Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Fifty-Seven

Vicenza Montalba’s house was a modern square structure, made entirely of white concrete and ten-foot-high tinted windows that were rumoured to be bulletproof for everything up to and including a .300 Winchester Magnum round.

The residence was situated across the Vancouver border, just above Fellows Road on Edinburgh, a relatively unknown strip that overlooked the blackish waters of the Burrard Inlet, and beyond that, the green hills of the North Shore mountains.

It was a beautiful view. A peaceful area.

Probably because Vicenza Montalba demanded it.

Striker parked out front and stared at the house. The rooftop patio, complete with green vegetation and an outdoor terrace with hot tub, was again shielded by a wall of clear bulletproof glass. Atop the walls were numerous security cameras – set there more for the police than enemy gangs – and in the driveway were two Jaguar sedans, a Mercedes coupe, and two black Land Rovers. Brand new.

Striker pointed at them. ‘Remember, crime doesn’t pay.’

Felicia just grinned back, and the two got out.

As they approached the front gate, the nearest security camera let out an audible whir and panned down on them. Striker took out his badge, held it up for the camera to see. He pressed the intercom button. Seconds later, a man’s voice came through the speaker.

‘Can I help you, Officer?’

‘We’d like to speak to Mr Montalba,’ Striker said.

‘And this is regarding?’

‘That’s between me and him.’

There was no response for a moment, but then the black steel gate clicked open and Striker and Felicia stepped inside the lot. Like the outer lands, the inner yard was immaculate. A Japanese rock garden took up the bulk of the yard, with its circular designs running around a waterfall and a cherry blossom tree.

Striker and Felicia used the bridge to cross over the koi pond. When they reached the other side, the front door opened and a man stepped out to greet them.

Striker recognized him immediately.

Vicenza Montalba looked as far removed from the biker lifestyle as was Gandhi from an Outback steakhouse. Sporting a pair of pressed slacks, an off-white dress shirt, and a gold silk tie, he looked more like a stockbroker ready for the Wall Street grind than the leader of an outlaw motorcycle club. His thick greying hair was kept short at the sides and was parted in the middle, and when he smiled, he appeared more fatherly than fiendish.

Striker started the conversation low. He introduced himself and his partner, then got down to business.

‘Does the name Sleeves mean anything to you?’

For a brief moment, the fatherly look on Montalba’s face fell away and there was turbulence in his dark eyes. ‘I know the name well. Mr Burns was disassociated from our club quite some time ago – as I’m sure you’re well aware.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Mind if we ask why?’

‘Let’s just say he wasn’t keeping up with club protocol.’

Striker nodded. ‘Meaning he was using his own product.’

Vicenza Montalba smiled. ‘I have no idea what product he was using, but I can tell you this, Detective. Mr Burns was nothing but a problem for our club. He had, shall we say, an addictive personality. He was extremely violent. And he brought our club a lot of negative press and unwanted attention. He was relieved from his position by me and removed from the club list. Does that answer your question?’

‘It does,’ Striker said. ‘This guy is of special interest to us right now on other unrelated matters.’

‘What kind of unrelated matters?’

‘Delicate matters – the kind you don’t want being tied to your motorcycle club. Believe me on this one. We’ve been trying to locate Sleeves, but aren’t having the greatest of luck. You got any idea where he is?’

Vicenza Montalba shook his head and let out a long breath. ‘We have no idea where Mr Burns currently resides.’ He fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to Striker. ‘If you get any information on the man, I would appreciate a phone call.’

Striker took the card, flipped it over in his hands, played with it. ‘Something tells me that would be unwise.’

Montalba offered no reaction. ‘Mr Burns has made an awful lot of enemies, Detective. A lot of people are very angry with him.’

‘How angry?’

Montalba only smiled.

‘Have a nice day, Detectives,’ he said. ‘I hope you find your man.’

