Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Forty-Seven

Striker drove to the police fleet lot.

He grabbed an undercover cruiser – one of the new Ford Fusions with the reinforced bumper – and made sure the laptop was working and fully charged. He then checked to be sure the trunk was filled with paper evidence bags and latex gloves. Satisfied, he picked up Felicia from the front steps of Cambie Street Headquarters.

‘You should have called me,’ she said as she climbed in.

‘There wasn’t time.’

‘For a phone call?’

‘Hey, I wouldn’t have had to call you at all if you’d just stayed the night like I asked.’

Felicia gave him a cool glance. ‘Are you really going to use that against me?’

He sighed. ‘Look, I’m tired and it’s already been a hell of a morning. Nothing but bad news, bad news, and more bad news.’

‘Well here’s some good. While I was waiting for you, I did some more searching, and guess who I located? Solomon Bay.’

Striker felt a smile return to his lips. ‘Where?’

‘Oakville Hospital, Toronto.’

‘Toronto?’

‘He’s sick, Jacob.’

‘How sick?’

‘Sick enough that he’s no longer considered a suspect in this file. He’s got some strange degenerative disease. An immune disorder. He’s been bedridden for over three years now, which is why we couldn’t locate any more history on the guy.’

‘This all documented?’

Felicia nodded. ‘He’s not our guy.’

Striker said nothing at first, he just let the information sink in. Ruling Solomon out was necessary, but it left him with an empty feeling. Like someone had stolen something from him.

One more lead destroyed.

He hit the gas and headed for St Paul’s Hospital so that they could speak to Chad Koda. Along the way, he gave Felicia a rundown on all that had happened this morning. By the time they arrived some ten minutes later, she was as befuddled as he was about the file.

They headed inside the hospital.

Admitting was unusually calm, even for a Thursday morning. No patients lined up at the front desk. No paramedics or cops gathered in the lobby. No drunks or mental health apprehensions screamed in the waiting area.

Sitting behind the counter was the same girl who had helped them yesterday. When she saw Striker, a nervous look flittered in her eyes, as if she was thinking Oh God, what now?

Striker and Felicia passed her by. They took the elevator to the third floor, where the Critical Care Unit was located. As always, the doors were electronically locked. A small round nurse of black ancestry scanned them inside.

‘Dis way,’ she said softly.

Striker followed her down to Koda’s room.

Standing on duty outside the door was a Caucasian cop. Big, bald, and fat with lots of padded muscle bulk. A long vertical scar made his already-hard face appear even more fierce, and Striker was glad they had posted this guy at the door. He looked like a mixture of an Ultimate Fighter and a Hollywood soldier.

The cop craned his neck at the sight of them and demanded to see their badges. After a quick show of credentials, they went inside.

The recovery room was private, holding only one bed and a chair. Everywhere Striker looked, there were degrees of white – from the faded ivory bed sheets to the cream-coloured curtains to the sterile eggshell of the walls. The only object that held any true colour was the quilt that ran across the lower half of the bed. It was pale blue.

Like Cody’s security blankie.

Felicia wrinkled her nose. ‘It always smells like bleach in here.’

Striker nodded. ‘Cologne of the sick.’

He approached the bed. Lying on his back was Chad Koda. The man’s eyes were closed and didn’t look like they were moving beneath the lids. A line of stitches ran up the bridge of the man’s nose and continued right up his forehead well into his shaved hairline.

It looked like a purple-red zipper.

Striker moved out of the man’s earshot, pointed at the scar, and whispered to Felicia. ‘Still think he was trying to stage an attack on himself?’ When Felicia said nothing, he added, ‘An inch more to the right or left, and the metal would have taken his eye out.’

Felicia also kept her voice low. ‘If it was a murder-suicide, he wouldn’t have cared. Besides, it was just a theory, Jacob. Something to consider and rule out.’

‘Well consider it ruled out. This bomber’s started a countdown. We don’t have time to entertain other theories.’

