Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Part 2:

Spark

Thursday

Forty-Two

It was early when Striker woke up, barely halfway through till morning. The room was hot and his skin felt sweaty. Sometime during the night, he’d kicked off the bed sheets, and now they covered the floor like another body tarp. The thought was depressing. On autopilot, he reached over to wrap his arm around Felicia, felt nothing there but space, and remembered she hadn’t stayed the night.

Felicia at her own home. Courtney in Ireland. Amanda passed away.

Lately, it felt like he was always losing someone.

It wasn’t right. A home was supposed to be the one place where a person felt happy and secure, but lately, all he felt was a strange tightness in his chest. An indescribable anxiety tightening and tightening and tightening down on him. He wondered if the time for a move had come. Maybe Rothschild had it right.

New move, new start, new life.

Striker let the thought simmer for a few minutes. When he realized sleep would no longer be possible, he climbed out of bed and started his morning routine – cold shower, hot coffee.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the brooding darkness of the porch, drinking java and waiting for the newspaper boy. Had Felicia been there, he could have read it on her Kindle. But she wasn’t. So he waited for the newspaper and thought of the case and Courtney.

He grabbed his cell and tried to call his daughter. The line clicked and he heard her digitized voice: Sorry I can’t take your call – I’m busy kissing the Blarney Stone. Please leave your name and number after the banshee wail.

Striker smiled at her silliness. She was always that way. A lot like her mother, really – at least before the depression had hit her.

He left a simple message:

It’s Dad. I hope you’re having a good time. I love you.

Then he turned on his portable police radio and switched the setting to Scan. It allowed him to hear all the feeds from each of the four districts. Some of the speciality channels too. But the radio chatter this morning was almost nil: a drunk driver being pulled over on Lakewood; a mental health apprehension by Oppenheimer Park; and a domestic going down on Fraser Street.

All in all, it seemed an ordinary night shift.

Then the prowler call came in from District 4.

Striker turned up the volume. At first, the broadcast brought him no concern. Prowler calls were a dime a dozen. Most often, they ended up being some drunk guy, looking for his house on the wrong block. Once in a while you got lucky though, and it ended up being some toad doing a Break and Enter.

He listened to the call:

An unknown male.

Seen lurking between the houses.

In the Dunbar area.

It was all pretty routine – until Striker heard the address. He blinked, grabbed the radio, and hit the mike. ‘This is Detective Striker,’ he said. ‘Dispatch, can you go again with that address?’

‘1757 West 29th Avenue.’

Striker jumped to his feet and hit the plunger again.

‘That address is Sergeant Mike Rothschild’s house,’ he said. ‘The man just moved from there two days ago. I’m heading up.’

Forty-Three

Rothschild’s last house was less than a mile from Striker’s home. It was in the same district, even the same neighbourhood. And because of this, Striker was on scene in less than five minutes.

He parked his car, an old model Saab, two blocks out so that he wouldn’t alert the prowler, then made his way in on foot. He hiked along the edge of the park, under the cover of those trees, until he caught sight of the house.

The house was one of the older homes in the area, built on the east side of West 29th Avenue. It sat opposite the Pacific Spirit Regional Park, a 700-acre forest that ran from Dunbar all the way to the university grounds out west.

It was a Vancouver special – one large rectangle, without character or design, built in the early 1980s. The darkness hid the fact that the roof was missing shingles and the white stucco was marred with splotches of grey patchwork, but Striker knew the place well. It was in desperate need of repair, and that was just one of the factors that had prompted Rothschild to put the place up for sale.

Of course, Rosalyn dying had been the real crux.

From the cover of the trees, Striker studied the lot. The house and yard were saturated in darkness. No lights were on inside the house or outside in the yard. The nearest street lamp was two lots down, and the bulb was gone.

Striker watched and waited. He hoped that Patrol would be there soon.

But after a good five minutes, when no signs of movement occurred, his patience ran out. He drew his pistol and made his way across the street. When he reached the driveway, he spotted a broken window.