Fifty-Eight

The bomber and Molly stood in the murky greyness of the control room and went over their list one more time. Cooking explosives was never an easy thing to do, and it would be made even more precarious by the fact they’d be using an open-flame method here in the small confines of the command room. Without a fume hood. Or even a proper filtration setup.

There was no choice. It had to be done.

Evaluate. Act. Reassess.

List of supplies in hand, the bomber moved slowly across the room. He sat down on top of the steel table, rolled up his overalls, and removed his leg. The prosthesis was the latest greatest thing – a carbon-fibre shell with an inner plastic mould.

He hated it.

He slid off the liner and let the appendage air. As good as the gel covering was, it always stunk like hot rubber and it made his skin raw. Even worse, the more he walked on the artificial leg, the more he felt every internal screw and rod and butterfly clip shred through his meat. All that steel, always grinding inside.

It was even worse when he tried to run.

‘Your leg okay?’ Molly asked.

‘It’s fine.’

She looked at him for a long moment, her round face anxious. ‘It doesn’t look fine. It’s awfully red.’

‘Everything’s brilliant, okay? Tickety-fuckin’-boo.’

Molly gave him a long furtive stare, as if she had seen this mood many times in their shared past, and said nothing. She looked back at their supply list. Cleared her throat. ‘Don’t forget the filters. No need to poison ourselves in the process.’

The bomber just nodded. He was about to ask if she preferred charcoal or carbon when he stopped. Something was vibrating in the pocket of his overalls. When he realized it was the phone – the red cell – a sick feeling came over him.

Only one person had that number, so he answered immediately.

‘Yes?’ he said.

He listened to the woman speak.

‘Yes,’ he said softly.

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I understand.’

He hung up the phone and the sickness in his belly intensified – into a feeling so bad it almost matched the darkness of his head. He looked at Molly, who was now frozen in place and staring back at him without expression.

‘We need to see him, Molly . . . You need to see him.’

‘I . . . I can’t.’

He looked back at her. Stared hard. Though her face remained frozen and without emotion, there was fear in her eyes. He could see it. And he found the moment so terribly odd. For all of Molly’s faith, and despite all her training, and regardless of all the dangers and horrors she had faced these last few years, it had changed nothing in the woman. There would always be the remnants of that scared little girl in there, no matter how hard she tried to kill it.

‘There’s not much time left,’ he told her.

‘I can’t.’

‘You owe it to him.’

‘I can’t!’

He just stared at her. Now there were tears rolling down her cheeks, leaving little faint trails on her skin.

‘Not like this,’ she said, ‘. . . not like this.’

He turned away from her. Stared ahead at nothing. And once again, he was hit by a series of memories that had happened somewhere, somehow, sometime in a past that was surely his own. The ball of yarn was fraying a little bit more with each passing day.

Molly looked at him through desperate eyes. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

He didn’t answer, didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Instead, he reached out and grabbed the gel liner of his prosthesis and its outer casing.

It was time to put himself back together again.

Fifty-Nine

Striker and Felicia sat in the parked car with the engine running. With no other option available, they put an All Points Bulletin out for Sleeves, flagging him on every critical database, be it police, border, or other emergency personnel services. When Felicia was done, she leaned back in the seat.

‘Well, the wait begins.’

‘Wait nothing,’ Striker said. ‘We’re getting ourselves a BirdDog.’

They headed for Cambie Street Headquarters.

BirdDog was the nickname cops used for a variety of manual tracking devices. Unlike the modern GPS devices, which were often built right into the vehicle, the BirdDogs consisted of two parts – the main unit, which sent out a signal and could be attached anywhere, and the handheld tracker unit, which acted as a receiver.

The cost per unit was high, but what did that matter? Trackers were a necessary part of most investigations. The department needed them. In all, the VPD owned thirty BirdDogs, and the devices were available for anyone involved in a legitimate file. But there was one important catch – the use of one required a tracking warrant. Otherwise any information gained was inadmissible in court.

