Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

One Hundred and Two

When Striker left the Osaka house, Felicia was standing by the front kerb waiting for him. The muscles under her skin were tight, and it made her face look hard and serious. Upon seeing him, she beelined up the walk.

‘I got a message,’ she said.

‘From the bomber?’

She nodded, half surprised. ‘You get one too?’

‘We need to trace the email ASAP.’

Felicia frowned. ‘Already done.’

‘Through Ich?’

She gave him an irritated look. ‘Of course, Ich.’

‘And?’

She shook her head. ‘The message was sent through an offshore proxy. It’s completely untraceable. You can’t even reply. It won’t connect.’ She opened her email app and showed Striker the message she had received.

It was the exact same.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Why send this at all? What, is he taunting us?’

Striker thought it over. It didn’t seem that way. If anything, it was almost like the man was genuinely warning them off. The idea that they would ever stop the investigation was ludicrous – a break from reality. It told much of the bomber’s mental state.

‘Nothing makes sense any more.’

Striker looked at the scene behind them, where Corporal Summer was now taking complete control of the latest bomb scene. Patrol was busy canvassing, forensic techs were filtering through the debris, and the Media Liaison unit was busy dealing with the constantly amassing press.

They could do no more here.

‘Come on,’ Striker said. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. We got a wildcat to see.’

They headed out east to the 2800 block of Pender Street with Striker at the wheel. That was where E-Comm was located. While en route, Felicia went through the CAD call remarks of the Osaka bombing, looking for anything unusual.

‘Interesting,’ she said after a while. ‘Listen to this: not five minutes after Osaka was killed in the blast, a witness reported seeing a white van racing south on Kerr Street.’

‘They get a plate number?’

‘No . . . Then, ten minutes after that, one of the Alpha units tried to pull over a white van in the Marpole area. But it bolted on them.’

‘Any plate?’

‘No.’

‘A make or model?’

‘Again, no. It was a good block ahead and going fast.’

Striker frowned. ‘Get the analyst to put that information into the Overnights. I want Patrol to see it. Have checks done on all generic white vans spotted between the hours of midnight and five a.m.’

Felicia agreed; she got on the phone and got things done.

When they reached E-Comm, the Emergency Communications Centre, Striker and Felicia entered the security foyer. Striker flashed his badge to the guard inside the booth, then they obtained a pass key.

Before heading on, Striker grabbed a bottle of Coke from the dispenser. Once on the main floor, they located Sue Rhaemer. The woman was seated in District 2 Command, west side of the facility. She was leaning forward in a high-backed office chair, wearing a set of earphones complete with a voice-activated mike. She was busy scanning three huge monitors that were full of information.

Felicia pointed at her. ‘Didn’t I see her in the last Star Trek movie?’

‘I think it was The Matrix.’

As they finished their conversation, Sue looked over and spotted them. She yelled out, ‘Hey, dude and dudette!’ and pumped her fist in the air.

Striker just smiled at her. Sue was more than uninhibited. She’d played electric guitar in her own band – the Femme Fatales – wore low-cut shirts and push-up bras, and teased her bleached, platinum-blonde hair like Samantha Fox.

Now midway through her forties and wearing plus-size clothing, her dream of gyrating on the hood of a Jaguar in a Whitesnake rock video may have passed, but she was still known to frequent the back of a few Buicks. She wore that rumour unabashedly and made no apologies for it. It was for reasons like this that Striker couldn’t help but like the woman. Sue was genuine.

He approached her work station, backed up by Felicia. ‘You got my list there, Bananarama?’

Sue scowled. ‘Bananarama? Puu – leeeze.’ She spun her chair around. ‘My stage name was Wildcat, not Bubbles or Candy. Now where the hell’s my Coke?’

Striker handed her the bottle, and Sue unscrewed the cap. She took a couple of swigs. Let out a sigh. ‘Sweet sugar bliss.’

Striker prodded her. ‘The GPS history on Osaka’s car.’

She put down the bottle. ‘Fine, fine, okay. But this is the last of it, Striker. The last. You know the protocols. You’re going to get me in some serious trouble here.’

‘You’re helping us save lives.’

Sue said nothing back. She just logged into the GPS tracking system, located Osaka’s vehicle number, and brought up the history. ‘This is just the basic hourly rundown. You want the full history, you need to retrieve the unit and hook it up to a computer.’

‘I just need a list of all of his GPS coordinates over the last few days, in particular the morning hours. Places where he’d been – especially ones out in the valley.’

Sue ran her finger down the monitor, scanning the electronic list. She stopped a third of the way from the bottom and made a noise. ‘Hmm, look here . . . and here. Two times in two days. Same place, out in the valley.’

Striker leaned closer and looked at the list. ‘Where is this? White Rock?’

