Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Eighty-Six

It was six-thirty p.m. by the time the bomb tech climbed back out of the manhole. He was a federal cop Striker had never seen before, and a smug look covered his olive-skinned face. In his fingers was an array of pen-like devices.

Striker studied them. ‘They real?’

‘They’re just trips,’ the technician said. ‘No actual explosives down there.’

‘None?’

‘Not a one.’

Striker cursed and closed his eyes in frustration. The thought of the two shooters escaping down the tunnel made his guts tighten.

‘I can’t believe this.’

‘It was a scare tactic. To prevent anyone from following them.’

‘Well, it worked.’

‘Of course, it did. You’d have been a fool to go down there. And don’t go assuming that, next time, the circumstances will be the same – next time they might really be rigged and ready to go.’

Striker tried to hide the bitterness from his voice. ‘Point taken.’

He turned away from the bomb tech for a breath of fresh air. With the tunnel now clear of explosives, the dogman was next to go inside, and behind him went two young constables Striker did not recognize. They started the dog track.

Striker turned away in frustration. It was useless, he knew.

The shooters were long gone.

He approached the bomb tech again and told the man to bag and tag the laser tripwires for forensics. Then he stared at the A&W parking lot, and then at the alley behind the warehouse. Everywhere he looked, it was barely controlled chaos. Two crime scenes. One with the dead body of Sleeves; the other with the dead body of Chad Koda.

Due to the high number of witnesses in the restaurant at the time of the explosion and subsequent gunfight, Inspector Osaka had commandeered a city bus to take them all down to police headquarters for proper interviewing and stress counselling. Over ten detectives had been called out to assist. Victim Services as well.

With the adrenalin fading, everyone was operating on fumes.

Witnesses aside, there were also seven victims of the blast. Each one had been injured by some form of flying shrapnel, and each had been taken to one of several hospitals. Fortunately, none of the wounds were considered critical. There had been no deaths here today.

Other than Sleeves and Koda.

‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Inspector Osaka said. His dark eyes were underscored and his white wavy hair was out of place. He approached Striker and shook his head in frustration. ‘You got to get these guys. They’re blowing up the entire city!’

‘We’re doing our best, sir.’

‘Well it’s not good enough! Do better. I got three bomb blasts in my city, an unresolved kidnapping in District 4, and a media frenzy. The public is panicking and so is Laroche – he’s on my ass every second of the day and is threatening to pull me from the road!’

‘We’re doing our best, sir,’ Striker said one more time.

Inspector Osaka let out a long heavy breath. He closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Nodded slowly. ‘Just . . . keep me informed every step of the way.’

Before Striker could respond, the inspector turned away and marched up the road to face the ravenous media horde. Striker watched him go. Inspector Osaka was a good man. But no matter how this thing played out, he was in for a shit storm with his superiors. That was just the way life went in the VPD. All par for the course.

He turned around and got to work.

Ten minutes later, Striker was busy diagramming the scene and trying to figure out timelines when Felicia walked back from the other side of Semlin Drive. She held a bandage against her left hand, where she’d cut herself on the glass, and looked tired.

Striker examined her hand. ‘It gonna need stitches?’

She shook her head. ‘Nah. Sleeves’ body has been taken to the morgue for autopsy. Noodles is processing the scene right now. He’s none too happy.’

Striker didn’t much care if Noodles was happy or not. He was just glad Felicia wasn’t cut too bad. He looked at his diagram, then at the explosion scene, and made sure he had everything right.

In the parking lot, Corporal Summer was busy working on her third bomb in two days. Her young, pretty face looked older and harder than it had the previous day. With so much debris to sort through, she had sent tech requests to all other departments – New Westminster, West Vancouver, Delta, Abbotsford, Port Moody, and to her own Fed bosses with the RCMP. It was necessary. Yellow police tape cordoned off two entire city blocks.

This amount of work was staggering.

Behind the yellow tape of Semlin Drive, Inspector Osaka was busy debriefing the media. He still looked like a Japanese Colonel Sanders, but one that had just finished battle in World War Two. All around him, swarms of reporters and soundmen buzzed: newspaper, radio, TV – the works. As far as they were concerned, the city was under siege and every child’s life was in immediate danger.