Striker and Felicia didn’t have a warrant, and for Felicia this was an issue. ‘I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to write up a warrant,’ she said as they stepped through the front doors of Cambie Street Headquarters.

It was the third time she’d brought it up.

Striker frowned. ‘And I’m just saying it’s a waste of time. We don’t have enough hard evidence to get one yet. And even if we did, I’m not wasting three hours writing one up when we can be out here investigating.’

Felicia shook her head. ‘They’re going to fry us in court on this one.’

‘Like a piece of bacon,’ Striker admitted. ‘But I’ll worry about it later.’

Before Felicia could say more, Striker moved on.

When they reached the sixth floor, they walked down the hall in search of Sergeant, David Connors – or Pooch, as he was better known. The man was a surveillance god, and he regularly taught his techniques not only within the Vancouver Police Department, but at the academy as well.

Striker opened the door to Stolen Auto, and they went inside.

The Stolen Auto section was small – nothing more than a thrown-together row of cubicles in the southeast corner of the building. Piled high in two of the cubicles and spread out against the walls were numerous types of electronic gadgetry – all bait for Theft From Auto projects.

Sitting on the other side of the cubicles was the man they were looking for, David Connors. His long blond hair was braided back over his head, and the goatee he had been trying to grow for two years was still missing patches. Together, the braids and goatee made Connors’ head look too small for his body, which was a feat in itself because David Connors had the tiniest build that Striker had ever seen on a man.

‘Hey, Pooch,’ Striker said.

Connors looked up and frowned. Pooch was the nickname his old patrol squad had given him years ago, since everyone said he looked like Dawg the Bounty Hunter – if Dawg had failed to reach puberty.

It was a nickname Connors hated.

‘Shipwreck,’ he grumbled. Then he spotted Felicia. ‘Santos.’

Striker grabbed a couple of chairs from a nearby cubicle and slid one over to Felicia. They sat down opposite Connors, and Striker started the conversation.

‘You seem to be in your usual bad mood, I see.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be? It’s my last day here before they transfer me out.’

Striker hadn’t known the man was moving. It was unfortunate news. Connors loved Stolen Auto. It was his baby. And he was damn good at it.

‘So where are they sending you?’ Striker asked.

‘Police Standards.’

‘Ouch.’

Both Striker and Felicia made a sour face. Police Standards was just another name for Internal – the place where cops were forced to investigate other cops. It was an assignment no one wanted.

‘Who’d you piss off to get sent there?’ Felicia asked.

‘Just God.’

Striker grinned. ‘Well, I’ve got some more news to brighten your day – we come seeking favours.’

Connors put down the camera he was fidgeting with and looked up. ‘Well, now there’s a surprise. What do you need?’

‘BirdDog,’ Striker said.

‘Got a warrant?’

‘I need one I can use without the documentation.’

Connors frowned. ‘Oh boy. I dunno, Shipwreck.’ He leaned back in the chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. Made a clucking sound with his tongue, as if he was adding things up in his head. ‘What is this for?’

Striker thought of Harry and Koda, and said, ‘You don’t want to know.’

Connors looked away, said nothing.

‘I know the rules,’ Striker stressed. ‘But this is really important, Pooch. Otherwise I’d never ask.’

Connors nodded slowly, then sat forward. ‘I got one of the older models left. You can use it – on one condition.’

‘That we don’t drag you into court?’ Felicia said.

‘No. That you never call me Pooch again.’

Striker felt a grin come to his face. ‘How about pup?’

‘How about you get no device?’

‘Fine, fine. You win.’

Connors reached under the desk and pulled out the unit. ‘Make sure this gets back to me when you’re done – and don’t you dare try using this as part of any criminal charge. Last thing I need is some other cop investigating me when I’m in Internal doing the same damn thing.’

Felicia laughed. ‘Think about it, Connors – a breach of the Police Act would actually keep you out of Internal.’

Connors looked at her and his face remained hard. ‘Am I smiling, Santos? I’m serious here. Don’t leave me with my ass in the air on this one.’

