Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Fifty

A young redheaded nurse who looked no more than twenty swiped Striker and Felicia into the Critical Care Unit. The halls were busier than the last time they’d been there, with pods of nurses and doctors in the middle of their morning rounds. The scene appeared ordinary, routine . . . but something about it felt wrong. When Striker neared the halfway point of the corridor and spotted the door to room 315, he understood why.

No patrolman stood in the hall.

‘Where’s the guard?’ Felicia asked.

Striker hurried down to the room. Dropped his hand near his pistol. Pushed open the door.

Inside, the room was empty. On the bed, the steel rail guard had been lowered and the comforters were folded back. Next to the bed, the blood pressure and heart rate monitors stood unattached. The bathroom door was closed. Striker knocked on it. When no one answered, he opened it up and looked inside.

Empty.

He got on his cell and called Dispatch. Sue Rhaemer answered with a ‘What-up, Rockstar?’

‘Save it, Sue. I’m in no mood.’

‘Pissy.’

‘You got no idea. I’m standing here at St Paul’s Hospital and Chad Koda is gone. I need you to raise the guard for me.’

‘Okay, one sec.’ The soft clicks of a keyboard filled the phone, then Sue Rhaemer made a confused sound. ‘Weak. Says here that the unit cleared, like, ten minutes ago.’

‘Cleared?’

Striker frowned; ten minutes ago was the same time Dr Varga had called to tell them Chad Koda was awake. It made no sense. He was about to get Sue to raise that unit when the door to the recovery room swung open and the doctor walked inside.

‘I’ll call you back, Sue.’ Striker hung up and turned to the doctor. ‘Where is Chad Koda?’

Dr Varga frowned. ‘Mr Koda is released.’

‘Released?’ Felicia said. ‘In his condition? The man was half killed.’

The frown on Varga’s face turned into an expression of concern. ‘I tried to make him stay. But the man would not listen to reason.’

Striker stepped into the doctor’s personal space. ‘He’s supposed to be under police guard.’

Dr Varga looked confused. ‘But . . . he was under police guard. The officer released him.’

Striker felt his jaw tightening. ‘What officer? Who released him?’

Dr Varga looked down at the pad in his hand and searched for the name of the releasing officer. After a long moment, he found it.

‘Detective Harry Eckhart,’ he said.

Fifty-One

Striker was seething.

The moment he and Felicia exited the hospital, he whipped out his cell phone and dialled Harry’s number. It rang three times, then went straight to voicemail. He hung up, dialled again, and got the same response. This time he left a message telling Harry to call him – immediately.

‘This is giving me a headache,’ Felicia said.

‘Nothing like the one Harry’s going to have after I throttle him.’

Striker called Dispatch back and got Sue Rhaemer to raise Harry over the air. She said it was no problem and put him on hold while she did this. Almost five minutes later, the line clicked and Rhaemer returned.

‘Well?’ Striker demanded.

‘Okay, don’t spaz on me this time, but this guy is weak, man. Weak.’

‘Weak? What the hell you talking about, Sue?’

‘He’s not answering the broadcasts.’

‘You try all districts?’

‘Of course. And the Ops channels.’

Striker closed his eyes, felt the tension swelling inside of him. ‘Thanks, Sue. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Rock till ya drop,’ she said, and the line went dead.

They headed back for the car. As they walked, Striker turned silent and thought things over. When they reached the cruiser, he snapped his fingers and looked at Felicia. ‘I got it – Harry doesn’t drive one of the Fusions, does he?’

Felicia thought it over. ‘No, he’s old school. He likes the older Ford sedans. So what?’

‘In the Crown Vics, the GPS is built right into the dashboard, not the laptop.’

She caught on and smiled. ‘We can trace him.’

Striker called the Fleet Manager and found out which car Harry had signed out for the day. Sure enough, it was one of the Crown Vics.

Call sign: Juliet 13.

With the vehicle ID now known, Striker called back Dispatch. He gave Sue Rhaemer the call sign and asked her to locate the vehicle with the GPS system. She made an uneasy sound. ‘You do realize we’re only supposed to use GPS in cases of emergencies, right?’