‘Yeah. But way, way, way down south. We’re talking Zero Avenue here – right down by the US border.’

Striker looked at the times Osaka had been there. 09:00 hours. Both times. And on two consecutive days. He turned back and looked at Felicia. Her eyes were focused on the screen with the same intrigue.

‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘Why would he go all the way out there when there’s so much chaos going on right here in the city?’

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Striker said.

It was time for a road trip.

One Hundred and Three

The holiday rental Harry booked was a small yellow house with wood siding. It sat on the edge of the Fraser River in the quaint, historical town of Fort Langley, a fifty-minute drive from Vancouver’s downtown core. Harry had found the place online, and immediately knew it was the perfect hiding place for his family. The B&B was far enough from the city to be removed, yet still close enough to be reachable.

It was no solution, but it would buy him time.

Harry finished unloading the last suitcase from the car and carried it up the walkway. Ethan went with him the entire way, skipping more than running, holding Harry’s free hand. When they reached the foyer, Ethan bounded ahead to the TV and put on the Teletoon channel. Soon enough, he was deeply enmeshed in the wonderful world of The Smurfs.

Harry’s wife Sandra stood by the sink in the kitchen, staring out at the river’s edge. Her hands were folded over her stomach and a nervous expression marred her face. She glanced at Harry, then back at the river. ‘The currents look bad,’ she said, and her voice broke.

‘Sandra—’

‘I’m not comfortable here, Harry.’

‘It’s necessary. For now.’

‘But why?’

‘Because no one knows you’re here.’

A mix of fear and resentment filled her eyes. ‘I can’t take much more of this,’ she said. ‘Cryptic phone calls. Moving to secret locations. Press releases of your death – my God, Harry! I’m scared. I’m scared for Ethan.’

Harry grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘You and Ethan are precisely why I’ve done all this,’ he said. ‘Look, Sandra, I can’t explain it all right now. You have to trust me on this one. But I will tell you. Later. I promise.’

For a brief moment, her worry mutated into anger, and she gave him a hot look. ‘Sometimes, I wonder why I listen to you.’

Harry raised a finger. ‘Poppa Smurf always says . . .’

Her cross look broke, and a small smile found the corners of her mouth.

Harry pulled her close, held her tight. After a moment, she relaxed a little, and rested her head against his neck. Even though her muscles lost their rigidness, her breath continued to flow in uneven shudders, so Harry didn’t let go.

‘It’s just precautionary,’ he said one more time.

‘But why?’ she said back, and the look in her eyes told Harry she would no longer be denied. ‘You’re not protecting us by keeping us in the dark.’

‘Cops are being targeted, Sandra. Ones I’m associated with. And that puts not only me, but you and Ethan at risk. I won’t take any chances. Not with my wife and son.’

A knock came on the front door, and Harry pulled away from her. The door swung open and standing there was Trevor. Before either man could speak, Ethan screamed out, ‘Uncle Trevor!’ The boy jumped off the couch and raced across the room. He slammed into his uncle and gave Trevor a long, hard hug at waist level.

Trevor dropped to one knee and was still taller than the boy. ‘How ya doing, champ?’

‘The Smurfs are on! We’re going to live out here for a bit.’

‘I know. I’ll be living with you.’

‘Awesome!’

Sandra heard the words and she stiffened. She turned to her husband and that look was back on her face again. ‘Trevor is staying? Harry, this is scaring me.’

‘I told you, Sandra, it’s just precautionary.’

She said nothing; she just nodded, then walked over and gave her brother-in-law a hug. ‘It’s good to see you, Trevor.’

‘Likewise, as always.’

Sandra grabbed one of the smaller suitcases and took it up the stairs. Trevor carried the larger one and went with her.

With his wife and brother gone from the room, Harry took the time to assess the place. Everything was bright and clean and smelled like lemon Pledge. Not bad for a safe house. He studied all the exits – one front door, one kitchen door, a sliding glass door to the patio. Then he realized that Ethan was looking at him. Intently.

‘I don’t want to be away from you,’ the boy said.

For a moment, Harry could see Joshua in him. And as much as it saddened him, it also made him love the boy even more, were that possible. He knelt down, gave his son a hard hug, and didn’t want to let go. Once again, he touched his son’s chest. Right over the heart.

‘No matter where you go, no matter where I am, I will always be right here, Ethan. Never forget that.’

The boy looked back through large wide eyes and smiled.

‘I love you more than anything, son.’

‘I love you more.’

Harry smiled at the boy’s words and felt tears come to his eyes.

‘That’s just not possible, son.’

One Hundred and Four

It was well after eight a.m. by the time Striker turned onto Zero Avenue and paralleled the Canada–US border. He glanced at the stereo clock twice, disbelieving the display. ‘Day already feels long – just like yesterday and the day before.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Well, that’s what happens when you start around five in the morning.’