Considering the magnitude of this nightmare, Striker thought Osaka was handling himself extremely well.

‘Are you okay, Jacob?’

He blinked. Looked back at Felicia. Saw her staring at him with concern.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re shaking.’

He looked down at himself. Saw it too. ‘Adrenalin dump.’

She touched the side of his face. Turned his chin. Scraped away some crusted blood with her fingernail.

‘Glass or shrapnel?’ she asked softly.

‘I’ll take glass for two hundred.’

He forced a smile, fought to keep it, couldn’t. Thoughts of Chad Koda’s charred body in the car kept resurfacing in his mind. He looked back at the parking lot and a dark sombre feeling overtook him. Whatever problems Koda had brought upon himself, it sure as hell didn’t warrant this.

He turned to Felicia. ‘We need to check out the car bomb.’

She nodded silently.

Together, they walked back to the parking lot. Once at the mouth of the lot, the smouldering mass of steel became more apparent. From it, a thin smoke rose into the air. Not white like before, but greyer in colour. Inside the burned-up shell, the blackened, unidentifiable body of Chad Koda had yet to be removed. A horrible meaty smell filled the air, and Striker wasn’t sure if it was from the burger stand or Chad Koda’s burned-up body.

Felicia covered her mouth.

Striker did not. He just took all this in, somewhat numbly, and images of the explosion returned to him in quick, jarring patches. Like broken video clips. He sensed Felicia’s eyes on him – her unwarranted concern – and was relieved when Corporal Summer approached them from the side.

‘I’m concerned,’ the bomb investigator said without preamble. ‘This is a completely different signature from before.’

Felicia stopped covering her mouth. ‘Meaning?’

‘Usually, a new signature suggests a new bomber.’

Striker shook his head. ‘It’s the same two as before – I saw them firsthand. Hell, I tagged one of them.’ He explained what had transpired, and Corporal Summer listened intently. When Striker was done talking, she nodded, but the concern never left her eyes.

‘Still,’ she said. ‘It is unusual for a bomber to change method halfway through. Here . . . glove up and check this out.’

Once Striker and Felicia snapped on some latex, Corporal Summer called over one of her technicians and took from the woman two evidence bags. From the first one, the Corporal withdrew a blackened piece of U-shaped steel.

‘You can touch it,’ she said. ‘It’s already been swabbed for DNA – not that we expect to get any. If we’re lucky though, we will get some residue samples.’ She held up the bracket – a broken mount for the BirdDog tracking unit – and made a concerned sound. ‘Someone had GPS on our police car.’

An oh-shit feeling flooded Striker, and he fessed up. ‘The GPS unit was ours.’

‘Both of them?’

Striker and Felicia exchanged glances, and Striker spoke:

‘What do you mean, both?’

Corporal Summer opened up the second evidence bag. Inside it was another U-shaped bracket, twisted and blackened. ‘We’ve already identified the manufacturer. This one comes from a company called Lowry Systems. It’s the base part of one of their handheld tracking systems – GPS.’

Striker found it difficult to accept what he was hearing. ‘So just to be clear here, this car had two GPS tracking systems on it.’

‘From two different companies, yes.’

Striker mulled it over. ‘That would explain how the bombers found them.’

Felicia took the bracket and analysed it. ‘Where would they get a Lowry GPS unit from?’

Corporal Summer shrugged. ‘Anywhere. So much has changed the past five years. Global Positioning is nothing new any more. God, you can bid for one of these things on eBay.’ She took back both brackets and put them into their corresponding evidence bags. Then she directed Striker and Felicia to the corner of the parking lot where they examined a piece of V-shaped steel that was roughly the size of a large cooking pot. ‘This was the base, what held the explosives.’

Striker crouched down to examine it. The V-shape would direct the explosion upwards, making the explosion more focal and directed. Striker looked up at the corporal. ‘Was this shape used to increase the damage to the victim – or to limit casualties?’

‘Only the bomber knows that,’ Summer replied. ‘But that’s not what concerns me. What does is the actual size of the base. What it signifies.’

‘And that is?’ Felicia asked.

‘They’ve switched to home-made explosives.’

Striker thought this over. ‘And you’re sure of this?’

