Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Thirty

‘Run him,’ Striker said the moment they climbed back into the undercover cruiser. ‘Solomon Bay. Put him at age forty.’

Felicia nodded and typed the name into the system, then hit Enter. After a short moment, the computer beeped and the feed came back. She read it out loud: ‘Solomon Elijah Bay . . . Oh man, this guy has a ton of history in PRIME.’

‘What kind of history?’

She clucked her tongue a few times as she scanned the page. ‘Most of the files are disturbance calls and assaults. Some consensual fights too. Looks like he spent a few nights in the drunk tank . . . Likes to drink and fight, this guy.’

Striker thought of the man beating Keisha Williams in front of her children and his fingers curled into fists. ‘Let’s hope he feels like fighting when I find him.’

Felicia patted his arm. ‘Calm down there, Iron Mike.’

She compared the Criminal Harassment papers they’d found in Keisha Williams’ bedroom with the files on the laptop. ‘Says here, Williams met Solomon at the Ministry of Child and Family Services. Who knows what the hell he was doing there. Soon afterwards, the two of them started dating . . . He’s thirty-six years old now, and by the look of things, a real prick. Goes by the nickname Sunny.’

Striker stared at her, deadpan. ‘You gotta be kidding me. Sunny Bay? Sounds like a goddam timeshare.’

Felicia raised an eyebrow like she couldn’t believe it either, then she returned to reading the information. ‘Look here. Keisha Williams has Sharise Owens listed as her cousin in this report too . . . And here she is again in this one – hell, Owens is the one who called 911 for police assistance.’

‘Thus the restraining order,’ Striker said.

Felicia nodded. ‘Both women have a connection to this man.’

‘They also have a connection to Chad Koda,’ Striker reminded. ‘We can’t forget our realtor friend either. There’s something off about that guy . . . Any connection between Chad Koda and Solomon Bay?’

Felicia shook her head. ‘None I can find.’

Striker thought back to the scene at the steel barn by the cement plant. He turned to face Felicia. ‘This Solomon guy . . . does he have any ties to organized crime? Or anything like that?’

Felicia scanned the numerous pieces of information they had acquired. ‘Not that I can see. He looks like your stereotypical abusive prick. Oh wait – he did work for BC Gas for a while. As a gas fitter. So he has some training in related matters.’ She looked up at Striker. ‘A guy with that kind of training could easily rig an explosion.’

‘How many times did Sharise Owens report Solomon?’ he asked.

‘Three. But there are a lot of other calls with him listed as the Subject of Complaint and the Suspect Chargeable. Odd though, they just suddenly stop after a while.’

Striker looked at the screen. It showed three domestic assault charges and six harassment files in a span of six weeks, and then nothing. ‘Maybe he’s in jail.’

‘I’ll see if they locked him up,’ Felicia said.

As she called Corrections, Striker read through the restraining order. Moments later, Felicia got off the phone. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Solomon’s not in any of the pens – federal or provincial.’

‘Well, something happened to the guy. Pricks like him don’t just stop.’

‘I know. I’ll keep searching.’

Striker pointed to the man’s last known address. ‘Portside Court. That’s out east. By the Burnaby border.’ He turned the wheel and hit the gas. ‘I hate wife-beaters. This prick’s gonna regret it when he gets out of line.’

Felicia’s voice dropped a level. ‘When he gets out of line?’

Striker cracked the knuckles of his left hand and nodded.

‘We can only hope.’

Thirty-One

Harry sat in the undercover police cruiser and gazed vacantly down the long stretch of Pacific Avenue. Out there, beautiful girls in Lululemon tights walked back from yoga classes while others rollerbladed in mini-shorts and bikini tops down the seawall.

Harry saw none of it. His mind was busy, preoccupied with bad thoughts from bad times.

Pieces of a past better left forgotten.

The explosion at the Granville Island Market had rattled him. Shook him so hard that it flung out all his feelings of grief and depression. In their place now were some new feelings. Concern. Trepidation.

Disbelief.

Could it all be connected?

Keisha Williams. The toymaker. Dead. It scared him.

When Harry had seen her remains on that cold steel slab at the morgue, he’d gone lightheaded. Felt his blood pressure spike. And he had damn near keeled over right there in the room. Even now, sitting in the cruiser, that numb jittery feeling spilled all through his legs.

