Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Fourteen

‘Run her,’ was the first thing Striker said when they got back to the car.

Know who you’re dealing with: it was a standard rule he always went by – one learned from his first sergeant, once mentor, and now best friend Mike Rothschild.

Information was the key; it opened new doors.

Felicia ran the name Sharise Owens through the database. A few seconds later, the laptop beeped and the feed came back. On the screen was a list of names. There were three entities for Sharise Owens. Two of them lived in the City of Vancouver, and one resided in Squamish.

Felicia clicked on the first entity, saw a date of birth that equalled eighty-six years of age, and ruled the woman out. She then clicked on the second name – age forty-two – and the entity popped up on the screen. Felicia pointed at the information in the Particulars section. ‘Look what it says right there. Trauma Surgeon. St Paul’s Hospital.’

‘Check if there are any tattoos listed.’

Felicia did. Frowned.

‘None,’ she said.

Striker wrote down all the listed telephone numbers. While Felicia read through the rest of the documented history, Striker began calling.

The first number, listed as Cell, was no longer in use. The second number, listed as Home, rang three times and went straight to voicemail. Striker left a long message. The third number, labelled Work, was the number for St Paul’s Hospital. Striker called it, and was soon transferred to the nurses’ station.

‘It’s Detective Striker,’ he explained, ‘with the Vancouver Police Department’s Homicide Unit. I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens. She’s a trauma surgeon there.’

The nurse’s tone gave away her weariness. ‘One second, Detective.’

For a moment, the line clicked and Striker was stuck listening to pop music. John Secada or Marc Antony – he wasn’t sure. Then the line clicked again and the nurse returned. ‘I’m sorry. But Dr Owens isn’t in just yet.’

‘When does she get in?’

‘Her shift starts at eleven.’

Striker looked at his watch. An hour and a half. ‘Do you have another number I can reach her at?’ When the nurse made an uncomfortable sound, Striker read off the numbers he already had. ‘Are there any others?’

‘No, those are the same ones we have here.’

‘Does she hang out with any of the other doctors or nurses?’

The woman made a doubtful sound. ‘Dr Owens doesn’t really socialize with anyone – she’s a very private person . . . but I’ll ask around for you.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Just give me a minute, Detective.’ After another long moment, the nurse came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, but no one has seen her. And the only emergency contact we have is her cell phone number.’

Striker found that odd. ‘No family or friends?’

‘None.’

He let out a long breath, debated in his mind. ‘I need her to call me the moment she arrives. The moment. Understand?’

‘Yes, yes of course.’

He gave the nurse his cell number, hung up, and then turned to Felicia.

‘I’m shooting zeroes here. Anything on your end?’

She looked up from the laptop. ‘No. Same here, I’m afraid. The woman has no known associates. Not even one family member. From what I can tell, she’s the only daughter of deceased parents . . . I say we flag her.’

Striker agreed. Flagging was the equivalent of an All Points Bulletin. If any emergency response worker came into contact with Dr Sharise Owens, Striker and Felicia would be notified immediately.

He called up CPIC, the Canadian Police Information Centre, and got Dr Sharise Owens flagged on the system as a Missing Person and a Person in Danger. While he did this, Felicia called Sue Rhaemer at Dispatch and got her to notify the hospitals, ferries, airports and borders once more.

After a long moment, she hung up.

‘Done,’ she said.

Striker said nothing. He just put the car into Drive and got going.

Sharise Owens’ home address was just two miles away.

Fifteen

Striker and Felicia headed just around the bend for Beach Avenue, where Sharise Owens lived in an apartment overlooking the sandy stretch of English Bay.

They made it there in five minutes and took the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. The doors opened into the hallway, directly across from the suite, and Striker wasted no time. He took up his position at the side of the apartment door, waited for Felicia to parallel him, and then knocked three times. When no one answered, he looked down the hallway at the neighbouring suite.