Striker took the device from him and smiled.

‘Don’t worry, Connors,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep you covered. The last thing any of us want is to see you hanging with your ass in the air.’

Sixty

Having the BirdDog was only half of the solution. They still needed to locate Harry and Koda, and that wasn’t an easy task. Neither man was answering their phone. They weren’t back at the station. They had disabled their vehicle’s GPS system. And they were ignoring all radio broadcasts.

After another failed attempt of raising them over the air, Felicia slammed the mike back into its cradle and cussed. ‘We should just call Superintendent Laroche and fry their ass for not answering us.’

Striker shook his head. ‘All that would do is put Harry and Koda even more on the defensive. Plus I don’t want to attract unwanted attention. Believe me, Laroche is the last guy we need to get involved there. There’s got to be a better way.’

‘Better way, schmetter way. What else can we do? Wait outside their house all damn day?’

Thoughts of wasting a half-day setting up on their residences didn’t appeal to Striker. He grabbed the laptop from Felicia, hit the chat icon, and sent out a message to every patrol unit that was currently logged on:

If anyone sees Detective Harry Eckhart or retired member Chad Koda, call Detective Jacob Striker immediately.

He then listed his cell phone number. It was unorthodox at best, but at this point he was willing to try anything.

‘We’ll see if that brings us any luck.’

They didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes after sending the message, Striker got the call from the 3/10 report car. ‘You looking for Harry Eckhart?’ the man asked.

‘Desperately,’ Striker replied.

‘I just saw him. He’s gassing up at the yards.’

‘How long?’

‘Like thirty seconds ago.’

Striker felt a jolt of excitement. The City Yards – the place where the police cruisers were fixed and gassed up daily – was only a five-minute drive from Cambie Street HQ. Two minutes, if he drove like a wild man.

Striker thanked the man, hung up, and raced to the yards.

Once there, he spotted them. Harry was sitting in the undercover cruiser, drinking coffee and waiting with a vacant look on his red puffy face. The passenger seat was empty. A half-second later, the washroom door opened and Koda stepped out, using a paper towel to dab at the stitches running up his nose.

‘There they are,’ Striker said. ‘Play it cool.’

‘You’re talking to the ice queen, dear.’

Striker hit the gas and pulled up to the pump next to Harry’s Crown Vic. He killed the engine and got out. When he grabbed the gas nozzle, he glanced over at Harry and acted like he was surprised to see the man. ‘Harry? Shit, I’ve been calling you all morning. Why don’t you answer your cell?’

Harry put on a waxy smile. ‘Been a crazy day.’

Striker looked past him at Chad Koda, who had now reached the passenger side of the vehicle. The man looked sick. ‘Shouldn’t he be in protective custody?’

Koda held his head with both hands as if he was trying to hold his skull together, then spat on the ground. When he looked over at Striker, his eyes were glassy and the whites were rimmed with red. ‘I’m done with hospitals. And police protection.’

He climbed into the vehicle.

Beside him, Harry shrugged and forced a smile. ‘He’s a stubborn ass, what can I say?’

Felicia joined them. ‘Hey, Harry.’ She looked over at Koda. ‘How come he’s with you?’

‘Me and Chad are old friends,’ Harry said. ‘I’m just helping him out.’

Striker acted like it wasn’t a big deal. ‘Protection, no protection, I really don’t care. That’s your choice, Koda. I’m just glad we bumped into you. How’s the head, by the way?’

Koda looked back at him with no expression. ‘Cloudy.’

‘I bet. How many stitches?’

‘Sixty-three.’

‘Ouch.’

Striker finished gassing up the car and placed the nozzle back into its cradle. He then walked up to Harry’s Crown Vic and leaned down on the open windowsill.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Me and Feleesh have been doing some investigating here, and we got some stuff we need to run by you two. Some questions that need to be asked.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘It’s almost ten-thirty and I need some coffee. Why don’t we hit Four Chefs?’

