Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Thirty-Eight

Harry parked his car at the corner of Burrard and Pacific and stared at the spectacle before him. Chad Koda’s place. Blown sky-high. It was unreal. Explosions going off here and there. People dying in fiery blasts. What the hell was this – Mexico?

Harry closed his eyes.

He had been to Koda’s house. He had just been there.

His fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the small muscles around his knuckles hurt. He had to will them to let go. So many thoughts rampaged through his head. The past connections were many – too many to discount. A headache was growing behind his temples, a ringing filled his ears. Once, twice, three times – and then he clued in.

He grabbed the cell from the seat and jammed it to his ear.

‘Detective Eckhart,’ he got out.

‘Hi, Dad!’

In two words, the thickening shroud of tension dissipated, and suddenly Harry felt like he could breathe again. ‘How you doing there, son? You being a good boy for your mom?’

‘Yeah. Mom says I can have ice cream for dessert, if you say it’s okay too. Can I? Can I please? Please?’

Harry laughed softly. Six-year-olds. Christ. ‘Only if you save some for me.’

‘I will, I will!’

‘Put your mother on the phone.’

‘Can I play Minecraft?’

‘Twenty minutes. No more. Now put your mother on the phone.’

The phone clicked, and for a moment Harry thought the line had gone dead. Then a soft, feminine voice filled the receiver: ‘Hey, sweetie. Coming home now?’

‘Not for a while.’

She turned silent for a moment, as if sensing his tension. ‘Everything okay?’

He took in a deep breath. ‘Listen to me carefully, Sandra. Really carefully. I want you to take Ethan and go to your sister’s place tonight.’

She let out a worried sound. ‘What – why? Harry, what’s going on?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

‘But—’

‘Later, Sandra.’

She made a nervous sound. ‘Okay, Harry, okay. We’ll go.’

He could hear the fear in her voice, the jitteriness, and he worried about her driving this way. ‘It’s all precautionary, Sandra. That’s it. Just precautionary.’

‘I’ll . . . I’ll call you when we get there?’

‘Yes. Make sure you do. I love you, Sandra. And like I said, I’ll explain it all to you later.’ He hung up without waiting for a response. When he put the cell on the passenger seat, it dropped from his clumsy fingers. They felt numb. He felt numb. Numb all over. Because deep down he knew the truth.

It was happening. Really fucking happening.

The past had finally caught up to them.

Thirty-Nine

It was after nine when Striker and Felicia finally finished going over the details at Chad Koda’s house, but it felt like midnight. Striker was sorting through the twenty or so pages of notes he’d written down during the investigation and feeling bombarded by numerous streams of evidence, most of which didn’t seem to connect. He was halfway out the front door when they bumped right into Harry.

Striker looked at his watch, then back at the older cop.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

Harry just swore. ‘Goddam press is everywhere.’

‘Get used to it.’

Harry looked back outside at the stream of reporters gathered at the edge of the yellow line, cursed again, then pushed past Striker and Felicia into the foyer. Once inside, he stopped like he’d been smacked back by some invisible force. Gaped at the destruction.

‘Jesus mercy,’ he said.

Strewn across the foyer, separating the rest of the house, was a thick slash of police tape, and on the other side of it forensic searchers, dressed in blue booties and matching lab gowns, were conducting a grid search of the room.

Felicia reached out and touched Harry’s arm. ‘You can’t go in there right now.’

Harry just nodded on autopilot, but said nothing. After a long moment, he turned his eyes away from the crime scene and met Striker’s stare. ‘Is this connected to the toy shop?’

‘Why are you here, Harry?’ Striker asked.

‘Chad Koda was an old friend of mine.’

Striker was surprised by this news. He took a quick glance at Felicia, then back at Harry. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Harry just raised an eyebrow. ‘I haven’t actually spoken to Chad in, well, years, I guess . . . but when I saw the explosion on the news, I recognized the house immediately. I headed right up.’

Striker said nothing for a moment, waiting for Harry to continue with more of an explanation. When he didn’t, Striker summed it up. ‘This is a very strange situation, Harry. You have a direct connection to Keisha Williams, another direct connection to Chad Koda, and through the both of them, an indirect connection to Dr Sharise Owens.’

The words just hung there, and Harry’s eyes never left the destruction in the living room.

‘How bad is he?’ he finally asked.

‘Koda? I don’t know. Alive. They took him to St Paul’s.’

‘I’m heading up.’