‘This is an emergency, Sue. You’re preventing a homicide – because I’m going to kill Harry if he screws up my case.’

The Central Dispatcher laughed, but said nothing.

‘I’m desperate here, Sue.’

‘Oh fine, just . . . chill.’

Striker heard the woman typing on the terminal. Moments later, when she came back on the line, her voice was rough. ‘Okay, listen up. The car’s gone mobile. East on Hastings. Three thousand block.’

Striker nodded absently. ‘Thanks, Sue. As always.’

He put the car in gear.

‘Time for some surveillance?’ Felicia asked.

Striker nodded, but did not smile. The fact that they were actually spying on another cop, and a man he had liked for years, did not sit well with him. And thoughts of what it might possibly lead them to left him feeling ill and anxious.

He stepped on the gas and the car surged down the road. He headed east after Harry, searching for evidence, but – maybe for the first time in his career – hoping to come up zero.

Fifty-Two

Harry drove across the Vancouver-Burnaby border and eventually turned left on Gilmore Street. Sitting beside him in the passenger seat, hazy from the medications but conscious, was Chad Koda. The man was looking out the window at nothing in particular and groaned constantly.

Harry stole a glance at him.

Chad Koda looked bad. The zipper sutures up the middle of his face were even more noticeable in the daylight, and because the hospital had shaved the top of his head during the process, the entire length of the injury was apparent. It extended from the middle of his nose all the way to the top of his skull.

It was amazing he had survived.

‘You gonna make it there?’ Harry asked.

Koda made no reply. He just took another T3 and shoved it under his tongue. After a long moment, he cleared his throat.

‘I want him dead for this,’ he finally said.

Harry let the comment hang there for a moment, then he gave Koda a cool look. ‘We need to be calm here. Smart.’

Koda gave him a hot look. ‘I almost got killed here, Harry. My whole fucking life – gone.’

‘Your whole life will be gone if you flap those lips to the wrong person.’

‘I know what I can and can’t say.’

‘Not when you’re all doped-up on meds, you don’t.’

Koda said nothing back, but his pale face darkened.

Harry took a sudden right down a narrow back lane and parked ten feet from the rear of his yard. The garage door opener was on the fritz again, so he got out and left the car parked in the lane. When they entered the garage, Harry closed the door securely behind them. He plugged in the radio. Cranked the volume.

‘Now we can talk.’

Fifty-Three

With the aid of Central Dispatcher Sue Rhaemer and the GPS, Striker learned that Harry’s undercover cruiser was stationary in the Burnaby area. He and Felicia drove there, and within minutes found the old Ford. It was sitting empty in the north lane of Pandora Street, parked alongside a detached garage.

Felicia looked up from the computer and studied the house. She saw the address number on the garage. ‘This is Harry’s place.’ She looked around and saw no one. ‘They must have gone inside.’

‘Or into the garage,’ Striker noted. ‘Otherwise, why not park out front?’

He drove the undercover cruiser past the lane entrance, a half block down the road, then put the car into Park and jumped out.

‘What are you doing?’ Felicia asked.

‘Take the wheel and wait for my call.’

‘Shouldn’t we both—’

‘I need you driving in case they bolt again.’

‘But—’

‘Who’s better at driving surveillance?’ he asked.

‘Well, me.’

‘Exactly. You were the one in Strike Force, Feleesh, not me. So just be ready. We’re gonna need to follow these guys when they leave. You’ll be driving.’

Before Felicia could respond, Striker did a one-eighty and walked down the lane. Like most alleys in the area, the road was extremely narrow, with just enough room for one car to travel down. It was decorated with City garbage cans and blue recycle boxes.

Striker reached the old Ford Harry had been driving and looked inside. On the back seat were some McDonald’s hamburger wrappers and a booklet for the Vancouver Police Union. On the floor was a torn-off hospital tag. Along the lateral edge of the band was a red line and the words ‘Allergic to Penicillin’. The name on the front was visible:

Chad Heath Koda.

Striker looked around the lane, then at Harry’s backyard. No one was there. So he focused on the house. It was a plain model, just a rectangular box. All the windows were dark, upstairs and down, and there was no movement inside.

No one appeared to be home.

