Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Ninety

Following a lengthy discussion with Harry, Striker got the man to agree with the plan. He would allow them to release his name as one of the officers killed in the line of duty; what he would not allow is police protection. No guard. No safe house. No nothing.

‘You’re being foolish,’ Striker said.

‘We can protect you,’ he said.

‘We can even relocate you,’ he said.

But Harry knew the routine well. And the man was adamant.

‘I’ll make my own way,’ he said.

It left Striker with no other recourse. He returned to the undercover cruiser and informed Felicia of Harry’s response. Upon hearing it, she shook her head and her eyes flared with anger.

‘It makes him look guilty, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘He wants to be out here. In the field. So he can see what’s going on.’

Striker did not disagree. But this was the best they could do in an imperfect situation. He said nothing more; he just leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and went over the file in his head. Nothing seemed to fit. And his mind felt overworked now.

He was tired.

Felicia spoke up. ‘I checked the lane, by the way. Where Sleeves was killed.’ She closed the laptop, clearly frustrated. ‘There’s nothing – we got no video surveillance and no witnesses. It’s an investigative dead end.’

Striker opened his eyes. ‘Let’s switch gears for a bit. Focus on Chipotle. He’s the other end to this equation.’

Felicia agreed wholeheartedly.

‘Head to Source Handling?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. ‘It’s time to see if this guy was coded.’

Without full authorization, Striker and Felicia couldn’t access the coded files of the Source Handling Unit. This was standard and a necessary safety measure. Regardless, it left them with only two options – contacting Trevor Eckhart, or contacting Clara Sykes.

Due to Trevor’s obvious conflict of interest with having Harry for a brother, Striker chose to contact Detective Sykes. She lived in the fisherman’s village of Richmond known as Steveston – a twenty-minute drive to Cambie Street Headquarters – and she took every one of those minutes getting down there.

Not that it mattered much. Clara Sykes spent less than two minutes searching through the database before saying the one word Striker had been fearing all along:

‘Purged.’

The coded information was gone.

Striker swore out loud and felt himself deflate. It was disappointing, though not exactly surprising – the information on Chipotle was a decade old. Striker thanked the detective for coming in after hours and trying to help them, then he and Felicia left the Source Handling Unit and returned to Homicide.

There they printed up every file ever created for Carlos Chipotle. There were many. They also attended Archives in an effort to locate the Vancouver Police file for Chipotle’s homicide. When Striker found the folder, a jolt of excitement hit him – one that quickly turned to frustration when he found the folder to be empty. He threw it on the shelf and cursed.

‘Missing,’ he said. ‘Gone – just like the coded information.’

Felicia didn’t give up. ‘I’ll check the fiche.’

She left the room and Striker continued searching through the files. When Felicia returned ten minutes later, an equally dejected look smeared her features.

‘Nothing?’ Striker asked.

‘Zilch.’

Striker laughed out of scorn. Missing source papers, missing homicide reports – it was beyond coincidental. Someone had taken them. He knew it. There was simply no other logical explanation.

He grabbed all the folders he could find that were Chipotle-related and realized with all certainty that their day was done. He gave Felicia a weary stare.

‘Let’s get the hell outta here,’ he said. ‘Read this stuff at home – over an ice-cold beer.’

For the first time in hours, a smile found Felicia’s face.

‘You had me at ice cold,’ she said.

Ninety-One

On the way home, Striker drove in a circuitous route and cut through the Kerrisdale area. He stopped in at the Stone Cold Creamery and bought a two-litre carton of ice cream for Cody and Shana – blue bubble gum, their favourite.

Once back in the car, Felicia stared at the odd blue colour of the dessert and made a wary sound. ‘This stuff looks like it was made in Chernobyl.’

Striker grinned. ‘Looks like your attempt at risotto last week.’

‘Hey, at least I try – what have you ever tried to make for us?’

‘I do all my cooking in the bedroom.’

‘Yeah? Well next time you need to preheat the oven a little more.’

Striker laughed; the banter felt good. Getting away from the work for a bit felt good. He could suddenly breathe again.

They drove to Rothschild’s new residence and parked out front. The engine died with a rattle. Carton in hand, Striker climbed out and approached the front door. Rothschild opened it before he could so much as knock, and in behind him, two tiny faces peered out.

Cody and Shana.

Striker held up the ice cream container. ‘Hey, little ones. Who wants a sugar high?’

Shana’s tight expression vanished and was replaced by one of glee, while Cody let out a scream of delight and began chanting the words ‘ice cream’ over and over again, and marching in a circle around the boxes in the living room.

‘Oh man, you’re gonna get them all hyper,’ Rothschild said.

‘Who cares?’ Felicia said with a grin. ‘Jacob and I can always leave.’