He looked down at the two photographs he was holding and felt haunted and desperate all at once. The first photo was of his deceased son Joshua, and had been taken just two weeks before the boy’s death. The second one was of Ethan, taken just one year ago.

Harry prayed to God that nothing bad was in store for this son. He couldn’t take losing another child. Losing Joshua had broken his heart in every way possible. Calcified the tissue and scarred the membranes. It was a wonder the organ even beat any more.

But it did. And that was solely because of Ethan.

Ethan was what mattered now. The boy was everything. And nothing would ever come between them, Harry knew, because he would not allow it. He believed in that. He had faith in that.

So why would this numb uncertainty not leave him?

He closed his eyes. ‘Oh Christ. Please oh fucking please.’

He rubbed his hands over his face as if this would erase the emotional turbulence he was experiencing, but it did nothing. The past was like a bad dream that recurred every so often. Even when he thought he’d finally learned to suppress it, suddenly, unexpectedly, bang – there it was again. And Harry would realize once more that it was never truly gone. It was just lying there dormant, somewhere below Life’s skin. Like a malignant fucking tumour.

He tried to suppress it. Tried to kill it so many times. But the past was not pencil that could be erased; it was ink – there forever, indelible, though just a little more faded with every passing year.

When Harry could take the thoughts no more, he took in a deep breath and shouldered open the car door. He climbed out onto Pacific Avenue and slowly made his way down the block towards the old heritage home on the south side of the road.

He didn’t want to go there; he had to. There was an unspoken code. A duty to perform to old friends. And all that aside, it was a necessary step in the safeguarding of his own future. Yes, there was no doubt about it.

Chad Koda needed to know what was going on.

Thirty-Two

Dressed in a grey workman’s suit from the local phone company – and with a fresh strip of gauze covering the stitches Molly had given him to close the gash in his cheek – the bomber stood in the centre of Chad Koda’s living room and assessed his setup. Everything was now in place. Perfectly.

Ever since the girl had stumbled into the steel barn down by the river, it felt like he and Molly had been in a constant cycle of assessing and adapting to the original plan. But they were almost back on track now.

Almost.

The notion of it should have brought him some peace, should have made him smile. But it did not.

Too many bad things still needed to be done.

The bomber looked down at the victim before him. Strapped to a leather office chair, duct tape stretched across her mouth, industrial-size zap straps binding each wrist to the corresponding chair leg, was the doctor. Her long straight hair hung over her face as her head drooped forward. She looked like all her spirit had left her.

Like she’d finally succumbed to her fate.

The bomber paid her no heed. He just worked on what needed to be done and whispered the old familiar rhyme to himself:

Tommy Atkins went to war

and he came back a man no more.

Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.

He died, that man who looked like me.

The words made the doctor glance up fearfully. Her dark, wide eyes held a sense of exhaustion and wariness. And when he looked into them, she looked away – as if he were some kind of dog she feared might frenzy at the challenge.

Suddenly, his radio crackled to life.

‘All clear,’ Molly said.

He keyed the mike. ‘Copy. All clear.’

‘Requesting sit-rep.’

‘Copy the sit-rep. Placing the package. Five minutes.’

‘Copy,’ Molly said. ‘Placing the package. Five minutes.’

He wheeled the doctor into the kitchen area, where she would be seen the moment Koda walked through the front door. He positioned her next to the kitchen island, then removed the toy ducks from his bag. He stared at the small wooden birds, each one dressed in a policeman’s uniform. One of them – the duck with the big red 6 on the front – was the same duck he had brought with him to the steel barn down by the river.

For the woman.

The other duck, identical to the first but with a big red number 2 on the chest, was for Chad Koda.

The order was wrong because their plans had gone awry. But it was what it was, and the lack of order made the bomber smile. In some ways, it matched his shambled memories.

He grabbed the metal O-ring attached to the bird and pulled the string:

‘These criminals are making me quackers!’

That made him smile. It never got old.

He carefully placed the toys on top of the kitchen island, less than a foot away from the doctor. At chest level. Then he placed the bomb, hidden in the cardboard box, directly behind the two birds.

It was done.

He pulled out the remote activator, which had been constructed from the internal components of a cell phone and a laser pointer, and then the radio came to life once more:

‘White male. Approaching from the south. Quarter block.’

