The Guilty (22 page)

‘
Any
demolitions guy,’ Felicia agreed. ‘I looked up a few things on Google, and you can learn how to perform surveillance. Hell, there’s not only lessons online,
but entire courses you can actually take. And not only on surveillance, but counter-surveillance. And as for the associated electronic gadgetry, well you can order that stuff right on
Amazon.’

‘And the electrical torture?’

‘Same thing, I’m afraid. I’ve never dealt with a picana before, but I looked it up on the net and found directions on how to make one. It’s crazy, I know, but I found
it.’

The information was disheartening, and Striker shook his head absently. ‘So what you’re saying is, the MO might point towards a person with this kind of expertise, but a lot of
people with the willpower and tools could do this on their own.’

‘Unfortunately, yes. It’s all just a click away.’

Striker frowned. ‘Which is why we keep finding ourselves back at square one, waiting on lab results and following the trails and connections of our victims.’ He shook his head and
drank some more coffee. ‘It’s so damn frustrating.’

Felicia agreed. She threw her half-eaten breakfast melt in the garbage and spoke. ‘With Solomon ruled out, Koda’s our best lead.’

‘Well, he’s on hold for now.’

She nodded for a long moment, as if debating something. Finally, she crooked her neck to look at him. ‘What about Harry?’

‘Harry
Eckhart
?’ Striker asked. ‘He’s a cop, Feleesh.’

‘I know that, Jacob. But don’t forget, Koda was also a cop. And like it or not, Harry’s the only other person I can think of who’s got some kind of connection to everyone
involved.’

‘When the first bomb went off, Harry was stuck in a traffic jam on the bridge.’

‘I’m not saying he was the actual bomber, Jacob, but he might know more than he’s telling us. I’ll tell you this:
something’s
up with the man. He’s
been acting downright odd.’

Striker said nothing and thought it over. It was true. Harry did have links to Chad Koda, Keisha Williams, and even Dr Sharise Owens, indirectly. And the man had seemed resistant with the
information about Solomon Bay.

But still, Striker gave the idea little credence; he’d known Harry for years. And as hard-nosed and irascible as the man could be, he was a good cop. Always had been. Through the death of
his son. Through the breakup of his first marriage. Through everything.

Striker liked the man.

As they both sat there, mulling over the facts, a pair of Harley Davidsons roared by. With their mufflers obviously removed, the motorcycles’ loud rumbles shook the street.

Irritated, Striker looked up. The two bikers were members of the Satan’s Prowlers gang – the affiliation made obvious by the weeping-skull patch on their jackets. The smaller of the
two riders craned his neck and met Striker’s stare. He smirked, gave a mock salute, and the bikes drove away.

‘Don’t you need an IQ greater than three to get a licence?’ Felicia asked.

Striker said nothing at first. He just looked at the stereo clock. ‘Odd time for them to be out. Early.’

‘They’re probably still partying from last night.’

Striker said nothing else. The sight reminded him of something else – something their weapons expert, Jay Kolt, had told them:

Some of the high-end gangs use electrical torture, like the Satan’s Prowlers.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Kolt mentioned a biker named Sleeves. Burns was his real name. Or something like that. See what you can find on the man.’

Felicia made an
ahh
sound, then started punching the name into the computer. Two mandatory fields.

Gang Affiliations: Satan’s Prowlers.

Surname: Burns.

After a moment, she smiled. ‘Direct hit. Brice Burns. Alias: Sleeves.’

Striker looked at the screen and whistled. ‘Three pages of files – this guy’s a career criminal.’

‘He’s a dirt-bag, is what he is.’

Striker smirked. Felicia wasn’t one to refrain from speaking her mind.

As she began reading through the list of reports and Intel files, Striker put the car into gear and drove around the corner onto Pacific Avenue. Chad Koda’s house was just a mile away, and
he wanted to visit the scene again, free of all the chaos.

They were still missing something.

He could feel it.

When they arrived, Striker pulled in behind a white utility van that had the Vancouver Police Department crest on the door and a large dent in the rear panel. It was
Ident’s van.

‘Noodles is here.’

Felicia didn’t even look up. ‘Be still, my beating heart.’

‘I need to talk to him about the different scenes. Can you run the bomb call for me before I go on? See if the forensic team’s added anything to the file since we last
checked.’