Striker drove on.

The GPS coordinates from Osaka’s cruiser translated to the 17000 block of Zero Avenue. It was an odd area. Half the land was made up of large patches of wilderness, and the other half was a mix of ten-acre lots. Paralleling the area were even larger squares of farmland. Flats and rolling hills. Everywhere Striker looked, zoning permits had been put up.

Condo developments were in the works.

Striker turned into a narrow cement driveway that opened up on a wider roundabout. Standing at the mouth of the oval was a large wooden sign that said: ‘Sunset Grove Care Centre’. Behind the sign was a rectangular, one-level structure, made up entirely of brown stucco and brown brick.

‘This is it?’ Felicia asked.

Striker nodded. ‘According to the GPS unit we’ve arrived. Osaka came here early in the morning, each of the last two days.’

‘Well, let’s go find out why.’

They parked the car and got out.

The doors to the main foyer were electronic, and they swished open as Striker and Felicia approached. Inside, a cooler air hit them, and the soft sound of Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ played over the speakers. The facility smelled of green pea soup.

Felicia read a plaque on the wall. ‘Hmm. This is a long-term care facility.’

Her words struck a chord with Striker, and the name started to sound familiar. ‘Sunset Grove . . . I think the Police Mutual Benevolent Association contributes to this place. For cops who get sick.’

He approached the reception desk. The nurse working there was early thirties, black, and had her curly hair tied back in a bun. Striker flashed her the badge, explained that they were here on some follow-up matters for their boss, and the woman smiled.

‘For Inspector Osaka?’ she asked.

Striker forced a smile and said yes. ‘You know him?’

‘Oh yes, he’s a very nice man – he’s been here two days in a row now.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ Striker said. ‘Do you know why he was here?’

‘Well, visiting, of course.’

When Striker said nothing else, the nurse reached across the desk and grabbed the sign-in book. She turned it slightly so he could read the writing, then flipped the pages back a day.

‘There’s his signature. Room 17. Mr Hurst.’

It took Striker a moment to recognize the name. Hurst was a man he’d known years ago and had long since forgotten. He looked down at the line, spotted Osaka’s signature, then pushed the book back to the nurse. ‘Can we visit him?’

‘Of course you can. I’m sure he’d love the company.’ She pointed down the hall. ‘East Corridor, just that way there. But be warned . . . he’s not doing all that well today.’

Striker nodded but asked nothing more. He turned around and spotted Felicia, who was still reading the information on the welcome plaque. He gave her a nod, muttered, ‘We got someone to talk to,’ and the two of them headed down the long corridor.

As they went, the lighting grew dimmer. The walls were brown, just like the floor – just like the entire exterior of the building. The drab colour made everything appear darker, especially the sections where the natural light of the front windows couldn’t reach. Striker wondered why they’d used it.

They passed a few lifting cranes and a series of walkers and motorized wheelchairs, then reached Room 17. The name plate on the wall was Salvador Hurst.

‘Salvador?’ Felicia asked. ‘Sal?’

Striker nodded. ‘Used to be a detective with the Drug Unit. Long time ago, though. He got seconded to the Feds for about eight years and I never saw him again. Had no idea he was even in here.’

He gave a rap on the door and went inside.

At first Striker thought they had entered the wrong room, or maybe that the nameplate was wrong. Yes, it had been eight years since he had seen Sal Hurst, but the man he remembered was a strong, solid cop with South American good looks.

The man on the bed did not even resemble that man.

This man was thin – so awfully thin. The skin hung off his body like drapes. Underneath his flesh, there was no fat, and even less muscle. His eyes were just sockets now, his cheeks all bone, and his hair was not only white and thin, but missing in patches. His breaths came in slow, erratic wheezes.

‘Sal?’ Striker asked.

The man on the bed did not move.

‘Sal,’ he said again, a little louder.

The man’s eyes opened part way, and then narrowed. ‘I . . . know you,’ he said. The words were weak, and they seemed to take everything out of the man.

Striker stepped forward and introduced himself. ‘And this is Detective Felicia Santos. She’s with the VPD too.’

Hurst just blinked.

‘We’re here because of Terry Osaka,’ Striker said.

A flicker of happiness filled the man’s eyes. ‘Terry . . . he was . . . just here . . . some day.’ He looked at the box of chocolates on the side table, all of which remained. ‘Take some.’

Striker did not. Instead, he pulled over a chair and sat closer to the bed. ‘I haven’t seen you in years, Sal. Not since you left for the secondment.’

Hurst’s eyelids closed for a moment, then opened again. ‘. . . didn’t last long . . . got sick.’

Felicia sat down next to them. ‘Is that why Terry was here, Sal? Just to visit you? Or was there another reason?’