Koda’s face tightened. ‘I got important stuff to do.’

‘More important than finding out who’s trying to kill you?’

Koda stared back and said nothing.

Striker splayed his hands.

‘Listen, Chad, I know you and I got off on the wrong foot, and I’m sorry about that – I had no idea you were a cop the first time I met you. But someone blew up your house and killed a woman in the process. We need to do this, and we need to do it now. I’ve given you a break up till this point because you’re a former member.’

‘Retired,’ he corrected.

‘Sorry, retired. Point is I can only extend that leniency so far’ – Striker played his wild card – ‘I got Acting Deputy Chief Laroche on my back nonstop and he wants to get involved in the file. I’m trying to ward him off as best I can, but you know how he can be. He wants to use this as his bid to get back to DC again.’

The mere mention of Acting Deputy Chief Laroche made both Harry and Koda take notice; everyone knew of Laroche’s anal attention to regulations and procedures. It was best for all of them to avoid his involvement. And Striker knew that.

‘It will just take a few minutes,’ Felicia pressed.

Koda finally relented. ‘Right, right. Okay.’

Striker smiled at them. ‘Four Chefs then.’

‘Four Chefs,’ Harry said.

Striker and Felicia climbed back into their own car and left the yards. They drove around Strathcona Park and headed for Clarke Street. As they went, Felicia looked behind them.

‘They coming?’ Striker asked.

‘They’re having a conversation,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Working on a story, no doubt.’

Striker grinned.

‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I like fiction.’

Sixty-One

Four Chefs was a small coffee shop tucked away on a dead-end road beneath the Georgia Street overpass. The woman who owned the business had been serving cops for twenty-five years. She was friendly, unobtrusive, and most importantly, gave everyone a police discount.

Striker and Felicia took a seat in the far back, away from the windows, and waited. Five minutes later, the front door opened and Harry and Koda walked in. Felicia waved them over and the two men grabbed coffee before sitting down.

Striker assessed them both.

Koda looked somewhat dazed. It was hard to believe this was the man they had woken up twenty-four hours ago. That man – tanned and rested – had emitted an aura of arrogance and condescension. This man before them now was a shadow of his former self. He gave off an anxious vibe, and seemed constantly on edge – his eyes darting to every exit of the coffee shop. He reminded Striker of a nervous prairie dog.

‘So how are you coping?’ Striker asked him.

Koda fought to take his eyes off the exit. ‘Head’s splitting in two.’ He popped a couple more T3s and slurped them back with his coffee. ‘I’m half deaf and I can’t remember anything about the last two days.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Jack shit.’

Striker nodded. ‘Well, it’s not really all that surprising, is it? You’re just lucky you lived. We’re in the waiting process right now for forensics, but in the meantime, Felicia and I have been going through some of the files and we’ve found something . . . well, interesting.’ He turned to Felicia, saw that she was ready for their little charade, and said, ‘Show them.’

She blinked. ‘Show them?’

‘Where’s the laptop?’

‘In the car.’

Striker forced a grin. ‘We can’t read it from there.’

Felicia’s cheeks reddened. She gave him a cross look, then stood up from the table and headed for the front door without a word. Striker watched her go, then jabbed a thumb her way and grinned at Harry and Koda. ‘I hate to see her leave, but I love to watch her go.’

Harry looked at Striker. ‘Rumour is you’ve already been there. That true?’

‘I’ve heard the same rumour ’bout you and Koda.’

‘Funny guy,’ Harry said.

As the sunlight flooded through the windows, it lit up Koda’s face and made him squint against the brightness. The light highlighted his sickened condition. The golden-copper tone of his skin was still there, but it looked almost spray-painted on now, with a sicker gauntness lurking beneath. He pounded back two more T3s.

‘Those ain’t Tic-Tacs, man,’ Striker said. ‘You’d better slow down a little.’ When Koda said nothing, Striker forced a small chuckle and continued the conversation. ‘Like I was saying, Chad, yesterday you and I got off on the wrong foot. But I got to admit, your Kardashian joke was a good one – I’ll be stealing that from you.’