Without so much as another word, Harry turned and walked back out the front door. He took the front steps two at a time, rounded the sidewalk, and headed up the block.

Striker said nothing; he just stepped onto the front porch and watched Harry step under the yellow line of police tape at the end of the block. The second he did, a swarm of media reporters buzzed around him. Flashes went off; cameras panned; feeds started.

Harry paid them no heed. He pushed aggressively through the mob, knocking one reporter on her ass and sending a cameraman tripping over the kerb. He climbed into his Honda CRV, did a U-turn, and was gone.

Felicia came up beside Striker.

‘That was screwed,’ she said.

Striker agreed; he was about to discuss the situation with her further when one of the forensic searchers located something in the living room and called over Corporal Summer. With gloved hands, she opened a clear plastic bag, and the searcher dropped the piece of shrapnel inside.

Striker couldn’t help himself. He moved back inside the house, and Felicia followed. They were soon joined by Inspector Osaka at the entrance to the living room, where all three of them met with the bomb specialist.

‘What have you got?’ Striker asked.

Corporal Summer held up the plastic bag. Inside it was a chunk of green rectangular plastic, less than an inch wide and two inches long. Connected to it was a long wire and a shiny silver box.

‘Is that a motherboard?’ Striker asked.

She nodded. ‘With a transmitter attached. It looks like it came from a cell phone.’

Felicia studied the find. ‘So it’s a remote detonator, is what you’re saying.’

‘Part of one.’

Corporal Summer spoke the words with concern, and Striker understood why. ‘Hold on a second,’ he said. ‘If the detonator was found right here in the living room, then where was the bomb triggered from?’

Summer lowered the bag and met his stare. ‘Inside the house.’

‘Where inside the house?’

‘Most likely somewhere in this vicinity.’

Striker blinked in near disbelief. ‘Then whoever set it off would have been blown up in the explosion.’

‘Almost certainly.’

The conclusion drawn from Corporal Summer’s words was easy for everyone to see; there had been only two bodies in the area at the time of the explosion – Dr Sharise Owens, who had been strapped to a chair, and Chad Koda, who had miraculously survived the blast.

Inspector Osaka looked uneasy. ‘Are we honestly considering whether Chad Koda might have been responsible for this?’

Striker frowned. It sounded ludicrous – and it went completely against their theory that a bomber was out there, using numbered dolls to count off his victims. Still, as outlandish as the notion seemed, it would have been irresponsible of them not to consider and rule out all alternative theories.

‘Let’s talk it out,’ he suggested.

Felicia nodded and went over all they had.

‘Chad Koda broke up with Dr Owens years ago after she aborted his child. And he was still quite emotional about that when we talked to him today, so he definitely had motive. Meanwhile, the detonator is right there in your hands, so he definitely had the means. Add in the fact that he miraculously survived the blast, and alarm bells have to go off.’

Striker remained less convinced. ‘That’s a pretty far leap.’

‘It’s just a theory,’ she replied. ‘But remember that doctor at Fort Bragg? He killed his family, then stabbed himself to make it look like he’d fought off a bunch of home invaders to save them all.’

Striker remembered the case. ‘You’re talking about Jeffrey MacDonald,’ he said. ‘The man was a medical doctor and a practising physician – he knew how to safely injure himself. It doesn’t appear that Koda had the same expertise. Plus, to stab yourself is one thing. It’s a controlled action. But to half kill yourself in a bomb blast is an entirely different matter. Koda could easily have died here tonight.’

‘Maybe he was supposed to,’ Felicia replied.

Her words were soft spoken, and they intrigued Striker.

‘A murder-suicide?’ He hadn’t thought of that. But he still remained unconvinced. ‘Koda may have had the motive and the means, but do we seriously think he had the ability to pull something like this off?’

‘Without a doubt,’ Osaka said.

It was the first thing the inspector had said with any force. Striker looked at the man in slight surprise. ‘He’s a realtor, sir.’

‘And a retired cop. Hell, he was a sergeant in ERT. Red Team.’

The words stunned Striker. This was the first time he had ever heard this information. ‘A retired cop? Red Team? How the hell do you know this?’

Osaka shrugged. ‘Simple,’ he said. ‘I worked with the man.’

Forty

The road looked warped. Off-kilter. And somehow tunnelled.

Or was it just him?

The bomber cut the corner onto Denman Street, using every bit of energy he had to turn the steering wheel. It felt unusually stiff and heavy. He came to a jerking stop and parked the van in front of a cheap pizzeria. He jammed on the hand-brake. Crawled between the seats. Crashed down heavily in the empty cargo space. And rolled onto his back.