Hurst took a few laborious breaths before responding. ‘Old friends . . . squadmates.’

Striker nodded. ‘We know that, Sal. But did he come here for any other reason, other than to say hi?’

Hurst just rolled his head lazily back and forth, as if shaking his head no. As he did this, Striker saw the sweat marks on the pillow. ‘Just . . . saying hi,’ Hurst got out. ‘Terry was always . . . a good guy.’

Striker nodded slowly, then cast a glance over at Felicia, who merely shrugged. She took a moment to ask Sal a few questions. But the answers she received were inevitably more of the same, and she didn’t want to tire the poor man. One thing here was clear. Hurst was ill. Probably dying. And he looked like he had little time left. It seemed that Osaka had been merely paying his final respects.

Striker stood to leave. ‘It was good to see you, Sal.’

‘Say . . . say hi . . . to Terry.’

Striker nodded and forced a smile.

‘Get some rest, Sal,’ he said.

One Hundred and Five

They took Highway 99 back to the city. The road curved gradually through the flatlands, then dipped down into the City of Richmond. Coming this way, the scenery was less appealing visually, but it shaved twenty minutes off their commute. Once back in Vancouver, Felicia spotted a Starbucks on Oak.

‘I need a caffeine jolt,’ she said.

Striker didn’t disagree. The thought of a hot cup of Joe was stimulating, and he pulled over. The Starbucks didn’t have a drive-thru, so he parked on the main drag out front. When he opened his door, Felicia’s cell went off. She looked at the screen and said, ‘I need to take this – my contact with the Explosives Branch.’

Striker nodded and retreated from the car.

Felicia had contacts everywhere. It was one of the best things she brought to the partnership – her ability to liaise and schmooze with the best of them. Her contact at the Safety and Explosives Branch of the British Columbia Government was a perfect example of this. And they needed that information badly.

Striker went inside the Starbucks.

When he returned five minutes later, Felicia was still on the phone. He put her drink – a vanilla-caramel latte, size Venti – in the cup holder, then passed her one of the egg-white wraps he had bought. She took it, sniffed it, and made a face. ‘Doesn’t smell like a lemon scone.’

‘Want me to throw some icing sugar on it? Eat. You need the protein.’

She just gave him a sideways glance and took a bite.

Five minutes later, when Striker was half done eating his own egg-white wrap, Felicia hung up her cell and turned to face him. ‘Okay, some interesting stuff here. As it turns out, there was a major recall on PETN the other day – the same explosive your love crush thinks the bombers used to blow up the toy shop and Chad Koda’s place.’

Striker let the ‘love crush’ comment go. ‘Did your contact say why?’

Felicia nodded. ‘I don’t understand all the jargon, but in basic terms, the product was unstable.’

‘We need to get a list of all the places where that batch was sent.’

‘Already requested, they’re working on it now.’ Felicia took a bite of her wrap. ‘And just so we’re clear, next time I prefer lemon scones.’

Striker said nothing. He was too busy thinking about the bombers’ MO. Now it made sense why they’d switched to home-made explosives. It had been an unforeseen roadblock in their plan – and one they had adapted to with seeming ease.

‘So PETN on the toy shop and Koda’s house, then HME on the two vehicles.’

‘Looks like it.’

Recollections of the bomb that had killed Osaka made the egg in Striker’s stomach feel off. Already, he missed his old friend. And try as he did to treat the bombing like it was just another case, it was not possible. Not only because Osaka had been his friend, and not only because Osaka had been a cop, but because the man didn’t deserve an end like this. One thing Osaka had always been was a good man.

He deserved better.

Striker threw the wrapper in the garbage. ‘I still find it strange that Osaka went all the way out there to visit Sal.’

‘He was a good friend. And the man’s not well.’

‘I understand that. But why now? In the middle of the investigation? Was there not a better time to do it? I mean, think of the hours he’d been putting in with all these bombs going off. Plus the kidnapping in District 4. He must have been running on fumes. Then, two days in a row, he gets up early and drives almost an hour into the valley, just to say hi to an old friend? The timing seems off.’

‘You heard the nurse. Sal’s not doing well. Maybe he wasn’t saying hi, maybe he was saying goodbye.’

‘I get that,’ Striker said. ‘But I talked to the nurse. Sal hasn’t been doing well for months. I don’t know . . . to me, the timing doesn’t make sense. Not when we have a mad bomber running around the city. Visiting Sal could have waited a few days.’

He put the car into gear and pulled into the fast lane.

‘Where to?’ Felicia asked.

Striker sighed. ‘White Rock was a bust. But there’s something going on with Osaka, otherwise he wouldn’t have been involved. We need to obtain all his old files – especially ones from about ten years ago.’

‘Why? Where was he working ten years ago?’

Striker gave her a dark look. ‘The Police Standards Section. Internal.’