‘Positive. If they’d used this much professional grade, nothing would be left of the car. We’ll have to get the lab to test the residue samples to be one hundred per cent certain. But this much is true – a commercial or military explosive would never require this size of a base. The bombers are using HME now. I’d stake my career on it.’

Striker thought of the smoke pouring from the car. ‘That would explain the greyer colour of the smoke, would it not?’

‘Completely.’

Felicia interjected: ‘These are all nice tidbits. But it doesn’t explain the most fundamental question of all – why the change?’

Corporal Summer hazarded a guess. ‘It could be something simple. Maybe they ran out. Maybe their black-market supplier fell through. Who knows for sure? Maybe they underestimated their need.’

Felicia shook her head. ‘I can’t believe that. Not these two. They’ve been completely prepared for every job. I mean, think about it: electrical torture, scuba gear, laser tripwires – we’re talking organized here. There has to be a reason for the switch. These are professionals we’re dealing with, not some hacks.’

Striker nodded. He had to agree.

He looked at the leftover blackened shell of the undercover police cruiser that was still smoking in the parking lot. Aside from the actual frame, almost nothing remained.

‘This is going to sound like an odd question, but I don’t suppose you found any dolls in that debris?’ he asked. ‘Like a miniature policeman.’

Corporal Summer gave him a curious look and shook her head. ‘No. Anything that was in that car has long since been burned up.’

Striker nodded half-heartedly. ‘Let me know if you find anything.’

Before she could respond, he turned around and headed for the exit. Harry was still on scene, being treated by a paramedic in the back of one of the ambulances.

Hard questions needed to be asked of the man.

Eighty-Seven

Striker and Felicia made their way out of the A&W parking lot and headed across Semlin Drive towards the primary crime scene where Sleeves had been executed. Behind the yellow row of tape, a gaggle of reporters were squawking out his name: Detective Striker. Detective Striker! Detective Striker!

He ignored them all.

Two uniformed patrolmen guarded the entrance to the lane, one at each end. In between them, Noodles was busy snapping pictures.

Striker took a moment to examine the bloodied spot of pavement where Sleeves had died. ‘If someone had told me three hours ago that Sleeves was going to be dead, I’d have thought this nightmare would be over.’ He met Felicia’s stare. ‘But he’s not the bomber, Feleesh. He never was the bomber. We’ve been chasing a lie.’

Felicia had a confused look on her face.

‘Maybe not,’ she admitted. ‘But he was part of this in some way. He had to be – at least through his gang affiliations.’

Striker thought of the Satan’s Prowlers. Then of Sleeves. And finally of the latest name that they’d been hearing a lot of lately – Carlos Chipotle. The more Striker thought it over, the more something bothered him.

‘Something doesn’t mesh here.’

‘What?’

‘The Satan’s Prowlers. They may be an outlaw motorcycle gang, but they still have their own set of rules to abide by – and they take them very seriously. Disrespect your colours and you can be killed; no Blacks or Jews in the club; never bring the gang unwanted police attention—’

‘And no women, either,’ Felicia said. ‘Women are just property to them.’

Striker nodded. ‘Exactly. But there’s one rule the gang follows that’s above all the others – no family members targeted. And no children.’

‘Not ever,’ Felicia agreed.

Striker reasoned it out. ‘I’ve heard of some ex-members getting burned to death and others having their dicks cut off, but never once have I heard of the gang going after another member’s family – and especially not the children.’

Felicia shook her head. ‘Where are you going with all this?’

Striker met her stare. ‘Not only did Sleeves blow up Chipotle’s family, but the Prowlers actually sanctioned the killing. Why? What could this man possibly have done for the gang to break their most fundamental rule? To implement such a horrific penalty? I can think of only one thing.’

Felicia let out an excited breath. ‘Being a rat.’

Striker nodded. ‘I’m starting to wonder if Chipotle was selling information on the side. Or acting as a police informant. If that was the case, we have an interesting turn of events here. With Sleeves and Chipotle both dead, it works out rather well for the Prowlers, doesn’t it?’

‘It does,’ Felicia admitted.

‘And look at the style of shooting. Kneecapping someone before the final headshot is a Prowler trademark.’

‘But a commonly known one,’ she pointed out.