There was a smell in the cab, something sweet but stale. Like old pineapple. And it made him want to vomit.

That . . . or the pounding in his head.

He reached up, felt the side of his skull. There was wetness there. Stickiness. And the entire area felt numb. When he pulled his hand away, he saw the brown redness of drying blood.

The glass, he realized. Loose shards.

Not that it really mattered. He had lived through the blast, and he had felt it once more – that wonderful, heavenly, percussive force. It had shaken the earth around him and ravaged through his body like an invisible wave, reorganizing his thoughts and setting his mind right.

The memories . . . they were slowly falling into place, more and more with every blast:

He was off to war again.

Then his men were dying all around him – chunks of flesh being punched from their bodies by AK-47 fire.

And Father was spinning him round in the air, giving him an airplane ride.

Then Father was leaving. Standing at the car. And he was sobbing, peeking out between the drapes, saying, ‘Don’t go, Daddy, don’t go.’

And Mother was crying, not wanting him to go.

And the helicopter was dropping down – the loud whup-whup-whup of the blades sounding like angry thunder . . .

He blinked out of the memories. The thoughts were confusing. Out of order still. But better. He knew that they were better.

And he let out a small laugh.

In the front of the van, a door opened and closed. The engine started. And the vehicle got moving. It rocked about like a boat on rough waters, and the movement made his stomach queasy.

‘Are you okay, love?’ Molly’s voice was soft and nervous. Concerned.

‘I’m fine.’

In one moment, her voice went from concern and compassion to anger. ‘What the heck were you doing back there? We’ve been over this! Again and again and again! You could have gotten yourself killed!’

‘Molly—’

‘You do it again, and that’s it. I mean it. I’ll end this mission.’

He said nothing back, because her words were empty threats. This mission would be completed. They both knew that.

Life would not be livable otherwise.

Her eyes turned watery. ‘What does it matter anyway? We failed again.’

He gave her a confused look.

‘Didn’t you see the ambulance?’ she asked. ‘He survived the blast. Chad Koda’s still alive.’

Her words cut into him. Stunned him. Turned him silent.

How had the man survived? It shouldn’t have happened that way. It should have never been possible. And then, like sun breaking through the clouds, he got it.

It was because of Molly.

Molly and her damn ethical conflicts. Because of her, they had deviated from the plan. Used less explosives. To prevent further casualties. And in doing so, what had it gotten them? A failed operation.

‘I’m taking you to a doctor,’ Molly said from the driver’s seat.

‘No! No doctors!’

‘But—’

‘Never again.’

Images burst through the bomber’s head. Flashes of times unknown. The nurse with the dark eyes and the small paper hat. The emaciated doctor who walked like a stork and talked in high bird-like chirps:

There is no choice, young man . . . it has to come off, it simply must come off.

The memory was too much. The bomber rolled over onto his side. Vomited everything he had inside of him. Felt the coolness of the steel cab against his face in this overheated place. Dizzy, his head was splitting . . . splitting in two. Like there was a worm eating through his brain.

Find the calm, he told himself. Pull back from it. Pull back!

But he was flailing now. The point of sanity was extending further and further away from him. And soon it would be too far to grasp at all. The clouds were there. Spreading, swirling, thickening.

Ballooning.

There was no doubt about it.

The darkness was coming back on him again – that black wave of memories that took him back to the bad place where all of this began.

Forty-One

It was late by the time Striker and Felicia returned to his sleepy little Dunbar home. Two depressing messages were waiting for him on his cell, ones he had missed in all the chaos.

One was from Rothschild, informing him that there were no leads on the scuba gear found on Mitchell Island. The other was from Medical Examiner Kirstin Dunsmuir, calling to inform them that the fibres pulled from the victim’s body at the toy store matched the clothing Keisha Williams had been wearing when she’d left for work that morning. In short, it told them what they already knew – that Keisha Williams was the victim of the toy store explosion.

That evidence was just the final nail in the coffin.

Striker found the knowledge depressing. The woman had five children, all between the ages of eight and nineteen. He’d lost his own parents at an early age himself, so he knew full well the hardships and emptiness it would bring.

As for Dr Sharise Owens, her identity had been confirmed as well. Time of death was estimated to be 19:25 hours. And there was no longer any doubt she had been the woman down by the river – a sample comparison of her shoe matched the footprints in the river silt.