He keyed the mike. ‘Copy. White male from the south. Quarter block.’

‘Up the walkway.’ Molly’s voice raised in tone. ‘He’s coming your way!’

‘Copy. Up the walkway. Coming my way.’

The bomber looked at the kitchen door that led to the back lane where he had parked the utility van. He would never make it there in time – not if he wanted to reach the observation point and be in visual contact when the bomb activated.

‘At the front door!’ Molly broadcast. ‘Retreat now. Retreat.’

The bomber said nothing; he just moved quickly out of the kitchen, into the dining room area, and squatted down on the other side of the hutch. This location was still close to the bomb – maybe too close – but the hutch was made from solid maple wood, and it was heavy. He gripped the activator in his hand and waited for the lock to click and the front door to open.

But seconds passed, and the click never came; instead, all he heard was the hard rap of knuckle bone on the wood.

Three solid knocks. Rap-rap-rap.

At first, he did nothing. He only waited patiently to see what would happen next. After a second series of knocks, he left his position and approached the tinted bay window. He remained there, veiled behind the thick bulk of the drapes, and slowly, deftly, parted the sheers. What he saw surprised him. The man standing in the front alcove was a white male with thinning hair. Blue eyes. And puffy, ruddy cheeks.

‘Harry Eckhart,’ he whispered.

It was an unexpected sighting, and the words felt strange on his tongue.

He said nothing else. Did nothing else. He just stood there behind the veil of tinted glass and curtain, and watched the middle-aged cop knock a few more times, curse, then wheel about and hurry down the stairs.

When Harry Eckhart turned the corner of the walkway and disappeared from sight, Molly came back across the radio:

‘White male away. South.’

The bomber nodded as if she could see him. ‘Copy. White male away. South.’

After a short moment of silence, the radio crackled to life again, and Molly’s tight voice occupied the air. ‘Request a question,’ she said.

‘Go with the question.’

‘Did you see his face? Did you recognize him?’

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I recognized him. The man was Harry Eckhart – Target Number Three.’

Thirty-Three

The complex called Portside Court – Solomon Bay’s last known address – was a series of two-level duplexes, built on a steep hillside that dropped rapidly down to the banks of the Fraser River.

As Striker and Felicia turned down Duff Street, Striker glanced out at the view below. Directly ahead was the Fraser River. A kilometre out was Mitchell Island. And to the far west, not more than two kilometres away, was the concrete plant and steel barn where they’d found the frantic rave girl.

Everything felt full circle.

Felicia realized this too. ‘Look how close we are to the original crime scene.’

‘I don’t like it.’

Striker parked the car and got out.

Before heading into the complex, he pulled back the side of his coat and adjusted his holster. Felicia did the same. All geared up, they made their way down a narrow set of stairs that were barely visible under the burned-out street lamp.

Striker scanned the addresses for Unit 17. Within a few hundred feet it became obvious to him that the complex was one giant square. In the centre of it was a darkened playground area that had a teeter totter with no seats and a swing set with no swings. From the unit behind the playground, a couple was arguing – a woman’s high-pitched rant and a man’s slurred responses:

Bitch!

Fucking failure!

. . . like your goddam mother!

‘East Vancouver love,’ Striker said.

Felicia didn’t laugh. Instead, her face tightened. ‘A little too familiar for me.’

She increased her pace, and Striker went with her silently.

Unit 17 was on the east side of the complex. A loose plank raked loudly against the sidewalk as Striker opened the gate. He made sure the gate was left all the way open, in case they needed to perform a tactical retreat. Then he moved down the unlit walkway to the front door.

Inside, a TV was blaring, and the smell of pot smoke was strong in the air. Striker gave Felicia a look to be ready, then knocked five times, hard. Almost immediately, the sound of the TV died. Then a lock clicked and the door opened.

Standing in the doorway was a white man, rake thin, with a complexion as pale as sun-bleached bone. His eyelids were heavy, his face unshaven, and a series of long dirty-blond dreadlocks snaked off his head in uneven clumps.

Striker recognized the man from the Commercial Drive area. The guy went by the nickname Dreadlocks, and had a ton of possession charges in his past.