‘Maybe there’s an onsite manager,’ he said.

Felicia shook her head. ‘I already checked. These are privately owned suites, and the concierge is offsite. We’ll have to call him.’

Striker frowned at that. They had reason to believe the woman was in danger. She wasn’t at work. She wasn’t answering her cell. She wasn’t answering her home phone.

‘I’m kicking it in.’

‘We should at least try to get the concierge.’

‘Just be ready.’

‘Jacob—’

Striker leaned forward and gave the door a solid kick. The entire structure bowed inwards, but held. A good lock, a better frame. Seeing that, he turned around and gave the door three solid donkey kicks, landing the heel of his shoe between the door handle and frame. On his third attempt, the entire structure burst inwards and the shrill cry of an alarm filled the air.

‘Security system works fine,’ he said, and drew his pistol.

Felicia swore in frustration but did the same.

They made entry and began clearing the suite. As they worked from room to room, two things became immediately obvious. One, Sharise Owens was a wealthy woman. Everything was top end, from the imported Kuppersbusch appliances to the genuine Persian carpets and teak floors.

The second obvious detail was that, if Sharise had been kidnapped, no struggle had taken place here. The woman clearly took pride in her home, keeping everything in its place, from the fanned-out Oprah magazines on the coffee table to the folded laundry in her closets.

Everything was immaculate.

By the time they finished clearing the residence, the alarm had stopped blasting. Felicia holstered her piece. ‘This is a dead end.’

‘So far it is,’ Striker responded, his ears still ringing. ‘Let’s do a detailed search – see if we can find anything relevant.’

‘Fine. I’ll start with the kitchen.’

Striker nodded. That left him with the bedroom and the office area. He got right to work, searching through drawers and scavenging through the closets. But in the end, the bedroom yielded nothing. He grabbed the phone and hit the callback feature to see what number had last called the Owens residence. It was him. He hit redial to see the last number dialled. It was St Paul’s Hospital.

The time of the call was late last night.

No leads there.

Felicia called out from the other room. ‘No evidence in the kitchen or living room. I’ll search through the den.’

Striker yelled back okay and went into the office. On the shelf, in two long rows, were a series of micro-tapes and compact discs. Striker examined them. Each tape and disc said ‘copy’ on the cover, and was followed by a description:

Arlington, Jonas – fractured pelvis, Motor Vehicle Accident.

Booth, Amy – punctured lung, Workplace Accident.

Chavez, Ricardo – appendix removal, Cause Unknown.

The list went on.

There were many tapes and discs, all appearing to be audio files of past surgeries Dr Owens had performed. Eleven years’ worth. Striker was impressed. Most doctors kept reports, but it appeared that Dr Owens went a step further.

The woman was meticulous.

He put back the tapes and finished his search. When he approached the computer, he saw that the screen was black. He moved the mouse and a password request appeared. Having little personal knowledge of the woman, he didn’t even hazard a guess. Instead, he sat down, opened the drawers, and started rifling through the files.

Most of it was ordinary bills with some tax information slips and the odd photocopy of a medical certificate or diploma. An old address book was relatively unused. It had the numbers of two other doctors listed in it, but nothing else. Striker called them both, but neither of them had seen or heard from Dr Owens in weeks.

After a long moment of searching, the alarm went off again. Striker gave up and returned to the living room. Already two of the neighbours – both middle-aged women, both cupping their hands over their ears – had come to investigate the alarm. Normally, they would have appeared nervous, even timid, but standing with them was a patrol cop – a tall Slavic-looking guy Striker had never seen.

Striker took out his badge and showed the cop and the neighbours. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos.’ He asked the women if they’d seen Dr Owens lately. Both ladies began chirping like a pair of overexcited hens, but in the end the result was the same. Neither woman had seen Sharise Owens since yesterday morning.

It was no good.

Felicia exited the den and joined them. She looked at the two women, then at the patrol cop, and then at Striker. She shook her head and spoke above the high-pitched alarm. ‘You find anything?’