All in all, it was a sad end to a hard day. Solomon Bay had still not been located. Koda was unconscious in the hospital, under police protection. And two women were now dead.

Striker felt like he had failed them all. He wondered if he was right about the big red numbers he had seen on the front of the two recovered dolls. A 6 and a 5. Did that really mean there were four more victims on the bomber’s list? He also pondered the significance of the policeman’s uniform on the dolls. God forbid the bomber was an ex-cop. What then?

He didn’t even want to think about it.

Once inside his home, he sat down on the living room couch and was deep in thought on the matter when his cell went off. When he picked up, he heard Noodles’ deep voice, and the newest information the Ident technician gave him was alarming. ‘I located the legs to that doll you found at the second blast,’ he said.

Striker sat up. ‘And?’

‘They’re just ordinary legs,’ Noodles said. ‘Wood. They match the police uniform perfectly. But here’s the weird thing, I got three of them.’

‘Three?’ Striker closed his eyes. ‘Three legs mean there were two dolls. You find any of the other pieces?’

‘No, and I don’t expect to. We’re lucky we found these. Everything here is mincemeat.’

‘So we got two crime scenes and three dolls for three victims,’ Striker said. ‘One of which – Koda – has survived.’

‘It would appear that way.’ Noodles let out a gruff sound. ‘Also, I had the doll taken apart. You were right about the pull-string. The toy’s got a voice-box inside it. A cheap one.’

‘And?’ Striker asked.

‘And nothing. Thing was completely broken apart from the force. It’s irreparable, untraceable. Junk.’

The news was disheartening. Striker talked to Noodles for a bit more, then hung up. As he sat there on the couch, he looked around the room at nothing in particular and felt a bit overwhelmed. He relayed the information to Felicia.

She seemed stunned by the news.

‘I need a drink,’ she said.

Striker echoed her feelings.

He got up and moved through the living room. Everything was quiet, and the silence felt wrong. It reminded him that Courtney was not home, but a million miles away on the other side of the ocean.

Ireland – it sounded not continents away, but worlds.

He cut into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of bottles of ice-cold beer – Miller Genuine Draft. He popped the caps. Gave one to Felicia.

‘Thanks,’ she said softly.

He just nodded and drank. The beer helped him relax, and it also felt good to have something cool to ward off the nonstop humidity. Wednesday had been one constant heat wave, and the house was stuffy from it. He wished he’d bought another air conditioner to replace the one that had died last summer.

But if wishes were dollars, he would’ve been rich a long time ago.

Tired and yet overstimulated, they plunked themselves down on the sofa. Tried to relax. It wasn’t possible.

‘I still can’t believe Koda was a cop,’ Felicia said between sips. She looked at Striker and her face flushed with embarrassment. ‘I mean, I ran that guy a dozen times through the system. It wasn’t in there. And the domestic report didn’t so much as mention that tidbit.’

Striker cradled the beer between his hands. ‘It’s not your fault, Feleesh. Koda’s not listed in PRIME because he retired about ten years ago – before the new system was in place. All his records will be paper.’

Striker guzzled a third of the beer. ‘From what Osaka was saying, Koda spent the bulk of his years either being seconded or working for Operations teams – he was a sergeant in Dogs, Drugs, and the Emergency Response Team. I was in Investigations all that time. So we would never have seen each other unless it was on a call.’

Felicia grew frustrated. ‘But even in the Criminal Harassment report, they didn’t mention Koda was a former member.’

Striker shrugged. ‘That’s just cops covering for cops. The author purposely omitted that detail . . . We’ll have to interview Koda tomorrow morning. When we’re fresh.’

Felicia agreed. ‘No one gets blown up in their own house for no reason.’

Striker thought it over, then frowned. Feelings of anger, helplessness and urgency intermingled inside his chest. ‘There’s a connection here somewhere, between all the parties involved, and we’ll find it,’ he said. ‘But that’s not what worries me.’ He looked up and met Felicia’s stare. ‘We’ve got a serial killer on our hands here, Feleesh.’

‘A true classification requires three or more homicides,’ she started.

But Striker waved her off. ‘Don’t go all psychology on me. We’ve had three victims blown sky-high, and it’s a miracle one of them even survived. This bomber, he’s always using the same MO. He knows the victims’ routines – that much is evident by the times and places he’s set the bombs. So he’s doing recon first. He does surveillance, he sets the bomb, and then he waits for the show to begin.’

Felicia nodded as she thought it over. ‘There’s got to be a reason for the murders, some motivation beyond the violence – otherwise, this guy could have gone after anybody. But we know these parties are connected in different ways.’