He pressed the mike. ‘We have entry. Ground floor, north corner. I’m going in for a closer look.’

The Dispatcher came across the air: ‘Backup is almost there, Detective. Car Echo 21 is en route.’

‘Tell them to take the rear lane.’

He headed for the house.

As Striker crossed the yard, he turned the radio volume down to zero. The last thing he needed was radio chatter alerting the suspect. Once closer, he could see that the pane was not actually broken, but the entire window had been removed and placed to the side. He aimed his pistol into the darkness of the basement, then turned on his flashlight and lit up the interior.

Saw nothing.

With Rothschild having just moved to the Kerrisdale area, the house appeared to be empty now. Everything inside was quiet and still, and other than the window being removed, there were no signs of damage. Thoughts of a squatter sneaking inside the house fluttered through Striker’s mind – they were always looking for recently vacated buildings – and he was about to ask Dispatch if there had been any similar calls in the area when he stopped hard.

Something stole his attention.

On the window frame were a few small specks. Like tiny patches of dirt that had been raked off the bottom of someone’s shoe as they climbed inside.

Striker took a closer look at it, shone the flashlight down. Within the muck were smaller patches of a whitish-grey powder – similar to what he’d seen down by the docks the previous morning. The sight turned his stomach hard.

Why would the bomber be at Rothschild’s place?

Were he and the kids in danger?

Striker got on the air, and his voice was tight and low: ‘I want a patrol unit sent to Sergeant Mike Rothschild’s new home in Kerrisdale immediately. A two-man car. Station one cop out front and one out back. Tell them to stay with the family until I get there, and to be on their guard.’

The Dispatcher’s tone was one of confusion. ‘In Kerrisdale?’ she asked.

‘Just do it,’ Striker ordered.

‘Yes, Detective,’ the Dispatcher replied. ‘You want a canine unit started up?’

Striker stared at the whitish power on the windowsill. ‘Immediately,’ he said. ‘And make sure he’s a bomb dog.’

Forty-Four

The canine handler dispatched to the scene was Frank Faust. He came with his police dog, Nitro.

Striker was happy to hear it. Faust was a twenty-year veteran who’d done ten of those years in his hometown of Berlin, when he’d worked for the bomb squad in the Berlin Police Department.

The man knew his stuff.

Faust was on scene in minutes. His German accent was still strong as he asked for the scene details, and by the time Striker had explained them all, a one-man patrol unit had arrived to assist. The kid who got out was tall and gangly, with a dirty-blond fohawk hairstyle.

Striker motioned him over. ‘You got a name?’

He nodded like a bobble-head doll. ‘Kevin.’

‘Okay, Kevin, listen up. I’ll cover right and front; you cover left and rear. Got it?’

The young cop looked exceedingly nervous. ‘Is this . . . is this really the bomber?’

‘It ain’t Martha Stewart.’ Striker put on a smile in his best attempt to calm the rookie down. ‘Look, just cover your points. Don’t let anyone sneak up on us. And be wary of tripwires or IEDs.’

‘IE what?’

‘Bombs. Don’t touch anything on the ground, no matter what it looks like. Boxes, cans, toys – not even a shoe, if you see one.’

The young cop said nothing; he just nodded and stared back through large, wide eyes. The quick debrief was over. With the dog leading the way, the three of them made entry through the basement window.

Immediately, the darkness deepened, and Striker shone his flashlight around the room, lighting up all four corners. When everything was clear, he nodded, and they progressed, searching through the basement, and then the upstairs level – living room, dining room, and kitchen. They cleared the bedrooms and bathrooms last of all, and found them to be empty.

Not even a few packing boxes were left.

Faust fed the dog more leash. ‘So far so good.’

Striker said nothing back; he just kept scanning the way ahead as Nitro steered them to the garage entrance. Once there, the dog let out a whine. Striker reached out and touched the door. Leaned close to it. Listened.

‘Hear anything?’ the rookie asked.

Striker held up a hand demanding silence.