Striker approached the lot. As he reached the garage, the soft sound of music filtered through the door. It was quiet, almost inaudible, but there. He moved closer and realized it was a radio – with voices intermingled.

He placed one ear against the door and listened. All he could make out were mumbles, so he rounded the garage. On the west side of the structure was a small window. As Striker neared it, he caught a glimpse of the two men inside.

Harry and Koda.

Having a conversation of some kind.

A serious one.

Koda was slowly pacing the room on wobbly legs and looked ready to keel over at any moment. His split-apart face was gaunt and looked freakish. Unreal, like a Halloween mask. Harry was sitting on a milk crate in the centre of the room, leaning with his elbows on his knees. His red and puffy face held only one expression:

Concern.

Striker crouched down low enough to hide under the ledge and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation, but all he could make out was the din of the radio. Gently, he reached up and tried to inch open the window, but it would not budge and he feared making too much noise.

From his pocket, he withdrew his Spyderco knife and flicked open the blade. Wedging it in between the window and frame, Striker gently pried until the window creaked open a quarter of an inch.

Then he listened.

Fifty-Four

‘. . . the little fuckin’ prick.’ The voice was jittery but deep, and definitely belonged to Chad Koda.

‘Well, that little prick is their Sergeant-at-Arms,’ Harry replied.

‘Used to be the Sergeant-at-Arms – they fuckin’ aced him.’

‘When?’

‘Who cares? The little shit’s using again. And now he needs money, he’s demanding money.’

There was a pause in the conversation.

‘How much?’ Harry asked.

‘Thirty thou.’

‘Call him . . . Just . . . call him.’

‘I can’t,’ Koda replied. ‘I don’t have his number – he calls me.’

Harry said nothing for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. There was a heaviness in his tone. An acceptance.

‘I will deal with this,’ he said.

Fifty-Five

Ten minutes later, Striker sat in the undercover cruiser with Felicia. They were parked in a T-lane three blocks north of Harry’s house, under the cover of someone’s garage. Striker finished debriefing Felicia on everything he had overheard Harry and Koda saying. When done, he felt emotionally drained. Like he’d just ratted out an old friend.

‘Sounds awfully cryptic,’ Felicia said.

He nodded. ‘And yet some things are pretty clear.’

‘Like?’

‘Like they’re being blackmailed. And by the sounds of it, by someone dangerous – when they’re talking about a Sergeant-at-Arms, they’re not referring to the army, Feleesh. It’s gang related. And that’s a pretty high rank.’ He scowled as he thought back. ‘You should have seen Koda. He was hyped up and raving . . . but he was scared too. You could hear it in his voice.’

‘Well, he did just get blown up.’

‘He’s unstable.’

‘And Harry?’

Striker shook his head. ‘He sounds very serious.’

Felicia thought things over. ‘The big question here is why are they being blackmailed?’

Striker looked for connections in both the men. Harry and Koda were old friends. They had both worked for the Vancouver Police Department. And they had both worked for similar units, though Koda was often seconded. Striker searched for a relevant section and found one.

‘Harry and Koda both worked in OMG.’

‘The Outlaw Motorcycle Gang section?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. It was broken up long before your time, assimilated into the Gang Crime Unit.’ When Felicia said nothing else, Striker continued. ‘Our options here are pretty straightforward – we can either confront them and be done with it, or we can do some surveillance on these guys. See where it takes us.’

Felicia thought it over. ‘Harry and Koda aren’t stupid. They’re cops. They know the system. If we confront them, they’ll just lie or clam up – especially if they’re involved in something dirty.’

Something dirty . . .

The words bothered Striker.

He thought over what Felicia had said, and he agreed. Surveillance was the right choice for now. The only negative aspect was that surveillance took time. And how much more time did they have before another bomb went off somewhere in the city?

How much time before another person was murdered?

Striker let out a long breath. ‘This is a dangerous game we’re playing.’

‘It’s not our game,’ Felicia said. ‘It’s the system’s. And besides, what choice do we have? Oh shit, heads up, they’re moving again.’

Striker looked down the road to where Felicia was gesturing. From the mouth of the laneway, Harry’s undercover Ford cruiser exited, then sped south on Gilmore. It turned west on Hastings Street and was gone from sight.