Felicia shot him a look of daggers, and Striker turned away. He was being a dick, he knew, and not because of the case but because Felicia hadn’t stayed the night. It was unfair. He got that. But for some reason, he couldn’t let it go.

He assessed the man. On Koda’s face, surrounding the line of stitches, was a mottling of abrasions that were already turned a bruised-banana colour at the edges. Bruises also marred his right cheek and right chin. Yet the other side of him was completely untouched.

‘Two-Face,’ Felicia said dryly.

‘In more ways than one.’

Striker stepped right up to the bed, until his hip touched the tubular steel railing. Lines were hooked from Koda’s left arm and chest; they ran to a trio of machines that sat bedside. One machine was designed to regulate pulse and blood pressure; one was for fluids; and one was for something Striker didn’t know.

‘Koda,’ he said softly, then a little louder. ‘Koda.’

There was no response. Not even a blip on the machine.

Felicia frowned. ‘He’s really out of it.’

‘Koda,’ Striker said again, and gently squeezed his forearm.

‘Please, you do not touch this man.’ The voice came from the doorway, and was heavily accented. Eastern European maybe.

Striker craned his neck and spotted a doctor he did not recognize from any of his previous visits. The man was tall with a thick rug of silver hair and eyes so dark they appeared black.

‘I am Dr Varga,’ the man offered.

‘Detectives Striker and Santos.’ Striker flashed him the badge. ‘Vancouver Police. We need to speak to this man.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘That will not be possible. We sedate this man very much last night. He will not communicate for several hours.’

‘Can’t you wake him? Just for a few minutes? Time is crucial here.’

Dr Varga shook his head. ‘The body of this man does require much rest.’

‘I understand that,’ Striker said. ‘And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t completely necessary. But right now, we have a bomber out there in the city, and this man might be our only key to stopping him.’

The doctor’s expression turned from defiance to concern. ‘This is an unfortunate thing, I know. But to administer further medications would be negligent. There is too much risk.’

Felicia humphed. ‘Tell that to the next victim who gets blown up.’

When Dr Varga offered no response, but merely stood there, looking uncomfortable, Striker pulled out one of his business cards and shoved it in the man’s hand. ‘Call me the second he wakes up, Doctor.’

‘I will do this. Anything else I can do?’

Striker gave the man a hard, unforgiving look. ‘Yes. Pray to God no one else is dead by then.’

Forty-Eight

The bomber stood between the two houses on the east side of Trafalgar Street, under the shadows of the roof overhang, and struggled with the tremors inside of him. Deep pulsations racked his head. Bounced around in his skull. It had been this way ever since the explosion at Chad Koda’s house – an invisible tide lapping the shores of his mind.

He killed the thought and got back to recon. To planning. He focused on Rothschild’s new home. The place had been easy to find – just one single tail of Detective Striker’s Saab along the winding, empty roadways of Dunbar.

Right now, security there was omnipresent. A minimum of three cops were on scene at all times – one out front, one in the rear, and one on the upper floor somewhere. He suspected there was one more downstairs, but had not yet confirmed that suspicion. And the more he tried to sort out the information, the more his brain throbbed. A constant, steady thud-thud-thud.

It was maddening, the price he had to pay for sanity.

At his side, the cell phone vibrated. It was the black model – he always carried two.

For personal reasons.

The ringer and LCD display had been deactivated, so as to not attract unwanted attention. But display or no display, he knew the caller. There was only one person who knew this number: Molly. And he was not happy with her.

He answered.

‘Bombs-R-Us,’ he said dryly.

There was a slight pause. ‘Oh bugger, that’s not funny – what if someone overheard you?’

He made no reply.

‘Do you have a good VP?’ she asked.

‘Vantage Point is good,’ he said. ‘Wait – hold on.’

Across the street, a uniformed cop exited the house and walked down the sidewalk. Seconds later, another police cruiser pulled up. The driver handed the other cop a tray of coffees. Two cups. Then the first cop returned inside the house, and the cruiser drove away.

Two cops inside the house, he thought.

Now he knew.