Dreadlocks nodded at them, then brought a marijuana cigarette to his lips. Took a long drag. ‘Yeah?’

Felicia didn’t mince words: ‘We’re looking for Solomon Bay.’

‘Solomon?’ Dreadlocks spoke the name like it was an absurd request. ‘Shit, he ain’t here no more.’

‘So you know him.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s askin’?’

Striker held up his badge. ‘I am.’

Dreadlocks’ face tightened. ‘I ain’t talking ’bout this.’

Striker glanced over the man’s shoulder. On the table behind him was a litter of drug paraphernalia, a stack of video games, and an even larger stack of porn DVDs and Blu-rays. Striker made out one of the titles, where a busty blonde was scantily clad and holding a bullwhip.

Cindyana Jones.

He turned his eyes from the table back to Dreadlocks and smiled. ‘Don’t want to talk? That’s entirely your prerogative. Of course, it’s my prerogative to arrest on plain view evidence – and right now I can see grounds for six or seven charges.’

Dreadlocks crossed his arms, almost effeminately, and glanced back at the table. ‘I don’t see how—’

‘What’s your full name?’ Striker ordered.

Dreadlocks hesitated for a moment, then gave it. Striker wrote down all the details, including date of birth. When he looked up again, he offered the man a wide smile. ‘Well, sir, today is your lucky day. Isn’t it, Feleesh?’

‘Totally lucky,’ she said.

‘Because we’re not here for you. We’re here for Solomon Bay. But of course, that could change – especially after what I just saw on your table. So if I were you, I would get talking, and fast.’

The cocky look on Dreadlocks’ scruffy face vanished, and a nervous expression replaced it. With a trembling hand, he raised his marijuana cigarette to take another puff, then stopped midway as if he had only just realized he was standing in front of two police detectives.

‘Go ahead,’ Striker said. ‘Have a good long drag – if it will refresh your memory.’

Dreadlocks did. When he breathed out in slow, uneven gasps, his entire body seemed to deflate. His eyes turned down and he spoke softly. ‘Look, officers, I know him, okay? Shit, he was my roommate for a couple of years there.’

Striker nodded. ‘Until . . .’

‘Man, of all people, you two should know.’

Striker and Felicia exchanged a glance.

‘We should know?’ Striker asked.

‘Yeah, you. The cops. The state.’ Dreadlocks suddenly became more animated, waving his arm around as if giving a lecture. ‘Came in here like gangbusters, man. Martial fuckin’ law or something. You’re the ones who got rid of him in the first place. And real quick like. Cost me a few hundred bucks in rent before I could find another roommate.’

Striker let the man finish before speaking. ‘We didn’t cost you anything. If Solomon owes you money, go get it from him.’

Dreadlocks made a tight face, then let loose a wild laugh – as if this was the funniest damn thing he had ever heard. ‘Go get it? From Sunny? Yeah, right. I’ll do that – like, never.’

Striker found the conversation amusing. ‘You find Solomon intimidating?’

Dreadlocks stopped laughing. ‘Course I do. Everyone does. Sunny’s one of those guys you don’t wanna cross, right? He can lose it at times. Scares the shit out of people, you know?’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Cuz he’s crazy. One time, my friend asked him if he was Serbian, you know. Like, from Yugoslavia. And it pissed Sunny off like nothing. He grabbed a butcher knife and threatened to slit the guy’s throat. And he was serious, man. Sweating, shaking, spit flying from his fuckin’ lips – I thought he was gonna do it. Damn near pissed myself.’

‘So Solomon can snap.’

Dreadlocks snorted, then wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Shit, he’s from Croatia, man. Saw the rest of his family killed over there. That guy’s seen and done it all. Serious shit over there. Serious shit. He’s not a guy . . . not a guy you wanna mess with, right?’

Striker wrote this all down. ‘Scary dude.’

‘Sure thought so . . . and he was . . . at least, till that cop showed up.’

Striker looked up from his notebook. ‘What cop?’

‘I dunno. Some guy. Came and took Sunny for a walk. Did it real late one night . . . and Sunny never bothered no one after that. Hell, he never came home again. Just fucked right off, and that was that.’

‘You got a name for this cop?’ Felicia asked.

Dreadlocks shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Look, I don’t want no trouble with this.’

‘Whatever you say doesn’t go past this alcove,’ Striker promised.