Rothschild just laughed softly. ‘You’re an evil woman.’

Striker ignored the banter and walked into the kitchen. He pulled extra-large bowls from one of the opened packing boxes, gave them a quick rinse under the taps, and then began doling out the cold blue concoction in huge overflowing spoonfuls. Once the treats were served, they all retreated to the living room and found a place to sit down – Striker and Felicia on the couch with the two children nestled between them, and Rothschild perched down on a green plastic moving crate.

The blue bubble gum flavour turned out to be a hit, even for the adults. They ate well. Striker chatted about SpongeBob with Cody, and Felicia talked about Selena Gomez with Shana.

A half-hour later, bedtime came.

Shana was the first to get up.

‘Thanks, Uncle Jacob,’ she said. She gave him a quick hug, then looked uncertainly at Felicia but gave her one too.

‘Thanks, sweetie,’ Felicia told her.

Cody did the same, then followed his sister down the hall, whining the whole way about having to go to bed so early.

Striker watched them go and felt a strange mix of emotions. Amusement and yet anxiety, love and yet worry.

‘They’re nice kids,’ Felicia said.

He nodded.

While waiting for Rothschild’s return, Striker looked around the room at all the moving boxes, then at the fireplace mantel where a picture of Rosalyn had already been placed. The image reminded him of Keisha Williams, and all the hell her children were going through right now. Suddenly the joy of the moment was gone, replaced by a deep melancholy.

‘They all deserved better,’ he said.

Felicia gave him a tender look, and before too long Rothschild returned. He sat down with them, spooned up the last of his blue bubble gum ice cream, and then sat back with an almost wary look on his face.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do I want to know?’

‘Know what?’ Striker asked.

‘Where’s the investigation at now?’

Striker really didn’t want to get into it any more this night, but the man was owed a full debrief. Together, he and Felicia spent a good half-hour filling Rothschild in on all that had transpired during the day’s events. With each word, Rothschild’s face took on an even deeper expression of disbelief.

‘This is a friggin’ nightmare,’ he finally said.

Striker let out a humourless chuckle. ‘You think?’

‘Nothing seems to fit,’ Felicia said.

Striker agreed. There were not only pieces of the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit, but pieces seemed to be missing as well. It almost felt like two entirely different puzzles had been dumped together, making one big jumbled mess for them to sort through.

It was maddening.

Together, the three of them discussed many of the aspects of the case, and tried to sort things out. But the more they talked, the deeper their sense of frustration grew. When it was finally time to head home, Striker couldn’t wait to go.

The tank was empty now. He was running on fumes.

Ninety-Two

When Striker and Felicia finally got home to Striker’s place and closed the door behind them, the clock on the living room wall read 10:17.

It felt hours later.

Striker dropped his coat on the floor beside the coat rack, stacked the Chipotle folders on the coffee table in the den, and then grabbed a couple of ice-cold beers from the fridge. Felicia took her beer and pressed the bottle against her cheek. ‘God, that feels good.’ She rolled it against the side of her neck and shivered. ‘I need a shower.’

She wandered down the hall and disappeared into the bedroom.

Striker took a long swig of his beer and grabbed the first stack of papers. He read. In a few of the files, Chipotle had been charged. In a few more, he had been listed as a suspect. But in most of them, he was simply labelled as a Known Associate.

Striker read the vast array of offences – Living off the Avails, Running a Common Bawdy House, Theft Over, Robbery, Trafficking, Murder.

The list went on and on.

It was almost fifteen minutes later when the bedroom door opened and Felicia returned. Striker looked up at her and suppressed a chuckle. She was wearing a pair of red socks, black Lululemon yoga tights, a yellow T-shirt, and had her hair pulled back with a purple scrunchie.

She caught his smirk and crossed her arms.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘You look like a rainbow exploded.’

She raised an eyebrow and walked into the room. ‘Might I remind you that I’m the one living out of a suitcase here – everything else I have is dirty.’

‘Which is why you should just move in.’

Felicia stared at him with a mischievous look on her face, but said nothing. She came over to the couch, shoved him hard against the backing, and straddled his hips. ‘If you hate the colours so much, why don’t you take them off me?’

Striker wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close enough to kiss her.

‘Taste the rainbow?’ he asked.

She laughed. ‘Now that’s just plain dirty.’

She kissed him gently at first, then harder and with an open mouth, her tongue sliding against his lips, tickling his tongue. Striker reached up, removed the scrunchie from her ponytail, and her long dark hair spilled around her shoulders. Striker wrapped his fingers in it, pulled her close, breathed her in.

‘I love you,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he replied.

She smirked as she pushed herself down against his hardness.

Striker held her there. Reached up and pulled the yellow T-shirt from her caramel skin and threw it on the floor. With both his hands, he grabbed her breasts, and felt her breathing quicken.