‘Are you still there?’ Molly asked. ‘What’s going on?’

His head was pounding, like there was a bass drum set up behind his eyes. ‘The vantage point is fine,’ he got out. ‘The situation is not. It’s a tactical nightmare . . . We need to reassess and replan.’

Molly made an unhappy sound. ‘Sounds a bit dodgy. Our timeline’s already way off.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

She hesitated. ‘I beg pardon?’

‘Intel and acquisitions is your job.’

‘What exactly are you implying?’

‘That if you were less worried about how I set off the bombs and how much explosives I used, you might have realized that Rothschild was moving.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Life’s not fair. All I know is we used less explosives, and now Chad Koda is still alive.’

Molly hung up on him.

A half-minute later, the cell phone vibrated again – not with a phone call but an email message. He opened it up. The header was from: HMPSC – The Hazardous Materials Product Safety Commission.

He read the email:

Notice: Recall

Product: Pentaerythritol tetranitrate. Also known as PETN, PENTA and Nitropenta.

The details that followed focused on distance time-progression and linear burn rates. The news release had been issued by the company’s media relations unit only seventeen minutes ago. It told him one important thing: their execution had been fine; the materials were faulty.

It was not Molly’s fault.

His cell buzzed again, and he picked up.

‘Well?’ Molly asked.

‘I was wrong.’

‘So now what do we do?’

He said nothing, he just thought everything over. Given the timeline they were on, there were few remaining choices. Obtaining more PETN would take time they didn’t have and require more risk. Buying other explosives through the black market was even more dangerous. The more he assessed their situation, the more he realized there was no choice in the matter.

‘Pick me up,’ he finally said. ‘It’s time to cook.’

Forty-Nine

Striker and Felicia stopped on Denman Street at Striker’s favourite coffee shop – an old mom & pop business named Rafello’s. The coffee was always strong and the sandwiches were good, and the old couple had been kind to Striker since his first days in Patrol. Striker liked to give them the business. They grabbed a couple of breakfast melts, then ate in the car and went over the bomber’s MO.

‘Whoever he is, the man is smart,’ Striker said. ‘Not only does he have the expertise to work with explosive materials, but he knows assembly as well. Add to this the fact he can do surveillance, swim the goddam channel, and has knowledge of various torture devices – in particular electrical – and we can narrow down our search. Military is the first thing that comes to mind.’

‘Or some kind of mercenary,’ Felicia agreed. ‘Possibly a gang hitman or a professional assassin. So much depends on the motive. All that aside, we can’t rule out someone with a basic explosives training.’

Striker nodded. ‘Like an engineer from a mining company. Or someone in any of the pyrotechnic fields. Even a teacher of explosives would be plausible.’

‘Any demolitions guy,’ Felicia agreed. ‘I looked up a few things on Google, and you can learn how to perform surveillance. Hell, there’s not only lessons online, but entire courses you can actually take. And not only on surveillance, but counter-surveillance. And as for the associated electronic gadgetry, well you can order that stuff right on Amazon.’

‘And the electrical torture?’

‘Same thing, I’m afraid. I’ve never dealt with a picana before, but I looked it up on the net and found directions on how to make one. It’s crazy, I know, but I found it.’

The information was disheartening, and Striker shook his head absently. ‘So what you’re saying is, the MO might point towards a person with this kind of expertise, but a lot of people with the willpower and tools could do this on their own.’

‘Unfortunately, yes. It’s all just a click away.’

Striker frowned. ‘Which is why we keep finding ourselves back at square one, waiting on lab results and following the trails and connections of our victims.’ He shook his head and drank some more coffee. ‘It’s so damn frustrating.’

Felicia agreed. She threw her half-eaten breakfast melt in the garbage and spoke. ‘With Solomon ruled out, Koda’s our best lead.’

‘Well, he’s on hold for now.’

She nodded for a long moment, as if debating something. Finally, she crooked her neck to look at him. ‘What about Harry?’

‘Harry Eckhart?’ Striker asked. ‘He’s a cop, Feleesh.’