‘Yeah. Another zero. You?’

‘Zero plus zero equals zilch.’

Striker frowned. The lack of progress and the alarm was getting to him. He moved into the hall, away from the drone, and pulled out his phone. He tried calling Dr Owens’ cell one more time, and was yet again directed to voicemail. He hung up.

Before leaving, he explained to the patrol cop what was going on with Dr Owens, then asked him to guard the suite until members of the City Maintenance Crew arrived to fix the door, or until Owens returned. The constable agreed, and Striker and Felicia left the scene under his care.

Back in the car, Striker scoured his notebook, hoping to see something they had missed. But the more he went over things, the more he ended up back where they had started.

‘We need to know how Owens’ bracelet got down by the docks,’ he said. ‘Even if she turns up okay, it’s too coincidental.’

Felicia shrugged. ‘For all we know someone stole it.’

Striker hadn’t thought of that. ‘Any history of thefts or robberies in PRIME?’

Felicia did a search. ‘No . . . but this is interesting – she was arrested once.’

Striker closed his notebook and looked at her, surprised. ‘Really? For what?’

‘For refusing to leave an anti-abortion rally.’ Felicia read through the report. ‘Interesting. She was fighting with the protesters.’

‘I guess that makes her pro-choice.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Look here. She was also arrested a few more times. At different rallies. Who knows? Maybe this entire call could be a pro-choice thing.’

Striker let out a groan. ‘Abortion activists? That’s the last thing we need. It would be a political nightmare.’

He leaned closer to Felicia to read the screen and smelled her musky perfume and perspiration. She smelled good and, like always, her scent calmed him a little. He focused on the computer, on the entity known as Dr Sharise Owens, then spoke.

‘We need to learn more about this doctor,’ he said. ‘So we got two options here – we can either wait at St Paul’s until she shows up for work, or we can hightail it back to HQ and start searching the databases.’

The choice for Felicia was simple. ‘I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.’

‘Good. Because there’s no guarantee she’ll show up there at all.’

The moment Striker spoke the words, he regretted them. It was as if they were taboo. The fact that Sharise Owens might already be dead was a sobering thought. But there it was – the cold hard reality of it all.

Welcome to Homicide.

Sixteen

The clock read 09:45 when Striker logged onto his work computer at Homicide headquarters and waited for the Versadex program to initiate. It was a standard Wednesday, midweek hustle, and the office was half-filled with weary investigators. As always, the building echoed with a mechanical thunder from the prehistoric air conditioner that rattled sometimes, clanked others, but almost always blew out warm air – especially on hot summer days.

While Striker waited for the program to load, he walked to the kitchen area and poured himself a cup of the sludge the office brass called coffee. Normally he drank it black, but this brew required chemical creamer and sugar to smooth out the burned taste.

For the next five minutes, he sipped his coffee, checked his voicemail for messages from Courtney, and found that there were still none. He tried calling her twice himself, but to no avail. In the end, he called up the airlines and was told that the plane had landed without problem.

The information soothed and angered him all at once.

‘Damn kid,’ he said.

He scanned the office. All around him, rows and rows of makeshift cubicles were set up, each one a carbon copy of his own work station – a desk, a chair, a pin-up board, and an archaic crappy computer that was one generation away from being a Commodore 64. Hell, the monitors weren’t even widescreen.

On Striker’s pin-up board were two pictures. One of his daughter Courtney standing with her friend, Raine; and the other of his parents, who had died two decades ago in a motor vehicle accident, leaving him as the sole provider for his three younger siblings. He stared at the photos for a long time. When the program finally started, it was an emotional relief.

Immediately, he sat down and typed:

Surname: Owens. Given 1: Sharise. Given 2: Chandelle.

Then he entered her date of birth.