She pulled slightly back from him.

‘Bed?’ she asked.

He just nodded and smiled and felt good. For a small brief moment, his worries and concerns all melted away, and it was no longer a world of bombs or bullets or dirty cops. There was just him and Felicia and their cosy private bedroom.

Nothing else really mattered.

Striker had no idea what time it was when he woke up, but he came to with a jolt. His pulse was racing, friggin’ skyrocketing, and all he could see was the fiery image of Chad Koda in the police cruiser, Harry sprawled out helplessly on the ground, and the two shooters encroaching on them.

Closer, closer, closer . . .

He blinked away the lingering nightmare. Told himself it was just a dream, a mishmash of bad memories.

But it did little good.

Covered in a thin film of sweat, and with his mouth dust-dry, Striker climbed out of bed – gently so as to not wake Felicia – and walked down the hall to the washroom. He poured himself a glass of tap water, then hopped in the shower for a cool rinse. When he got out, it was obvious that sleep would not come. So he wrapped a robe around himself and returned to the living room to go over the Chipotle files.

To his surprise, Felicia was already going through them.

‘You’re up,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘No, you’re still dreaming, I’m afraid.’

‘I tried not to wake you.’

‘You’re like a baby elephant rampaging through the house.’ He sat down beside her, and she handed him a file. ‘Get reading.’

Striker did. Twenty minutes later, when he had found nothing relevant, and was considering going back to bed, Felicia made an excited sound. She held up a thin folder for him to see. On the tab was an old file number, and beside it someone had written: Lottery Ticket Thefts – 7-Eleven.

‘Look what momma found,’ she said.

Striker saw it. ‘I read that file already; Chipotle’s listed as a suspect. So what? It’s a minor theft.’

‘You read it, did you? Well, you obviously read the electronic file on the computer and didn’t look in the folder.’

Striker gave her a curious look. ‘What you find?’

She pulled out the paperwork from inside. It was about an inch thick, and divided into two sections by a pair of paper clips. She handed Striker the first section, which had a front page detailing the address of the 7-Eleven store where the lottery tickets had been stolen during a standard smash-and-grab.

Striker shrugged. It was just a printout of the exact same report he’d read on the computer.

But when Felicia showed him the second section of the report, something clicked. For one, the address was different. For two, the role code was wrong. The numbers there were 4169. Not a theft, but . . .

‘A homicide?’

Felicia nodded. ‘It’s the police shooting of Chipotle. Someone put it in the wrong folder – one file number away.’

Striker smiled. ‘You’re a god.’

‘Goddess, darling. Goddess.’

Felicia spread the pages out on the coffee table.

The first thing Striker noticed was that the report was oddly basic. The synopsis told the elementary details of what had occurred: Chipotle had been killed in a shootout with integrated forces. The shooting had happened on the Vancouver-Burnaby border, just up from the Fraser River. And Chipotle had ended up dying on the same day as his wife and daughters, who had been blown up only a few hours earlier by the bomb Sleeves had set.

This had all led to speculation of Chipotle’s death being a suicide-by-cop mission from a grieving father suffering from cocaine psychosis. To reinforce that belief, the subsequent autopsy revealed cocaine levels of .643 mg/L.

Striker read that number and whistled.

‘That a lot?’ Felicia asked.

‘Enough to kill Keith Richards.’

He flipped past the synopsis, then through the rest of the pages – the investigative summary, police statement pages, witness statements, and so forth. The shooting seemed pretty straightforward.

Gunman called in.

Police attended.

And Chipotle started shooting.

It was exactly what Striker had expected. And then he spotted one ordinary detail that changed everything – the name of the cop responsible for shooting Chipotle.

Striker read that name and slumped back against the couch. Slowly, horrifyingly, the information sank in. And connections started falling into place.

Chipotle had been killed, not by a standard hollow jacket round, but by a bullet from a police-issued sniper rifle. That rifle was registered to a member on the Emergency Response Team. To Striker’s one-time mentor and now closest friend.

Mike Rothschild.

Part 3:

Detonation

Friday

Ninety-Three

The room was hot, so unbelievably hot, and yet he could not stop shaking. His teeth chattered, his body trembled, he couldn’t catch his breath. He lay stretched out on a cot that Molly had unfolded, staring at the blue and red pipes that crisscrossed the low ceiling of the command room. The pipes hummed loudly, constantly, like the distant rumble of a coming freight train.

To his left, a pot of water began boiling over onto the kerosene stove. Molly removed it, poured the water into a bucket, and a puff of steam filled the air. She grabbed the antibiotic ointment and sanitized the scalpel, then turned to face him.

Her approach made him shiver. And for the briefest of moments, she looked like the tiny nurse with the paper hat.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s just me.’