‘For real?’

‘For real.’

Dreadlocks looked back uncertainly and his jaw clicked as he ground his teeth. ‘Can’t remember the dude’s name,’ he finally said. ‘But he was older than you. Late forties maybe. Had a real bad rash on his cheeks. And his eyes were blue. Like ice blue. Real fuckin’ cold.’

Striker gave Felicia a look and saw that she had made the connection too. Only one cop they knew fit that description. And he did so down to a T.

Harry Eckhart.

Thirty-Four

Harry Eckhart wasn’t answering his personal cell or his work phone. When Striker called the General Investigation Unit, he expected to hear that Harry had gone home for the day. But the sergeant in charge told him otherwise; Harry had gone to talk to Vice about a file he was working on.

So he was still around.

Striker wasted no time. He put the car in gear and headed for The Bunker. This was the location the operational squads – Strike Force, the Emergency Response Team, Vice and Drugs – called home, a plain drab concrete warehouse located in the heart of District 3.

Striker checked his watch when they got close. It was just after 19:00 hours now – seven p.m. standard time – and he hoped they hadn’t missed the man. They key-carded in to the underground, drove down a couple of levels, and spotted Harry walking towards his car.

‘He looks terrible,’ Felicia noted. ‘Sick.’

Striker could see that. ‘Ever since Harry lost his boy, he’s never been the same. It took something out of the man he never got back.’

He drove the undercover cruiser ahead.

When Harry climbed into his personal vehicle – an old model Honda CRV – and started the engine, Striker pulled in behind the SUV and gave the horn a tap.

They all exited and gathered between the two vehicles.

‘Striker, Felicia,’ Harry said. He forced a smile, one that never touched the corners of his eyes, then gestured to the undercover cruiser that Striker had left running in the middle of the driveway, boxing him into the stall. ‘I see your parking skills have improved.’

‘And I can see your car’s still been nothing but lady driven,’ Striker retorted.

Harry laughed at that one, and Striker got down to business.

‘Listen, Harry, I thought we might take a moment to debrief some of what’s happened today.’

‘The explosion, or the guy who ran on us?’

Felicia said, ‘Other things.’

Harry nodded, almost cautiously. ‘What other things?’

Striker took out his notebook and explained. ‘Had a little conversation today that turned up something interesting. The name Solomon Bay ring a bell? Guy sometimes goes by the name Sunny.’

Harry offered no reaction. ‘Should it?’

‘I would think so. He sounds like a guy most people would remember. Real prick. Liked to beat up a woman named Keisha Williams in front of her children. Or at least, he used to – till someone took him for a walk.’

A look of recognition crossed Harry’s features, but he did not smile.

‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ he finally said.

Striker eyed the man, half-surprised at Harry’s uncooperativeness. ‘You sure on that one?’

Harry said nothing, and Felicia spoke up. ‘The description sounded like you.’

The blank expression on Harry’s face mutated into one of controlled anger. ‘What, you wearing a wire now, Santos?’

She blinked in surprise. ‘What?’

Striker just splayed his hands. ‘Holy shit, Harry, why the sudden hostility? We’re just following up some leads here. You’re acting like we’re out to get you, or something.’

Harry said nothing at first. He just stood there and his uncommunicative blue eyes lingered on them for a long moment. Then his posture sagged and he bowed his head a little. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Been a long day. Hard day. Bad day.’ He met Striker’s stare, tried to steel his voice but only got out a whisper. ‘It’s the anniversary of Josh’s . . .’

‘I understand,’ Striker said.

Harry looked away and let out a long breath. ‘This is off the record, okay?’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘Yeah, I knew Solomon Bay. He was a piece of shit. Real violent. And not just towards Keisha Williams. The guy had a history back east in Ontario. He choked a woman to death after he raped her.’

Striker turned his stare on Felicia. ‘You never mentioned that.’

She looked helpless. ‘It wasn’t in any of the computer databases.’

‘And it won’t be,’ Harry said. ‘Because it’s from the Barrie Police Department. And they never used PRIME back then. And Solomon was never officially charged with anything – no one would testify against him; they were all too afraid.’

‘So what happened?’ Striker asked.