Koda grinned for the first time. ‘It was a good one,’ he said.

‘Chris Rock level.’

Koda grinned, almost smugly.

Striker took another long sip of his coffee to give himself a moment to think. One moment Koda could remember nothing of the previous few days, the next he recalled the joke he had made to them in the alcove of his home.

Striker pulled out his notebook and went over things.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Since my partner seems to be taking a sabbatical, we might as well get started without her . . . This whole case is really strange; anyone can see that. Starts off with a victim down by the river – a woman who we now know was your ex-wife Sharise Owens.’

‘Common law,’ Koda stressed.

‘Granted, but still your ex. Next thing you know, a bomb goes off in your place and not only are you almost killed by the blast, but Owens is actually there with you. She dies in the process.’ He looked directly into Koda’s eyes. ‘Hell, if I didn’t know better, given the bad history you two share, I would have guessed it to be a murder-suicide.’

Koda blinked a couple of times, as if he had only now considered the optics of the situation. ‘I remember a little bit,’ he finally said.

Striker smiled. ‘Do tell.’

‘I came home and Sharise was already there. In my kitchen. Tied to a fuckin’ chair. I started walking towards her and . . . and then . . . well, nothing else is there. It’s all just one big blank.’

‘Concussion,’ Striker said. ‘Maybe it will come back to you later. But let’s forget about the actual explosion for now. Do you have any idea why someone would want to blow up your house in the first place?’

Koda’s expression went from one of weariness to that of tension. He wiped away some of the perspiration covering his brow. Cleared his throat. Drank some more coffee and then some water. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and sounded faraway.

‘I’ve been over that a million times today. And the answer is not a clue. I’ve had some pretty big real estate deals with some Hong Kong people over the last few years, and a couple of bad law suits as well. But nothing that should warrant this.’

‘Any of these business associates ever threaten you?’

Koda laughed. ‘The angry ones? All of them.’

‘With physical violence?’

Koda just shrugged. ‘Indirect shit.’

Striker wrote this information down in his notebook. ‘Forward me the names of the people in these law suits. I’ll need them.’ He flipped through the book. ‘What about Owens? Could this be somehow related more to her than to you?’

Koda’s eyes took on a distant look. ‘I hadn’t spoken to Sharise in . . . God . . . years. Our relationship didn’t exactly end well.’

‘So I take it. You know Keisha Williams, right? The cousin of your ex? She was also blown up. About eight hours earlier in her toy shop on Granville Island. You see any connections there?’

Koda’s face paled even more, turned less tan and more grey. He rubbed his finger down his nose, along the stitches, and swallowed hard. ‘I knew her, yeah, of course. But I don’t know why she would be targeted for anything. I mean, she’s a mother. A family person. A good woman. She’s been nothing but a toymaker the last ten years; why would anyone want to hurt her?’

Striker looked up from the notebook. ‘For the last ten years?’

Koda bit his lip. ‘Or however long. Figure of speech.’

Striker just nodded. ‘This might sound a bit odd to you, but on the note of toymakers, did Keisha Williams ever give you any dolls?’

‘Dolls?’

‘Yes, dolls. Toys. Like a miniature policeman.’

‘No.’

‘Would it have any significance to you if we found one at the crime scene?’

Koda’s face reddened. He looked confused and worried. ‘I don’t . . . think so.’

‘Don’t think so?’

‘No. It wouldn’t.’

‘Well, let me know if something comes to mind.’

Koda said he would and Striker asked a few more questions.

During the entire conversation, Harry sat there quietly, drinking his coffee and watching the two men. For the first time, he spoke up. ‘Maybe we should get going,’ he said. ‘You’re not looking too well, Chad.’

‘We’re almost done here anyway,’ Striker said. He kept his eyes on Koda, refused to look away. ‘What about Mike Rothschild? You knew him from your earlier days with the department, right? You two share any common enemies?’