He tried to lift his head off the table, struggled. ‘The news release . . .’

‘Chad Koda and Harry Eckhart are dead.’

The bomber closed his eyes, as if in relief. He let his head fall back to the table.

‘Done,’ he whispered. ‘. . . it’s almost done.’

Molly said nothing, she just got to work.

She removed the tape and packing gauze from his shoulder, then applied another coat of lidocaine cream before using the scalpel to scrape away the remaining grime, which was still embedded in the entry wound. She rolled him onto his side and did the exact same to the exit wound. Once complete, she added a final rise of saline and covered both wounds with gauze.

‘You’re killing me,’ he said.

‘Oh hush,’ she said softly. ‘You’re lucky it was a through-and-through. The clavicle may have broken, but the bone didn’t splinter through the subclavian.’ She felt his wrist, and smiled. ‘Your pulse is still strong. But you need rest.’

He tried to catch his breath. ‘You need to put lidocaine—’

‘I just did that. Rest.’

He looked at her, confused.

‘I can do this job on my own,’ Molly said.

‘No.’

He struggled to sit forward. As he did, the room tilted on him, and he had to grab on to the wall with his good hand. Small beads of sweat trickled down his neck and back, and he felt like he was floating there in the room, kind of hovering above the cot. An apparition.

So hot . . . so goddam hot.

‘You need rest, love.’

He struggled through the haze. ‘I’m finishing this mission – with or without you.’

Molly said nothing. She just nodded and grabbed the medical tape. Firmly, almost roughly, she began tightening the tape around the shoulder joint and clavicle in order to stop it from moving.

He let out a pained sound as she did this, but that was okay. Everything was okay.

The operation was almost done.

Ninety-Four

For Striker, the night had been a long one.

After seeing Rothschild’s name on Chipotle’s homicide report, he’d made the decision to bring Mike and the kids over to stay at his place, and had gone and gotten them himself. It was the only action that had made sense. After all, if the bombers had found Rothschild’s old house, how long before they found his new one too?

Safety was everything.

Once the family was at his own house, Striker felt better. They all got back to bed at sometime after three, and the remainder of the night had been uneasy and restless.

Now, just five o’clock, Striker lay in bed, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house. With Courtney on the other side of the world, it felt like his home was half empty. And to be honest, ever since Amanda had died, the place had never felt whole again. There was always a sadness in his heart. A deep ache that would never go away.

He tried not to think about it, but it was always there.

The relationship he had with Felicia helped. It helped greatly. Striker loved her. But that didn’t change a thing. Loving another person with all your heart didn’t nullify the love you had felt – and still felt – for another.

Life could be hard.

From down the hall, Cody called out amid his dreams. Striker was sure the boy was half-asleep, but his thoughts played havoc on his mind. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he checked on the boy, Striker climbed out of bed. He snuck down the hall and peered into the guest bedroom.

The room was still and covered with different shades of black and grey. Rothschild was asleep on the left half of the bed, snoring like an old bear, and Cody and Shana were on the right, snuggled together like a pair of Pringles chips.

Safe and sound.

For now.

Striker returned to his bedroom. He slowly eased back into the bed and grabbed the comforters. Then Felicia spoke: ‘The house alarm works fine, Jacob. You don’t need to check on the kids for a tenth time.’

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘You’re lucky we got dental.’

‘Why? You gonna knock my teeth out?’

She laughed softly. ‘No. But you’ve been grinding your teeth all night.’

Striker said nothing, but he reached up and felt his right jaw joint. He’d suffered from TMJ for years; it was probably one of the reasons he got so many headaches. The joint was sore as hell.

‘I must have kept you up all night.’

Felicia rolled over to face him and smirked. ‘I didn’t mind for part of it.’

Striker tried to smile but couldn’t. As good as Felicia was at compartmentalizing things in her mind, he was equally bad. The case was always there. Breaking through his defences with glaring brightness, like sun through cloud.

‘The Prowlers are some bad people,’ he said. ‘But do you honestly think they’d go after a cop? They usually respect our professional boundaries. And why would they care anyway? I mean really, so what if Rothschild shot Chipotle? The guy was already on the gang’s hit list. It makes no sense.’

Felicia rubbed his chest. ‘It’s just one more theory we have to work through.’

‘Yeah, well, my mind’s not working through it very well.’

She smiled weakly. ‘That’s because you’ve had only eight hours’ sleep in three nights. Close your eyes and get some slumber. We can worry about it in the morning.’

‘Sure, sure,’ he replied.

But fifteen minutes later, he climbed out of bed, then threw on a pair of old blue jeans and a wrinkled baseball shirt. With Felicia fast asleep again, Striker returned to the den to read through some more of the files.

He had to.

They were missing something.