He gently wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and slowly turned it. Once it clicked, he gently, slowly, edged the door open. Just a quarter-inch. Then he shone his flashlight through the space between the door and frame, looking for the existence of any pull-wires and switches.

He found none.

‘Garage looks clear from this angle,’ he said. ‘But be ready.’

He opened the door the rest of the way, and Nitro went inside. Panting hard, the German Shepherd walked less than ten steps, then came to a hard stop. He raised his tail high in the air.

‘We got a positive,’ Faust said.

The rookie stepped back. ‘Positive? What does that mean? A bomb? Is there a bomb in here?’

‘Be quiet and cover us,’ Striker told him.

‘I need some light,’ Faust said.

The young constable reached out to hit the light switch, but Striker snatched his hand away. ‘If that switch is rigged to a detonator, it’ll be the last one you ever throw, kid.’

‘I . . . I . . .’

‘Just watch our backs and don’t touch anything.’

Striker shone his flashlight across the room – first hitting each of the four corners, then doing a thorough sweep of the floor, and last of all, highlighting the beams of the garage.

He saw nothing, so he turned to Faust. ‘The dog is sure?’

Faust looked insulted. ‘There’s no room for error in this business.’

‘So there’s definitely a bomb in here?’

Faust shook his head. ‘The dog detects explosives, not bombs.’

Striker considered this. ‘Can he pick up trace elements?’

‘He can pick up damn near anything, if the vapour pressure isn’t too low.’

Striker had no idea what that meant but took it as good. ‘So explosives could have been in this garage, but aren’t necessarily here any more. Like with the drug dogs, it can pick up the lingering traces.’

Faust nodded. ‘I’m gonna run him round the room a few times, see if he hits on any of the walls.’

Striker held his tongue and let the dog search. As he waited, his cell vibrated against his side. He grabbed it, looked down at the screen, and saw the name ‘Mike Rothschild’ across the display. He didn’t answer for fear of triggering a detonation. Instead, he turned to Faust.

‘You okay here?’ he asked.

‘We’ll be fine.’

Satisfied, Striker told the rookie to maintain cover and then made his way back through the house. As he exited the front door, thoughts of his godchildren flashed through his head, images of Shana and Cody – two little kids who had already lost their mother to cancer. For them to lose Rothschild too was unthinkable, and the notion filled Striker with a dark, vacuous feeling.

He tried not to think about the what-ifs.

To the east, the sun was already rising. The roadway was lightening, the blackness being replaced by murky blue tones. At both ends of the street, red and blue police lights flashed, and in between them, a second dogman – Police Constable Hooch with his dog Lancer – was running the tree-line leading into Pacific Spirit Park.

Striker stared at all this as he dialled Rothschild’s number. The call was picked up on the first ring, and Rothschild sounded upset: ‘Jesus Christ, Shipwreck, what the hell is going on out there?’

‘I’m not sure yet, Mike.’

‘Well get sure. It’s five in the goddam morning, and I got some pre-pubescent patrol cop banging on my door, telling me we need protection. That my kids need protection. And Cody overheard him, and now he’s all freaking out . . . I mean, really, what the fuck?’

‘It might have something to do with the bomber.’

Rothschild’s voice grew quieter. ‘The bomber?’

‘He’s been in your old house, Mike.’

‘What? But . . .’ Rothschild sounded confused. ‘That makes no sense.’

Striker didn’t have the answer. ‘Just get your kids together into the centre of your house. In the basement. Away from all the windows. Keep your gun on you and stay alert. We’ll talk when I get there.’

‘Then get here fast, Shipwreck.’

‘As soon as I can.’

Striker had no sooner hung up the phone when the dogman called out from one of the trails leading into the park: ‘I got something here!’ His dog suddenly darted deeper into the trail.

It gave Striker a bad feeling. The notion of the suspect escaping through the park had already crossed his mind; but any thoughts of catching him were dim at best. The Pacific Spirit Park was 700 acres big – essentially, a forest. It was too large for containment and it had endless places to hide. All they could do was track and hope for the best, and tracking a man like the bomber through the woods was dangerous.

Who knew what he had set up for them?