‘I know that, Jacob. But don’t forget, Koda was also a cop. And like it or not, Harry’s the only other person I can think of who’s got some kind of connection to everyone involved.’

‘When the first bomb went off, Harry was stuck in a traffic jam on the bridge.’

‘I’m not saying he was the actual bomber, Jacob, but he might know more than he’s telling us. I’ll tell you this: something’s up with the man. He’s been acting downright odd.’

Striker said nothing and thought it over. It was true. Harry did have links to Chad Koda, Keisha Williams, and even Dr Sharise Owens, indirectly. And the man had seemed resistant with the information about Solomon Bay.

But still, Striker gave the idea little credence; he’d known Harry for years. And as hard-nosed and irascible as the man could be, he was a good cop. Always had been. Through the death of his son. Through the breakup of his first marriage. Through everything.

Striker liked the man.

As they both sat there, mulling over the facts, a pair of Harley Davidsons roared by. With their mufflers obviously removed, the motorcycles’ loud rumbles shook the street.

Irritated, Striker looked up. The two bikers were members of the Satan’s Prowlers gang – the affiliation made obvious by the weeping-skull patch on their jackets. The smaller of the two riders craned his neck and met Striker’s stare. He smirked, gave a mock salute, and the bikes drove away.

‘Don’t you need an IQ greater than three to get a licence?’ Felicia asked.

Striker said nothing at first. He just looked at the stereo clock. ‘Odd time for them to be out. Early.’

‘They’re probably still partying from last night.’

Striker said nothing else. The sight reminded him of something else – something their weapons expert, Jay Kolt, had told them:

Some of the high-end gangs use electrical torture, like the Satan’s Prowlers.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Kolt mentioned a biker named Sleeves. Burns was his real name. Or something like that. See what you can find on the man.’

Felicia made an ahh sound, then started punching the name into the computer. Two mandatory fields.

Gang Affiliations: Satan’s Prowlers.

Surname: Burns.

After a moment, she smiled. ‘Direct hit. Brice Burns. Alias: Sleeves.’

Striker looked at the screen and whistled. ‘Three pages of files – this guy’s a career criminal.’

‘He’s a dirt-bag, is what he is.’

Striker smirked. Felicia wasn’t one to refrain from speaking her mind.

As she began reading through the list of reports and Intel files, Striker put the car into gear and drove around the corner onto Pacific Avenue. Chad Koda’s house was just a mile away, and he wanted to visit the scene again, free of all the chaos.

They were still missing something.

He could feel it.

When they arrived, Striker pulled in behind a white utility van that had the Vancouver Police Department crest on the door and a large dent in the rear panel. It was Ident’s van.

‘Noodles is here.’

Felicia didn’t even look up. ‘Be still, my beating heart.’

‘I need to talk to him about the different scenes. Can you run the bomb call for me before I go on? See if the forensic team’s added anything to the file since we last checked.’

Felicia said ‘sure’ and brought up the report. It was long, filled with numerous evidence pages, police logs, and scanned-in civilian statements which were now in PDF format. Striker read the last supplement link which was marked: Canvass.

‘Open that one,’ he said.

Felicia did. The page was divided into three columns – one for the addresses that had been canvassed, one for the names of the witnesses living there, and one for whether or not any evidence had been obtained. Out of the eight other homes on the block, only three of them had been occupied during the time of the explosion. Three of the residences had ‘(PV)’ beside their addresses.

PV: Possible Video.

Felicia took the initiative. ‘You talk to Noodles. I’ll check out these addresses.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

They exited the car and parted ways.

As Felicia walked northward down the block, Striker headed for the stairs leading up to Koda’s residence. Halfway there, he stopped, turned around, and watched Felicia go.

In her dark women’s suit, with her long black hair draping down to her shoulders, she looked professional and pretty at the same time. As if sensing his gaze, she glanced back and caught him. A grin parted her lips, and she mouthed the words ‘stop fantasizing’. Then she turned into a nearby lot.