Before hitting send, he added in a request for information from LEIP – the Law Enforcement Information Portal – and also from PIRS – the Police Information Retrieval System. Both were older databases, used by municipalities that had not yet transferred over to PRIME.

The results came back almost instantly.

‘Desktop system’s fast today,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’

Felicia was seated in her own cubicle behind him, trying to get a hold of weapons expert Jay Kolt. Having no luck, she hung up, swivelled about and looked over his shoulder at the screen. ‘What you got?’

‘Same pro-choice arrest you had for Sharise Owens. But look at this – there was also a death threat made against Sharise. And it’s a Vancouver file.’

‘Vancouver? That’s strange . . . I never saw it in PRIME.’

Striker nodded. ‘Of course you didn’t. This file is eight years old. PRIME didn’t exist back then. We’re not reading the actual report – this is an electronic summary.’

Felicia cursed, and Striker echoed it. Retrieving information could be extremely frustrating in the world of policing. Older cases often existed only on paper. Some were reintroduced to the system as electronic summaries, but they were few, and they almost always lacked vital information.

Striker let out a heavy breath. ‘We’re lucky this call even had an electronic summary; otherwise we wouldn’t have known it existed at all. The original report should be filed away somewhere.’

‘In Archives?’

‘It’s a Vancouver file. So, yeah, hopefully.’

Striker read the summary. It was about as bare bones as it gets – critically lacking for something as serious as a death threat. The suspect in the file was a male named Chad Koda. In the remarks column was one word:

Unfounded.

Felicia pointed at the entity. ‘Chad Koda . . . is he a pro-lifer?’

‘Apparently.’ Striker looked at the last line of the summary. ‘Says Koda had a “relationship” with Owens, but it doesn’t specify what kind of relationship. Looks more and more like this was a domestic someone didn’t feel like writing up properly, so they changed it to an Unfounded Threat call.’

Striker ran the name Koda, but nothing else came up. He looked at the name for a long moment, knowing he had heard it somewhere before. Then he made the connection. ‘Wait a second . . . Chad Koda . . . isn’t he that high-end realtor you see on all the billboard ads? The self-proclaimed multimillionaire?’

‘Oh yeah. That’s right. The guy who colours his beard.’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Colours his beard? If you say so.’

‘It’s obvious, Jacob – to a woman.’

‘Remind me of that when I go grey.’

‘So, tomorrow then?’

Striker just shot her a wry look.

He picked up the desk phone and called Archives. The woman who answered had a smoker-rough voice and Striker was familiar with her. He gave her the file number and year, then waited when she put him on hold. When she finally picked up again, almost ten minutes later, her one-word answer bothered him.

‘Purged.’

‘Purged?’ It was all Striker could do not to swear. ‘But this was a violent call.’

The clerk made a weary sound – like she’d given this explanation one too many times and was growing tired of it. ‘I wish I could say it was unusual, Detective, but the department purged a lot of stuff back then. Especially the year the basement flooded and all the records had to be moved.’

Striker felt his blood pressure rising. ‘Try one more for me. See what you got on a guy named Chad Koda.’

‘Hold on.’ After a few seconds, she came back to the phone and her response was the same. ‘You’re batting zero today, Detective. I wouldn’t bother buying any lottery tickets if I were you.’

Striker sighed. ‘I’ll cancel my prostate exam too.’

The woman gave a soft chuckle before Striker finished the conversation and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia said.

‘Purged. All of it.’

‘But that call was a death threat.’

Striker shook his head. ‘Why does this feel like Groundhog Day?’

He scratched his chin as he thought. With no known victim, their weapons expert still unreachable, and Noodles needing another four hours to process the crime scenes, they were quickly running out of leads.

Felicia said, ‘We’re at a standstill.’

Striker agreed. He stood up. Put on his coat. Adjusted his holster. And made sure that the magazine was seated securely. ‘Come on.’

Felicia stood up as well. ‘Chad Koda’s place?’