‘Hold up!’ Striker called out to Hooch. He drew his pistol and crossed the road. ‘You’re gonna need cover if you’re tracking through there.’

He’d no sooner finished the sentence when a bright flash exploded in the trail, punctuated by a percussive boom that echoed hollowly in the woods. Lancer let out a high-pitched yelp, and Hooch reeled backwards as if hit. He screamed out in alarm. Dropped to his knees. Grabbed his face.

‘. . . it burns! I’m on fire – on fire!’

Striker raced into the trail and, almost immediately, a strange red smoke began billowing out from between the trees. It stung his face, burned his eyes. He grabbed the dog handler by the back of his uniform and pulled hard.

Hooch let out a cry.

‘I got you,’ Striker said. ‘I got you, Hooch.’

He pulled him out of the woods, back to safety. But the dog handler was panicking now. Screaming. Thrashing. Holding his face.

He was burning up.

Forty-Five

A hundred metres into the woods, from his observation point, the bomber used his binoculars to watch the pandemonium taking place below. The dog had tripped the wire, causing the red phosphorous incendiaries to flash and initiating the ultrasonic noisemaker. The device had been set to maximum frequency – undetectable to humans but painful to dogs.

Judging from the yelp of the police dog and the animal’s retreat from the woods, the device was working fine. The dog handler’s scream indicated that the oleoresin in the smoke bomb had suffused well into the air. Even now, that red smoke unfurled from the woods in enormous puffs, looking like giant swells of pink cotton candy in the morning twilight. The sight was actually quite beautiful and should have pleased him, but it did not.

The intel Molly had given him was bad. As such, all his recon and planning was for naught.

Rothschild had moved.

But when? And why? Molly had been here not seven days ago, scouting the area, drawing up the plans. It was yet one more strike of bad luck against them. One more unnecessary complication.

Like Chad Koda surviving the blast.

He closed his eyes. Picked at the wound of his left cheek. Struggled to find that calm. Struggled to believe. Moments like this were the difference, he knew. They were what had made them strong. What had kept them alive these past eleven years – their ability to improvise on any mission, no matter what they faced and regardless of the odds.

He and Molly were survivors.

Far below the hill from which he watched, in the mouth of the trail, the dog handler was still wailing. More fear than pain. The bomber adjusted the binoculars and zoomed in through the expanding cloud of pink mist. He focused on the big detective who was helping the dogman.

Jacob Striker; the cop he had seen on every news channel.

The man seemed to be an omnipotent force out there, always everywhere you least expected him. The bomber watched him evacuate the fallen dogman, drag him to the front lawn of the Rothschild house, and hold his head under the tap, drenching the man with water to rid the oleoresin. Then, after tending to the dogman, he began flushing out his own eyes.

A soldier.

Had this been Tora Bora or Baghdad again, the bomber would have chosen Striker as one of the men for his squad. But this was not Afghanistan or Iraq.

So he turned away.

Time was wearing thin, and he needed to reposition south before Jacob Striker returned to his car. That was where he needed to be. Down the road, waiting. Jacob Striker required more surveillance. For he was not only a workmate, but a friend of one of their next targets.

He would lead them to Mike Rothschild.

Forty-Six

It was early still, dark and cold, by the time Striker made it to Mike Rothschild’s new home on Trafalgar Street. This house was smaller than his last one, and it was older too. Built in the 30s or 40s, Striker was sure. But it was nestled in the heart of Kerrisdale, close to Shana’s and Cody’s school. And moreover, it was the place of a new start.

Something the family direly needed.

After taking a quick scan of his surroundings and seeing no threats, Striker walked up the rear lane to the backyard. He opened the fence, passed under the sweeping boughs of the maple trees, and glanced inside the garage window.

Nothing seemed out of place. Inside the garage was Rothschild’s teenage dream – his prized possession 1963 vintage Ford Cougar II. Ruby red in colour.

A collector’s item.

