoned the I-HIT office to check the name of the restaurant and sat with his pen poised over his notebook while Connie continued to review the footage in slow motion.

      Connie saw Boyle make a notation in his notebook before hanging up. “I’ve got nothing further,” she said. “What do you have?”

      Boyle

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