‘You got it.’ Striker grinned. ‘Time to see how a multimillionaire lives.’

Seventeen

Striker stared at the inlet and faraway border of Stanley Park as they drove across the Burrard Street Bridge, his mind not able to enjoy the glorious view and instead focused on the details of the case.

Where they were headed – the 1300 block of Pacific Avenue – was the lateral edge of the downtown core, an area nestled in between the sprawling urban jungle of city life and the tranquil walkways of the sandy-beached Burrard Inlet.

The seawall below Pacific Avenue ran all the way to Stanley Park. Felicia looked at the bay, at the sun shimmering off the waters, at the people windsurfing, and sighed. ‘I wish I could own a place down here. But I’d have to sell my soul to afford one.’

‘That wouldn’t get you the down-payment.’

She let out a bemused laugh. ‘You’re probably right. I’ve probably lowered its value over the years – I’ve been known to be a bad girl from time to time.’

Striker grinned. ‘Not often enough.’

They exited the bridge.

On the southwest side of Pacific Avenue, apartment complexes rose up twenty storeys high. They blocked the view of the bay that the northeast houses had once boasted so many decades ago. Not that people living there could complain. The view may have been blocked, but those houses were still within throwing distance of Sunset Beach.

Striker drove past the row of homes, each one in its own Victorian style, and took note of the surroundings. The house Chad Koda owned was a single detached residence, three levels high, with a steep wooden stairway. The exterior wood sported a brand new burgundy paint job with clean white trim. Out front was a wall of recently trimmed hedges and a red brick patio with garden.

Everything looked professionally maintained.

Felicia whistled. ‘Something tells me he’s not operating on a policeman’s salary.’

‘A cop couldn’t afford the gardener. You do a history check on this place yet?’

‘Yeah, but there’s nothing relevant. Only call ever made here was a noise complaint, and that was six years ago.’

The information was disappointing; Striker had hoped for something more.

They parked away from the traffic flow, on Thurlow, and walked down the sidewalk with the hot sun pressing down on them. By the time they reached the front walkway, Striker felt stuffy in his suit. It was only ten-thirty in the morning, but already the day was beginning to swelter. And being next to a row of cars spewing out exhaust fumes didn’t help.

At the front door, Striker went to knock, then hesitated. There was no known history of dangers connected to this address, but he never took chances. He leaned over the railing and tried to peer through the window, but it was too dark to see.

‘The window’s got some kind of tint on it,’ he said.

‘Wards off the sun.’

‘Sure. And it stops people from seeing inside.’

Striker approached the door and rapped hard, three solid knocks. Less than thirty seconds later, footsteps could be heard inside. A latch rattled. The front door creaked open. And Striker got his first real-life look at the man from the billboard ads.

Chad Koda.

Realtor extraordinaire.

Striker was somewhat surprised. The man was not what he had expected. Chad Koda was a bit shorter than average height, a bit stockier than his billboard photo suggested, and he looked every bit his fifty years of age. His silvering hair was almost gone on top, and kept short on the sides. His goatee was darker than the hair on his head – Felicia mouthed the word dyed once more – and it stuck out against his deeply bronzed skin. He wore a wine-coloured kimono that hung half open and matching slippers.

Koda gave them both an impatient look. ‘Well, what is it?’

Striker badged the man. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos. We’d like a few minutes of your time, if you don’t mind.’

The man rubbed his eyes. ‘This really isn’t the best time.’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘I’ve heard that one before.’

Striker made no move to leave. ‘You are Chad Koda, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you once used to date Dr Sharise Owens?’

Koda’s face tightened at the mention of the name, and he let out a long weary breath. ‘Now what has she done?’

Striker took out his notebook. ‘Dr Owens hasn’t done anything, as far as I know. But there’s a lot of convoluted things going on right now, and I’m trying to find the woman. I was wondering if, perhaps, you had seen her.’

‘Only in my nightmares.’

‘Not a fan, I take it.’