‘What do you mean by that?’

She shrugged. ‘For all we know, someone wants us to think it was the Prowlers who did him in. I mean, who else benefits from Sleeves being dead? I can think of two people – one of them was killed when that car blew up and the other is being treated in the ambulance.’

Striker looked at her in surprise. ‘You don’t seriously mean Harry?’

‘Once again, Jacob, friendship is like a veil to you.’

‘Feleesh—’

‘Harry was right here in the area when Sleeves took one. We know that – we got him on GPS. Plus, he’s been hiding Koda from us ever since the first bomb went off. And we know he was selling drugs back to the Prowlers.’

‘We believe he was selling—’

‘Oh bullshit. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.’

Striker said nothing. Processing the thought was difficult. He’d known Harry for so long, almost his entire career. And he’d seen the man suffer through some very hard times – the accidental drowning of his first son; the divorce from his first wife.

It had been more than most men could have handled.

And through it all, Harry had been a rock of integrity. A good man. To see him acting this strangely was shocking, no doubt. And to think that he might have been selling seized drugs back to the gang was an even greater blow.

But murder?

Striker couldn’t believe that.

He looked down the lane to where the last ambulance was parked, its red lights flashing against the darkening sky. ‘I’ll go talk to the man.’

‘And what then?’ Felicia said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You gonna take him down to the station for questioning?’

‘I don’t even know what his medical status is yet.’

‘What if it’s good? You gonna do a full interview? Taped? Even a polygraph?’

Striker said nothing for a moment as he thought it over. Taking witnesses and suspects down to the station was standard protocol, but this wasn’t some crook or civilian they were dealing with here, it was Harry. Another cop. And an experienced one at that. Like all cops, Harry would be willing to provide a field interview no doubt – but allow himself to be transported to one of the interrogation rooms?

That would be a problem.

Striker met Felicia’s stare. ‘If I demand that Harry attends the station and he says no, we back ourselves into a corner. Then what?’

‘Read him his rights. Force him to come in.’

Striker splayed his hands in frustration. ‘You keep saying that. But on what grounds, Feleesh? What law has he broken? Right now we got a pair of assassins out there who just blew up a car and killed Koda. For all we know, Harry might have been caught in the crossfire.’

‘They fired on him, Jacob.’

‘And he’s going to argue mistaken identity; you know that. He’ll say the suspects were going after Koda. He’ll play the victim.’ Striker took in a slow breath and sorted his thoughts. ‘Fact is, Harry doesn’t have to cooperate in the investigation at all. It’s his right not to, and he knows that. He’s got twenty-five years on the job, Feleesh. More than both of us. We’re not dealing with some piss kid rookie here. We show our hand too soon and we lose it all.’

She stared back at him with doubt. ‘All I’m saying, Jacob, is prepare yourself for what you might have to do. Harry’s not your friend. Not any more.’

Striker looked down the lane at the awaiting ambulance and felt a hardness form in his gut. This file was getting more complicated all the time. He couldn’t wait for it to end.

‘Jacob?’ Felicia asked.

‘I’ll go talk to the man,’ he said.

Without another word, he marched down the long dark corridor towards the awaiting ambulance, feeling every bit as injured as the man inside.

Eighty-Eight

Striker reached the back doors of the ambulance, opened them up, and saw Harry sitting on a gurney. He was holding an ice bag to his head and staring off into space like a wax figure. His complexion was two shades darker than normal and the flesh of his face looked bloated. Upon seeing Striker, he nodded slowly but his eyes remained vacant.

‘You okay there, Harry?’

‘What?’

‘Are you all right?’

‘. . . fine . . .’

The paramedic, a short plump thing, handed Harry another ice pack and shook her head admonishingly. ‘He should be going to the hospital for further assessment, but he’s a stubborn ass.’

Harry put the ice pack against his head and waved her away. He stared at the floor, as if his head was too heavy to lift.

Striker stepped forward. ‘You’re lucky you had on Kevlar, Harry. Or today your number would have come up.’

He said nothing back; he just winced and took a slow, deep breath.

Striker softened his voice. ‘Listen, Harry, I hate to do this to you, but given the circumstances and all, I need to ask you some questions. You wanna come down to the station?’

