at the corner of Main and Terminal.”
Bruce laughed. She took an almost perverse joy in her work. “In this particular incarnation, Jinnah, the Yakshas are a U.S. based drug cartel that started off in southern California. Decapitation of victims is a Yaksha hallmark. So is scarring the victim with their logo. The twin trees.”
“Holy shit. You’re kidding me,” said Jinnah, furiously scribbling notes.
“I’m not in the habit of kidding you, Jinnah. They are now so large and well financed that they claim to be a legitimate business organization.”
“What? Like the Hells Angels?”
“Yes,” nodded Bruce vigorously. “This is the first time I have ever seen this signature north of the border. So be careful what you say. They’re quite sensitive about their image.”
Sonofabitch. Sensitive, New Age killers who could cut the head of a young man, mutilate him, then scream for their lawyers. Well, they would soon learn that there were things worse than trial by judge and jury.
Jinnah closed his notebook. “To hell with these assholes’ image, Professor,” he said. “These bastards are about to undergo trial by Jinnah.”
* * *
“How on earth did you get Bruce to talk on the record?”
Jinnah sat in his chair by city desk like a king surveying a field where he had routed his enemies foot, horse, and dragoons. The layout for the front page was on Frosty’s Mac. “Beheaded by Demon Gang!” was the main headline. There, at the top of his Tribune exclusive story was Jinnah’s byline. Not in the size of type that he felt was appropriate, but still, there all the same. It was what Jinnah lived for. The artwork was an illustration of the tree design lifted from Jinnah’s notebook. Hakeem had tried to charge the company for a freelance artwork fee, but Whiteman had rejected his claim out of hand.
“She always talks on the record when she has a first,” laughed Jinnah, answering Frosty’s question. “Then Alexandra Bruce loves seeing her name in print.”
Frosty, an unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth, ran her cursor up and down the story. For all his outward braggadocio, Jinnah was nervous. This was the crucial moment when an attack of cold feet could sink the whole thing.
“I dunno. Any sick puppy could have carved that design into the kid’s cheeks. You sure you want to tangle with a drug cartel that makes the Hells Angels look like choir boys?”
“Like they’re going to sue us, Frosty!” Jinnah snorted.
“Their idea of a lawsuit is to fit you with a cement sleeping bag.”
Jinnah’s congenital cowardice twitched slightly at that. True, gangs sometimes took vengeance on reporters who made their lives difficult. Like Michel Auger from the Le Journal de Montréal. But the chances of the Yakshas doing so were very slender.
“Look, they put a giant neon sign on the kid’s face saying, ‘Here we are! Don’t fuck with us!’ For God’s sake, they want their name mentioned.”
“In which case, aren’t we doing them a favour?”
“I hope not,” said Jinnah. “But if it makes you feel better, send them a bill for a full page ad.”
Frosty’s finger hovered over the send key. Jinnah willed her to punch the button. After a long hesitation, she did so. “Okay, Reilly! You got the front page.”
Reilly, the night news editor, adjusted his glasses on his long, Gaelic nose and brought the story up on his terminal. Jinnah’s unrestrained smile broke out, cleaving his face in two. God, he was tired. Wearily, he rose to his feet, slinging his black leather jacket over his shoulder.
“Going straight home or do you have time to stop for a quick drink?” asked Frosty.
“Sorry,” said Jinnah. “I have a few errands to run first.”
At the top of the Jinnah shopping list was the Battery Stop. He had only replaced the alarm system batteries last month, but it paid to be extra cautious in his line of work.
Chapter Two
Jinnah drove home humming a Bhangra tune and puffing happily on a smoke. Caitlin Bishop was going to shit herself when she saw the paper. It would have her and the rest of the Vancouver media — no, the international media — trailing in his wake. They’d be busy for days following this one up. Graham would, of course, be pathetically grateful. He wondered what else he might be able to squeeze out the sergeant in exchange for his gratitude. Hmmm …
“You have reached your predetermined destination. Please power down the warp engines and secure the starship before leaving,” Ensign Sulu’s voice reminded him as he pulled up in front of his house.
Jinnah made sure the car alarm was on and looked at his home. The “Jinnah-mahal,” as Sanderson called it, was an aging Vancouver Special with dirty white stucco on the walls and iron bars on the windows. Given the day’s events, these precautions seemed somewhat inadequate. Jinnah wondered if he should spring for that perimeter motion detector Sanjit had been pestering him about. Surely that would keep the Yakshas out? He thought of Thad Golway’s face and shuddered. Uttering a brief prayer for the poor boy, Jinnah walked down the concrete path to his door. After a hard day of horror at work, it was good to be back in the relative safety of home. Manjit would pour him a scotch, fuss and fret over him, then tell him all about her day at work or Saleem’s time at school — the normal, domestic stuff that was a balm to his frayed nerves.
“You are not going and that’s final!”
As Jinnah opened the door, his picture of a quiet, family evening collapsed into a heap of ruins. Manjit’s voice carried all the way from the kitchen. Jinnah frowned. His wife almost never raised her voice. There was only one thing that could possibly irritate her more than his own behaviour.
“Saleem!” Jinnah roared, striding into the kitchen.
Manjit’s dark eyes flashed at him as he entered the room. “Really, Jinnah,” she said calmly. “There’s no need to bellow like that.”
Jinnah flinched as if he’d been slapped. There stood his beautiful wife, dressed in her white health care worker uniform, all five-feet nothing of her. A second ago she had been trembling like a clarinet reed, facing their sixteen-year-old son who was taller by a scruffy, peach-fuzzed head. Having raised her voice only a moment earlier, now she was composed and elegant as Mahal herself.
“Bellowing? You call that bellowing?” protested Jinnah, trying to control his voice. “If my father were here —”
“But he is not, Hakeem,” said Manjit, sweetly but firmly. “Yelling didn’t work very well for your father on you, did it?”
“He was a Kenyan police chief! Yelling was one of the perks of the job! And stand up straight, for God’s sake!”
Saleem turned his bored, bespectacled, adolescent face on Jinnah and sunk slowly into a chair sideways, dangling one long, skinny leg back and forth. Jinnah fought to control his temper. Saleem was insolent, stubborn, self-possessed. Excellent qualities in a crime reporter but liabilities in a son, as far as Hakeem was concerned.
“What’s all