‘I like my women warm-blooded.’

Striker just nodded. ‘Have you been home all night, Mr Koda?’

‘Yes, I have been – look, is there a reason you’re asking me all this?’

‘It’s coming.’

‘Well, make it come quicker – or I’m closing the door and going back inside.’

Striker gave Felicia a sideways glance to see if she wanted to give it a try. She caught it and spoke. ‘Is there anyone who can corroborate your being home last night, Mr Koda?’

‘Yeah, the Kardashian sisters. Kim’s in there cleaning up right now.’

Her eyes hardened on the man. ‘Look, Mr Koda—’

‘No, you look, Detective. Sharise was my common-law wife – no doubt you got records on that. And you know what? It was a goddam nightmare. Every fucking minute of it.’

‘We understand there were problems.’

‘Problems?’ The tanned flesh of Koda’s face reddened. ‘Problems? Is that what you call it – a fucking problem? That bitch aborted my son! That was more than a problem to me, okay?’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Then you need to become a better investigator.’

Felicia’s face coloured at the comment, but she continued questioning the man.

Striker, meanwhile, said nothing. He just wrote this information down in his notebook, not only to record the detail, but as a way of giving Koda a second to either calm down or say more – hopefully, something that might incriminate himself. After another long bout of hostile responses to Felicia’s questions, Striker put the notebook away.

‘Mr Koda,’ he began, ‘my partner here has asked you some pretty serious questions about Sharise Owens. And yet, there’s something here I find off – you haven’t even asked if she’s okay.’

The man’s face darkened even more. ‘That’s because I don’t give a rat’s ass. The moment that bitch aborted my son, she ceased to exist. I planned on keeping it that way for the rest of my life – until you two clowns showed up. As far as I’m concerned, it’s ancient fucking history.’

Striker studied the man. Saw him red-faced and sweating. ‘Your emotions would suggest otherwise.’

Koda’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you legally detaining me, Detective?’

‘No.’

‘Then fuck off – you want to speak to me again, you go through my lawyer. He’s at KDM. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. All cops have.’

Koda stepped back. Slammed the door. And Striker and Felicia were left standing there in silence.

‘Well, that was pleasant,’ Felicia said.

Striker said nothing. He was preoccupied with analysing Koda’s reaction. Deep in thought, he walked back down the steps and headed for the car. When they reached the cruiser, they climbed inside and shut the doors.

Felicia asked, ‘What the hell is the KDM firm? I’ve heard that name somewhere before.’

‘You should have. KDM sues cops under the Police Act.’

‘Great.’

Striker was about to say more on the matter when his cell went off. He looked at the screen, saw the name Rothschild, and stuck the phone to his ear. ‘Gimme some good news, Mike.’

‘Okay – you’re looking more and more like me every day.’

‘I said good news.’

‘Then how’s this for you? The dogman just found a pair of flippers and some scuba gear on the northwest shore of Mitchell Island. Can you fucking believe it? You were right. Our gunman actually swam across the divide.’

Striker closed his eyes as he took in the information. Some of the oddities fell into place for him. ‘The cut twine – it wasn’t there for tethering a boat, it was used to hold the scuba gear.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘I want that gear processed. Swabbed, traced, everything.’

‘Noodles is already on it. I’ll make some phone calls to the rental companies. See if any of them dealt with some strange customers lately. Who knows, maybe one of them even has some gear missing.’

‘I won’t hold my breath.’

Striker thanked Rothschild and said goodbye. He then told Felicia what had happened. As she listened, her expression became one of disbelief. ‘Electrical torture devices, breathing apparatus, and a guy who can swim to Mitchell Island . . . This file is getting weirder by the second.’

Striker couldn’t have agreed more. Any single one of those oddities would have been unusual on its own; but collectively, it was downright peculiar. Unnerving, even. More than ever, it made him wonder what they were up against.

Just what kind of people were they dealing with here?