When Harry lifted his head to meet Striker’s stare, his blue eyes were cold as ice. ‘The station? You fucking kidding me here? What the hell happened to a field interview?’

‘I’m just suggesting it might be easier downtown.’

‘What, you gonna tape me too? Maybe put me on the poly?’ When Striker didn’t answer, Harry’s face darkened. ‘I’m the victim here, Striker. Not to mention a fucking cop. What, do I need to lawyer up now too?’

Striker took in a slow deep breath, if only to allow the conversation a pause. He closed his notebook. Put it away. Then played his best card. ‘Do you know a man called Brice Burns – also goes by the alias Sleeves?’

Harry let out a laugh that held no joy. ‘Of course I do. I’ve arrested him a half-dozen times. You know that.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘That he’s dead, for one.’

The words caught Striker off guard, but he said nothing. He allowed Harry a moment to realize what he had said. When Striker spoke again, his words were slow and direct.

‘How do you know this, Harry? I never mentioned the identity of the person who was shot back there. Not once.’

Harry sat up straight. Met Striker’s stare. And spoke coldly.

‘You didn’t have to tell me,’ he said. ‘I watched Koda shoot him.’

Eighty-Nine

Before returning to the undercover police cruiser, Striker spent over thirty minutes obtaining a proper statement from Harry, but in the end, no matter how much he prodded the man, the answers remained the same – vague and without logic.

According to Harry, Chad Koda had asked him to stop by the A&W restaurant for a hamburger. While there, he had suddenly informed Harry that he needed to step out for a minute to meet with a contact about a possible real estate venture regarding the car dealership lot.

Koda had left the restaurant, crossed Semlin Drive, and entered the laneway behind the Hing-Woo warehouse. Finding the situation odd, Harry had followed. When he reached the mouth of the lane, he heard the gunshots. Then he had spotted the two men.

Koda, standing holding the gun; Sleeves, dead on the ground.

The moment had stunned Harry. Frozen him. And before he’d realized what was happening, Koda had fled to the A&W parking lot. And that was where the car had exploded and they had suddenly come under fire.

Back in the car, Striker read and re-read the statement over several times.

When he finally finished, he passed the statement over to Felicia. She read it over and came up with the same conclusion. ‘He’s blocked every investigative lead we could have taken. His reason for being with Koda. His connection to the event. Even any possible gunpowder residue we could swab from his hands – it’s all redundant now. And with Sleeves and Koda both dead, there’s no one to rebut his version of events.’

‘He’s tied it all together perfectly.’

She looked at him hopefully. ‘Will he take the poly?’

Striker laughed. ‘Says he’s already done his duty by providing the statement. Any more follow-up, and he’ll call the union to lawyer up. Says he’s been traumatized enough by what’s happened and that he’s concussed by the explosion – which is also a perfect excuse for having the entire statement stricken from the record anyway.’

‘He’s a master manipulator.’

‘Hey, according to Harry, he’s the victim here.’

‘Stop it, you’re breaking my heart,’ Felicia said dryly.

‘Well, like it or not, an attempt was made on his life, and there’s an onus on us – legally and ethically – to protect him.’ Striker shook his head as he thought back to the shootout in the parking lot. ‘Harry was lucky today. If he hadn’t been wearing that vest, it would all be over for him. Hell, the bombers probably think they got him.’

The moment he spoke the words, Felicia looked over, and they both knew what the other was thinking.

‘If they already think he’s dead,’ Felicia said, ‘then let’s keep it that way.’

Striker nodded. ‘It makes sense. We already have to give a press release for Koda’s death, why not just add in Harry’s name while we’re at it?’

‘We can retract it later,’ Felicia said.

‘And it will keep him safe, at least for a while, until we can figure this whole mess out.’

‘There’s just one problem,’ Felicia said. ‘He’ll have to agree with it.’

Striker thought that over and nodded. ‘That won’t be a problem,’ he finally said.

‘You don’t think?’

Striker shook his head. ‘No. Because he’s not doing it for himself. He’s doing it for his son. He’s doing it for Ethan.’ He looked at Felicia and his grin widened. ‘You set up what you need to with Laroche and Media Liaison. Leave Harry to me.’