When Mike had gotten it three years ago – a surprise gift from his beloved Rosie – he’d been like a sugar-loaded kid with a new Star Wars toy on Christmas morning. It was all he talked about. Now, ever since Rosalyn’s death, he spent even more time working on the car, cleaning and waxing and polishing, making sure that not even a trace amount of dust covered the paint. It was a daily obsession. Almost religious to him – as if the slightest bit of grime would not only tarnish the car, but Rosie’s memory as well.

And that was unforgivable.

‘She’s a beauty,’ Striker had told him once.

Rothschild’s eyes had watered at the comment. ‘She was,’ he’d said in return, and Striker had realized he was talking about Rosie.

Striker swallowed hard. The memory was not only fresh, but emotionally powerful, so he willed it away. He walked past the garage, triggered the motion detector, and was lit up by the backyard spotlight. Immediately, the kitchen blinds parted, and one of the patrol cops – a tall East Indian male with a turban – looked down at him.

Striker flashed him the badge, came up the porch stairs and walked inside. Before he could ask where Rothschild and the kids were waiting, Rothschild stepped from the living room into the kitchen. His face was tight, as was his posture. A strong-smelling cup of coffee was in his hand.

‘Where are the kids?’ Striker asked.

‘Downstairs. With the other half of Echo 15.’

‘They away from the windows?’

‘They’re safe.’ Rothschild scrutinized him. ‘What happened to your eyes? They’re red.’

Striker blinked as if just remembering the pain. ‘Oleoresin, or something similar. It got set off near your old house.’

‘By who?’

‘Our suspect.’

The notion turned Rothschild’s face hard and his eyes took on a distant gaze.

Striker navigated between the piles of moving boxes that littered the kitchen floor and poured himself a cup of coffee. Rothschild, meanwhile, stood there looking lost and confused, rubbing his thumb against the side of his cup.

‘What the fuck is going on, Shipwreck?’ he finally said.

Striker turned around. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You were my first sergeant, Mike. And you’re my best goddam friend. So tell me the truth: do you have any connection to Sharise Owens or Keisha Williams – the two women who were killed yesterday?’

Rothschild looked taken aback by the question. ‘I would have told you if I did. You know that.’

‘You never had any calls where a bomber was suspected?’

‘None. Not one in my entire career.’

‘What about gangs – one that might have used electrical torture? Specifically, a picana? Like the Satan’s Prowlers? Or the Renegades? Or the Basi Brothers?’

Rothschild let out a heavy breath. ‘I’ve arrested tons of gang members over the years – from all those groups. But a fucking picana?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done and seen a lot in my career . . . but nothing like this.’

‘What about Chad Koda?’

‘Koda?’ Rothschild raised an eyebrow. He crossed the room and poured himself a second cup. ‘Well, there’s a name I haven’t heard in years.’

‘So you do know him.’

‘Of course, I know him. He was my first sergeant. Hell, you weren’t even on the force yet. That was a good ten years before your time. Why’d you bring him up?’

‘Because he was blown sky-high last night.’

Rothschild’s face tightened. ‘Blown . . . blown up? Like . . . literally?’

‘Is there any other way?’

Rothschild kept blinking, as if something didn’t compute. ‘Why? I mean . . . why?’

‘We don’t know. He’s in St Paul’s right now. Has been all night. He’s unconscious. Blasted pretty good from what I understand, but still has all his limbs intact. He got lucky.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it. What time did this happen?’

‘Long after you’d left. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the explosion – it’s been on every damn news channel all night long.’

Rothschild gestured to the unpacked boxes all around the room. ‘Do I look like I’ve had time to watch the news?’

Rothschild crossed the room to the kitchen table where several photos were spread out. The one in the centre was a family photo, taken when Rosalyn was still alive. Not long before her diagnosis. Rothschild looked at it, and his face took on a lost look. ‘I came home last night, barbecued up some food for the kids, unpacked more stuff, and started going through these . . . When it got to be too much, I crashed down on a mattress on the floor. I slept there all night long – till Patrol started banging down my door.’