‘Rothschild?’ Koda asked. The name obviously shocked him.

Harry cleared his throat. For the most part during the conversation, his expression had remained one of calmness and patience, but over the last few questions, that serenity appeared to have escaped him. His eyes narrowed, and his already-crimson cheeks turned a darker shade of red. ‘What does Rothschild have to do with any of this?’

‘The bomber went for him today. Fortunately, he wasn’t successful.’

‘Rothschild?’ Harry asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

His eyes glossed over and a look of disbelief filled his face. He sat back stunned and speechless. Koda, meanwhile, pushed back from the table. He looked blankly around the room. Shielded his eyes from the bright light pouring in through the windows.

‘I don’t feel so good,’ he said. ‘Gonna use . . . gonna use the washroom.’

He stood up. Stepped awkwardly back from the table and stumbled. Righted himself and walked down to the men’s restroom.

Striker watched him go, then looked to Harry. ‘Maybe Koda should be back in the hospital.’

Harry didn’t comment; he just looked at the front door and said, ‘Your partner sure is taking an unusually long time to get a laptop.’

Striker sipped his coffee, forced a smirk. ‘Probably locked herself in the car again.’ When Harry didn’t laugh and instead kept staring at the door, Striker went on the offensive. ‘So why the game, friend?’

Harry finally looked away from the door and focused on Striker. ‘What game?’

‘I had Koda under guard. My order. Who are you to release him?’

A look of something between doubt and concern flooded Harry’s features. ‘Look, Shipwreck, it wasn’t like that. It was his decision to leave, not mine. I tried to make him stay there. Under doctor care.’

‘But he refused?’

Harry splayed his hands. ‘Chad is like that. Said he wanted to get the hell out of there. And how was I to legally stop him? I mean, you tell me, is he being charged with anything? Even detained?’

Striker saw through Harry’s veil. This was a fishing exercise. To see what he and Felicia really knew.

He didn’t bite.

‘Koda’s not being charged with anything, Harry. He’s the victim, right? But I still needed to question him in order to find out who the hell is really behind this, and why it’s happening. I thought that was fairly obvious.’

Harry looked down into his coffee cup.

‘Nothing is obvious,’ he said. ‘Fact is, I’ve been over this a dozen times with him myself, and his brain is hash. Guy has no idea why it happened or who would do it. Not a clue.’

‘So, basically, you conducted an interview with him yourself. You’ll need to put a police statement into the report then.’

Harry acted as if he had never heard Striker. ‘If I were you, I’d focus my investigation on the forensic details. See what your bomb girl can give you.’

‘I’ll keep it under consideration.’

Harry glanced down at Striker’s open notebook, and Striker closed it. For the first time, Striker saw a flash of suppressed anger in the man’s eyes. He looked back at Striker and his blue eyes were cold.

The dance was over.

‘You know, Striker, I remember when you just got on this job. You were cocky as hell then too. A real piss kid.’

‘Long time ago, Harry. Life changes. The job changes. Hell, even the people change. Eventually, all dinosaurs go extinct.’

Harry’s face hardened. ‘You saying I’m old now?’

‘I’m saying things change.’

‘Yeah? Well sometimes not for the better.’

Striker eyed the man. ‘We fighting here, Harry?’

‘Course not. We’re on the same team, Striker. I always remember that.’

Striker said nothing back. He just sipped his coffee and wondered what the hell was taking Felicia so long. As if reading his mind, she walked in through the front door, shook her head in frustration, and sat down with the laptop.

‘You run into a shoe sale?’ Harry asked.

Felicia gave him a dry look. ‘That’s some funny stuff, Harry. Don’t quit your day job.’

‘What took you so long?’ he pressed.

She slammed the laptop on the table. ‘These things are shit, okay? Someone’s bent the entire cradle – the pin was jammed and I couldn’t get it to release. If you can do better, then next time you go get it.’