With Felicia disappeared from sight, Striker approached Koda’s residence. The look of the house was deceiving. Aside from the blown-out windows and the string of police tape blocking off the front yard, nothing indicated that anything was amiss – certainly not that a bomb had gone off, killing one woman and injuring the homeowner.

In the exterior alcove stood a young constable – a tall white guy with his head shaved. He greeted Striker without interest, but did his job and recorded Striker’s badge number for the continuity purposes required. Once done, Striker went past the man.

Inside the foyer, Striker donned a pair of blue forensic booties to be sure he didn’t track any trace evidence from one location to the next. In the living room, den and kitchen areas, yellow markers had been set up – cones with numbers on them – and all along the wall and counter surfaces, the black powder traces of the fingerprinting process could be seen. Noodles was still there, standing in the kitchen with his camera. He took a photo, looked at the camera display, and cursed.

‘Not working?’ Striker asked.

Noodles frowned. ‘Damn thing keeps losing focus – must be one of them female models.’ He let out a dark chuckle.

‘Felicia would have your balls for breakfast if she heard that.’

‘She must be a big eater then.’

Striker ignored the comment and shook his head. He stepped into the kitchen and examined the scene. ‘You run that white powder from the dock yet?’

Noodles lowered the camera. His expression was one of exhaustion, and his thick white eyebrows drooped. ‘Yeah. Turns out it was fairy dust. Got a lead too. First name: Tinker. Last name: Bell.’

‘I need those results, Noodles.’

The Ident tech splayed his hands. ‘Everyone needs everything. I got five crime scenes on the go – the torture room, the dock, the toy shop, the Break and Enter at Rothschild’s old house, and this explosion here. It’s a forensic fucking nightmare, and my assistant’s at home with the shits.’ He raised the camera and took another picture before wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Fucking hot as hell this morning.’

Striker looked at the mess all around them – the cones, the fingerprinting powders, the discarded pile of booties in the garbage can. ‘I can’t tell what does more damage – the bomb, or you guys.’

Noodles grumbled something incoherent, and Striker left to investigate the other rooms.

Due to the high price of downtown real estate, the house had been designed tall and narrow – three storeys, each floor consisting of nine-foot-high ceilings. Striker climbed to the uppermost floor, which owned nothing but a large bedroom with en suite, a small office, and an outdoor patio area. Outside, red brick was the decor. Inside it was cherry wood and teak.

Even the quickest glance was telling. Koda had amassed a wealth that was well beyond what any cop could dream of. Striker wasn’t sure of the house’s city-assessed value, but there was little doubt it would be several million.

Six would be his guess.

He searched it all, room by room, and took his time going through the drawers and any papers he found. In the end, the result was the same. There was nothing of evidentiary value to be seized. And, equally surprisingly, he found nothing that connected Koda to his previous life as a cop. No squad plaques. No framed commendations. No retirement badge. Just . . . nothing.

It was as if the man had wiped his previous life clean.

Disappointed, Striker returned downstairs just in time to see Felicia walk through the front door.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘You get anything?’

She gave him a queer look. ‘Something odd.’

‘What?’

‘I got video of Harry . . . coming by the house here yesterday.’

‘Yeah, we saw him.’

‘Not after the explosion – before.’

Striker frowned. ‘You check the tape time? Make sure it matched your watch?’

She gave him a look that said I’m-not-an-idiot. ‘Yes, it’s correct. Pacific Standard Time. There’s no denying it. Harry came by here not a half-hour before the bomb went off. It makes me wonder why.’

Striker nodded. ‘It makes me wonder why he never told us – he said he hadn’t talked to Koda in years.’

The questions hung there for a long moment. Then Striker’s cell went off, breaking the silence. He looked down and saw the words ‘St Paul’s Hospital’ on the display screen. He picked up the call and heard a thick, Eastern European accent:

‘Detective Striker, if you will please.’

‘This is him.’

‘It’s Dr Varga. Mr Koda is awake now.’

Striker felt his fingers tighten on the phone.

‘Do not let him go back to sleep. We’re heading right up.’