Striker turned his eyes away from the picture of Rosalyn, because every time he looked at it, painful memories returned. And not just ones of Rosalyn. Images – feelings – of what he had gone through with his own wife, Amanda, and with Courtney, following her mother’s death. Every day had been a struggle back then. And now Rothschild was going through the same hell.

Striker felt for his friend, but didn’t know what to do. So he tried to see through the memories and find some clarity. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

‘What can you tell me about Chad Koda?’ he asked.

‘Chad? I dunno. He was a good guy. Good boss. And he was smart. Jaded, sure, but who the hell isn’t after all that time?’ Rothschild smiled grimly. ‘I remember him bitching about the courts a million times a day. He really hated them. “It’s a legal system,” he used to say. “Not a justice system.” How’s that for truth?’

‘And?’

Rothschild shrugged. ‘And what? Koda reached the mandatory minimum and took his leave. Got out of the VPD years ago. Went into real estate. And from what I hear, he does pretty good . . . How is he connected in all this?’

Striker hedged the issue. ‘All I know is I got Koda in the hospital, and Keisha Williams and Sharise Owens are dead from two separate bomb blasts. And now, with the suspect being found at your house, Koda is the only real connection I can see here. He knows all three of you.’

Rothschild looked like his mind was a million miles away. ‘I just can’t see why.’

‘He’s left a couple of dolls at the scene,’ Striker said. ‘They’ve obviously been broken up from the blast, but they might be policemen the way they were dressed. And each one of them has had a number drawn on the chest. That mean anything to you?’

Rothschild just shook his head again. Looked lost.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

Striker was about to say more when the door to the basement opened and Shana walked into the room. She was dressed in a pair of long-sleeved pyjamas, pink in colour, with princesses and unicorns on them – the perfect motif for any six-year-old girl. Upon seeing Striker, she smiled wide.

‘Uncle Jacob!’ she said.

She stumbled sleepily across the room and gave him a long, hard hug.

Striker squeezed her back. ‘How’s my little cupcake?’

‘You didn’t come over last night.’

‘I know. I tried to, but—’

‘You had to work.’

Striker smiled grimly. Pretty sad when even a six-year-old knows the same old song and dance.

‘Next time,’ he said.

‘You promise?’

‘How ’bout I don’t promise, but I bring you some ice cream later?’

The little girl smiled. ‘Okay.’

Seconds later, Shana’s brother shambled through the doorway. Though Cody was only twenty minutes younger, he had not yet shed some of his childhood insecurities. He clutched his light-blue blankie and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the uniformed patrol cop who had been standing there completely silent the whole time, then at Striker.

‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked.

Striker tussled his hair. ‘Police Parade.’ When Cody just looked at him through sleepy eyes, Striker told him, ‘It’s still awfully early, my little man.’

‘And the adults are talking,’ Rothschild said.

‘About what?’ the boy asked.

‘You two need to go back to bed, son.’

‘But Dad—’

‘No buts from either one of you.’

Rothschild took both children by the hand and guided them back to the stairwell, where the second member of Echo15 – a short, plump policewoman – was standing. Once the children were being ushered down the stairs, Shana glanced back at Striker and waved.

‘Goodnight, Uncle Jacob.’

‘Pleasant dreams,’ he whispered.

Then they were gone – in presence but not in mind. The image of the little girl remained in Striker’s head. Shana was so much like her mother, in personality and appearance. And Striker wondered how hard that was on Rothschild. When Striker’s own wife, Amanda, had died several years earlier, he had seen her every day in his own daughter – every time Courtney smiled, or laughed, and even when she cried.

It had been emotionally exhausting.

It was something he loved and hated all at once, a reflection that constantly filled him with life and yet killed him at the same time. He wondered at what point he had finally got over that. Time seemed a blur.

When Rothschild returned, Striker threw back the rest of his coffee.

‘I gotta go,’ he said.

‘What – where?’

‘Koda is the hub in all this. I need to talk to the man.’

‘I thought you said he was unconscious.’

‘He is.’ Striker dropped his cup in the sink and headed for the door. ‘Sleeping Beauty’s about to get a wake-up call.’