Felicia hit the gas in pursuit. Once she had the Crown Vic in sight again, she pulled into the slow lane of Hastings Street and used a transit bus as cover.

Striker touched her arm. ‘Not too close.’

‘I know how to do this, Jacob.’

‘Harry spent three years in property crime – he knows surveillance. He’ll spot us if we screw up.’

Felicia cast him a cocky look. ‘And as you so clearly pointed out, I spent three years in Strike Force. I taught surveillance.’

Striker admired her boldness. He kept his mouth shut.

Felicia sped in and out of traffic, tailing Harry all the way from Willingdon Heights to Grandview-Woodlands. Once there, Harry took a hard right on Semlin Drive.

‘He’s heading into the industrial area,’ Striker noted.

Felicia slowed down and slipped into the A&W burger stand. From past experience she knew that the burger joint had an elevated parking lot from which they could see all of Semlin Drive. They parked in one of the stalls and spied on the two men.

Across the road, Harry pulled in front of an old warehouse. He parked under the telephone wires, and the two men climbed out. They made their way up to the front door.

Striker examined the place. The exterior was made of concrete, chipped and crumbling in places, and further covered by old planks of wood whose green paint was faded and peeling. Unlike the rest of the building, the front doors looked strong. They were made of steel bars and had two separate locks, both of which were shiny and looked brand new.

‘No business sign anywhere,’ Felicia noted.

‘Or a listed address.’ Striker looked at the businesses to the immediate south and north. ‘Whatever the address for this place is, it’s between 317 and 357.’ He started running possible numbers through the PRIME database. Finally, he got a hit.

‘It’s called Hing-Woo Enterprises,’ he said. ‘There’s just two calls listed here – both for complaints on a prowler.’ He read through the report. ‘Looks like they sell Chinese food ingredients. A wholesale supply company.’

Felicia put on her best Chinese accent. ‘Fortune cookie say: you under much surveillance, bad boys.’

Striker grinned.

Out front, Harry and Koda tried the door and found it locked. They knocked, waited, and no one came. Then they took a quick look around back. When they finally returned to the car, Koda’s face was tight and pale, and he was talking a mile a minute. Harry said nothing. He just climbed into the car and closed the door. Moments later, the old Ford tore off down the lane.

‘Koda looks pretty unhappy,’ Striker said.

‘Maybe he’s allergic to MSG.’

Striker grinned at that. ‘Let’s go.’

Felicia started the engine. She pulled out of the A&W parking lot and drove down East Hastings Street. She floored it in an effort to catch up to the two men, but no matter how much she increased their speed, the Crown Victoria just kept getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

Harry and Koda were flying.

Fifty-Six

When Striker and Felicia reached Victoria Street, there was no sign of Harry and Koda whatsoever. Knowing they didn’t come south, Felicia turned north and raced down the street. Three blocks later, the Crown Victoria was still nowhere to be seen.

They had lost them.

Striker got on his cell and called up Dispatch. ‘I need you to check the GPS again, Sue. Where are they now?’

The Central Dispatcher let out a frustrated sound. ‘Oh, lame. You don’t seriously want me to use the system again, do you? You’re gonna get me fired, dude.’

‘I’ll take the heat, Sue. Just tell the brass I ordered you to do it. Told you it was a life or death situation.’

The CD said nothing, and Striker could hear the clicks of the keyboard. After a moment, there was only silence.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘This is odd,’ she finally said. ‘Harry’s car was there a moment ago . . . but now it’s gone.’

Striker narrowed his eyes. ‘Gone, as in a weak signal?’

‘No, gone like Milli Vanilli – there’s no signal.’

Striker closed his eyes, swore under his breath. He said goodbye to Sue and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia asked.

‘They saw us.’

‘Impossible.’

‘They saw us.’

Felicia’s face coloured.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Striker said. ‘Harry’s good.’

‘But how do you know—’

‘They’ve disconnected the GPS system in the car.’ When Striker saw the confused look on Felicia’s face, he explained. ‘It’s not difficult. All you got to do is open the glove box and the wire’s right there.’