Harry didn’t look away. ‘I half-killed the fuck, that’s what happened. Took him for a river walk, you know? Made him swim the channel. When the fucker had almost drowned, we stepped in and fished him out.’

‘We?’ Striker asked.

Harry raised a finger. ‘I told that sonuvabitch he had a choice to make – he was leaving Vancouver one way or the other. The way he went was up to him.’ Harry rubbed a hand through his short, thinning hair and let out a long breath, as if discussing the situation was exhausting. ‘That woman – Keisha – she was a single mother of five kids. And all of them just little ones. That cocksucker, he really tuned her up bad. Did it right in front of the children . . . But he left her alone after I dealt with him. Left everyone alone. For good.’

Striker waited for Harry to finish. ‘So why all the secrecy?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, why didn’t you just tell us all this back at the morgue? You saw Keisha. Saw what had happened to her.’

Harry looked down the parkade corridor at nothing that was there and didn’t speak for a long moment. ‘I didn’t make the connection,’ he finally said. ‘I didn’t even know it was the toy shop that had blown up. I thought . . . I thought . . .’ His eyes found Striker’s eyes – ‘Oh Jesus, was it really her, Shipwreck?’

‘It looks like it, Harry.’

The lines in the older cop’s face deepened. ‘Her kids—’

‘Are being taken care of by their uncle,’ Felicia said.

Striker flipped through the pages of his notebook. ‘What about Sharise Owens? You know her?’

Harry thought it over. ‘The cousin, right? Yeah, I remember her. She was the one who called us back then. A doctor or something.’

‘That’s her.’

‘So what about her?’

‘There’s only two names in the no-contact conditions ordered against Solomon Bay – Keisha Williams and Sharise Owens. One of them is now dead from the explosion at the toy shop, and the other is missing . . . We have reason to believe Dr Sharise Owens might have been our victim who was tortured in a warehouse this morning, down by the river.’

Harry’s expression was one of disbelief. ‘And you think Solomon was responsible for all this?’

‘He’s the strongest lead we have.’

Felicia added, ‘He knew both women. There’s a restraining order against him. And he’s shown a history of violence. He’s a perfect suspect.’

‘Any ideas where we can find him?’ Striker asked.

Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘I never heard of the guy again. Not once. And we’re talking years here.’

Felicia spoke next. ‘Harry, you’re the only one here who’s ever dealt with Solomon. He was a prick, for sure – we all know that – but was he capable of this level of violence?’

Harry said nothing. He just looked away from them and stared down the drive where a white van had entered the underground parkade. A bunch of the ERT guys – the Emergency Response Team – jumped out and started unloading their gear, most of which was long guns and heavy ceramic vests.

‘Harry?’ Felicia asked again.

The older detective met her stare and his eyes were hard.

‘Anyone is capable of anything,’ he finally said. ‘If they’re pushed hard enough.’

Striker found the comment odd, and he was about to ask Harry to clarify the remark when his cell phone rang. He put the phone to his ear, said, ‘Striker,’ and began crossing the underground in an effort to locate a better signal. When he finally found one, he recognized the caller.

Their weapons expert, Jay Kolt.

‘Where the hell you been?’ Striker asked. ‘Jesus, court ends at four and it’s going on seven-thirty.’

The man sounded drained: ‘Special meeting in Judge Reinhold’s chambers. You don’t wanna know.’

Striker understood that. Special meetings were always dreaded, and Judge Reinhold was a prima donna prick who was hated by every man and woman who had ever worn a blue uniform. He had made life hell for many a member.

‘I know the day you’ve had, Jay, believe me, I do, but lives are at stake here. I need to see you. And I need to see you now.’

Kolt sounded less than pleased. ‘I’m flying out of here in two hours.’

‘Fine. Where are you now?’

‘Triple 2 Main.’

Striker nodded; Triple 2 Main was the address for the District 2 Courthouse. ‘We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Do not leave.’ He hung up the phone and signalled to Felicia that it was time to go.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said to Harry.

They climbed inside the undercover cruiser and wheeled about. As they rounded the first turn of the parkade, Striker glanced in the rear view mirror and stared at Harry. The man was still standing there, completely still, watching them go. He hadn’t so much as budged from the spot.

Felicia caught his stare.

‘I get a weird feeling from that guy,’ she said.

Striker nodded in agreement. ‘He’s holding something back.’