Striker let out a heavy breath and stood up. ‘We’ll learn the motivation as the body count rises.’

‘Rises?’

‘Make no mistake about it, Feleesh. More bombs are coming. Those numbers on the dolls all but prove it.’

He returned to the kitchen and brought back two more beers. He put Felicia’s on the table, then gave her a hard look. ‘If there are any more bomb calls tomorrow, remember – no going in till the fire’s been put out and the structure’s been deemed safe. We could have had a nasty accident there today.’

‘I understand that, Jacob. Stop treating me like a rookie.’

Then stop acting like one, he felt like saying. But he knew it would only start a fight. So he opted to go with, ‘I’m just looking out for you.’

‘It’s a fine line between covering your partner and being overprotective.’

‘Overprotective?’

‘You’ve been overprotective of me ever since the Billy Mercury shooting six months ago. Okay? Well, it’s over. I survived. Move on.’

Striker let out a humourless laugh. ‘And you derived all this because I stopped you from walking into a burning building today – one which, I might remind you, exploded in the end.’

A cross look spread out on Felicia’s face. ‘It’s more than that, and you know it. You kept me out of the barn this morning too. You went in there and did the whole thing yourself. Yet again. Jacob Striker – Solo Act.’

‘Oh come on.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘First off, you had to stay with the girl. We couldn’t leave her alone.’

‘Sure, but I could have cleared the place.’

Striker splayed his hands. ‘The girl was afraid of me; you saw that. But she liked you. She had a rapport with you. And for all we knew at the time, she might have been raped. I thought it better to leave her with a female member.’

Felicia just shook her head and put down her beer, half finished. ‘You always have an excuse, don’t you?’

‘Not an excuse, it’s the truth. Besides, what’s wrong with me looking out for you? I care about you.’

‘Nothing’s wrong with that. But looking out for me and controlling me are two entirely different things. When we’re at work, I’m a homicide cop – not your girlfriend. You can’t lock me away in a box forever.’

‘I know that . . . I was thinking more of a wooden crate.’

When Felicia didn’t laugh, Striker realized that somewhere along the line, the conversation had turned from relaxed and easygoing to tense and bothersome.

Felicia stood up. ‘Look, it’s late. I’d better be going.’

‘Going? You’re not going to stay?’

‘I have some things I need to get done at home.’

‘At midnight?’

She said nothing.

Striker shook his head. ‘This is crazy. You know, if you just moved in—’

‘We’ve been over this before, Jacob. A million times.’ Felicia let out an exasperated sound. ‘We move in together and one of us will be on the first transfer out of Homicide – and it sure as hell won’t be you. Not Jacob Striker, the ten-year vet. Not the man. It’ll be me – the woman who everyone treats like a rookie.’

Striker watched her expression as she spoke. Her eyes were underscored with lines and her face was tight. The more he looked at her, and the more he listened, the more he realized there wasn’t really a problem here.

They were both plain exhausted.

When Felicia put on her coat to go, Striker helped pull it around her shoulders. When she turned for the door, he grabbed her arm.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She turned to face him. ‘What?’

‘Happy birthday, beautiful.’

A small smile spread her lips. She laughed softly. ‘I’d forgotten.’

Striker pulled her close. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Held her tight. Breathed in her wonderful smell. Gave her a soft kiss on the lips and tasted light beer.

‘Goodnight,’ he said.

‘Goodnight, Jacob.’

He walked her out and stood on the porch, with the old planks groaning under his weight. He watched her go. Sometimes, he wondered if working together was such a good idea. He always enjoyed it, but Felicia sometimes seemed at odds with his ways. Maybe they were seeing too much of each other now. Always at work, always at home. He didn’t know.

When the taillights of Felicia’s Prius turned the corner and were gone from sight, Striker remained on the porch, looking out over the park beyond. Everything was dark, and although the night was as hot as a sweatbox, it looked cold and deep.

For a long time afterwards, Striker did not move. He just stood on the porch and thought everything through. So much for the getaway he’d planned for Felicia’s birthday. It was just another letdown in a long day, it seemed. He killed the thought and looked on. Far to the north, on the other side of the park, the lights of the downtown core shone brightly.

Bright whites in a pitch-blackness.

Somewhere in that sprawling metropolis was their madman. An unknown suspect with an unknown motive. And there was only one thing Striker knew about the man with absolute certainty.

He wasn’t done yet.