Felicia slumped back in the driver’s seat. ‘Great. So now what?’

Striker looked down at the laptop and thought of the warehouse Harry and Koda had visited. He’d run the address and found the attached entity, but he hadn’t done the reverse – and that was often a necessary step when using PRIME.

The system didn’t always mesh.

In PRIME, it was not uncommon for more than one name to be created for a single entity. Hing-Woo Enterprises could also be called the Hing-Woo Corporation, or simply Hing-Woo. It was a user-based system.

Crap in, crap out.

Instead of running addresses, Striker searched for a name. He typed in every variation he could think of for Hing-Woo Enterprises. Then he hit send and waited for the responses. This time, a second entity came up. Hing-Woo Wholesalers. Like before, the two prowler calls came up – but this time there was also a third file listed.

For an Insecure Premises call.

Striker read through it. The details were basic. An alarm had gone off. Police had attended to find the door insecure. And the property representative had been called to attend. It was all very ordinary. Except for one big thing – the name of the property rep: Brice Burns.

‘Look at this,’ Striker said.

Felicia did. ‘Son-of-a-bitch – Sleeves?’

‘Yep. The biker Kolt mentioned.’

‘There’s our connection then.’

Striker flipped back through his notebook and tried to connect the dots of information. ‘Owens and Williams are killed in two separate bomb blasts, but both women are connected to Chad Koda. And Koda is connected to Harry. Now we know that Koda and Harry are being blackmailed, so it’s all one continuous chain.’

‘And you’re thinking the blackmailer might be this biker, Sleeves?’

He nodded. ‘Fits the MO. The guy has organized crime connections. Kolt said he’d done electrical torture before, back east during the biker wars. And now we have him connected to this business Harry and Koda are checking out . . . It fits the bill.’

Felicia clucked her tongue as she thought. ‘He is a member of the Satan’s Prowlers,’ she noted.

Striker read through the computer details. Most of it was typical information – affiliations with other criminal organizations; associations with other known criminals; and a long list of charges and suspected involvements in various other crimes.

But when Striker clicked on the man’s entity tab, something else stole his attention. Under the Remarks section, in big red capital letters was a warning:

Satan’s Prowlers Enforcer – Sergeant-at-Arms.

‘Hey, Feleesh, look at this. He’s the Sergeant-at-Arms.’

She looked at the screen, and her voice took on an excited note. ‘He’s the one Harry and Koda were talking about.’

Striker nodded, then performed another computer search. He ran Sleeves through the Canadian Police Information Centre, requesting a full search of his recorded criminal history and anything connected in the Criminal Name Index. Within seconds, the system came back with a perfect hit:

Brice Burns.

Alias: Sleeves

Violent, Armed and Dangerous, Escape Risk.

Also listed was his 175-centimetre height, his 80-kilogram body weight, and a string of scars, marks and tattoos – his right arm had two dragons fighting over a golden butterfly; his left arm had several naked women bound in chains.

‘Charming guy,’ Felicia said.

Striker said nothing and read on.

The man’s history was extensive. He had a file in the Federal Penitentiary System, a Known Offender number in the DNA database, and a list of crimes going back decades.

Striker searched for a known address, but there was none. In fact, only two addresses were listed – the PO Box for the Matsqui Federal Penitentiary, and the address of the Satan’s Prowlers’ clubhouse, which was located on Charles Street.

Felicia sighed. ‘It’s always one step forward, two steps back.’

Striker had had enough of the delays.

‘Head out east,’ he said. ‘Just above Fellows Road.’

‘Fellows? But no one lives there but—’

‘Vicenza Montalba,’ Striker said.

The look on Felicia’s face was one of disbelief. Vicenza Montalba was the head of the East Van Chapter of the Satan’s Prowlers Motorcycle Club. He was a man who was hated by cops, respected by criminals, and feared by his enemies. He was a man who had been damn near untouchable for thirty years. Vicenza Montalba was rich. Powerful. Menacing.

And well known for being anti-police.

Felicia let out a strangled laugh. ‘What are you gonna do? Just walk right up there and ring his bell?’

Striker smiled back at her.

‘That’s the plan.’