Felicia said ‘sure’ and brought up the report. It was long, filled with numerous evidence pages, police logs, and scanned-in civilian statements which were now in PDF format. Striker
read the last supplement link which was marked: Canvass.

‘Open that one,’ he said.

Felicia did. The page was divided into three columns – one for the addresses that had been canvassed, one for the names of the witnesses living there, and one for whether or not any
evidence had been obtained. Out of the eight other homes on the block, only three of them had been occupied during the time of the explosion. Three of the residences had ‘(PV)’ beside
their addresses.

PV
:
Possible Video.

Felicia took the initiative. ‘You talk to Noodles. I’ll check out these addresses.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

They exited the car and parted ways.

As Felicia walked northward down the block, Striker headed for the stairs leading up to Koda’s residence. Halfway there, he stopped, turned around, and watched Felicia go.

In her dark women’s suit, with her long black hair draping down to her shoulders, she looked professional and pretty at the same time. As if sensing his gaze, she glanced back and caught
him. A grin parted her lips, and she mouthed the words ‘stop fantasizing’. Then she turned into a nearby lot.

With Felicia disappeared from sight, Striker approached Koda’s residence. The look of the house was deceiving. Aside from the blown-out windows and the string of police tape blocking off
the front yard, nothing indicated that anything was amiss – certainly not that a bomb had gone off, killing one woman and injuring the homeowner.

In the exterior alcove stood a young constable – a tall white guy with his head shaved. He greeted Striker without interest, but did his job and recorded Striker’s badge number for
the continuity purposes required. Once done, Striker went past the man.

Inside the foyer, Striker donned a pair of blue forensic booties to be sure he didn’t track any trace evidence from one location to the next. In the living room, den and kitchen areas,
yellow markers had been set up – cones with numbers on them – and all along the wall and counter surfaces, the black powder traces of the fingerprinting process could be seen. Noodles
was still there, standing in the kitchen with his camera. He took a photo, looked at the camera display, and cursed.

‘Not working?’ Striker asked.

Noodles frowned. ‘Damn thing keeps losing focus – must be one of them female models.’ He let out a dark chuckle.

‘Felicia would have your balls for breakfast if she heard that.’

‘She must be a big eater then.’

Striker ignored the comment and shook his head. He stepped into the kitchen and examined the scene. ‘You run that white powder from the dock yet?’

Noodles lowered the camera. His expression was one of exhaustion, and his thick white eyebrows drooped. ‘Yeah. Turns out it was fairy dust. Got a lead too. First name:
Tinker.
Last name:
Bell
.’

‘I need those results, Noodles.’

The Ident tech splayed his hands. ‘Everyone needs everything. I got
five
crime scenes on the go – the torture room, the dock, the toy shop, the Break and Enter at
Rothschild’s old house, and this explosion here. It’s a forensic fucking nightmare, and my assistant’s at home with the shits.’ He raised the camera and took another picture
before wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Fucking hot as hell this morning.’

Striker looked at the mess all around them – the cones, the fingerprinting powders, the discarded pile of booties in the garbage can. ‘I can’t tell what does more damage
– the bomb, or you guys.’

Noodles grumbled something incoherent, and Striker left to investigate the other rooms.

Due to the high price of downtown real estate, the house had been designed tall and narrow – three storeys, each floor consisting of nine-foot-high ceilings. Striker climbed to the
uppermost floor, which owned nothing but a large bedroom with en suite, a small office, and an outdoor patio area. Outside, red brick was the decor. Inside it was cherry wood and teak.

Even the quickest glance was telling. Koda had amassed a wealth that was well beyond what any cop could dream of. Striker wasn’t sure of the house’s city-assessed value, but there
was little doubt it would be several million.

Six would be his guess.

He searched it all, room by room, and took his time going through the drawers and any papers he found. In the end, the result was the same. There was nothing of evidentiary value to be seized.
And, equally surprisingly, he found nothing that connected Koda to his previous life as a cop. No squad plaques. No framed commendations. No retirement badge. Just . . . nothing.

It was as if the man had wiped his previous life clean.

Disappointed, Striker returned downstairs just in time to see Felicia walk through the front door.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘You get anything?’

She gave him a queer look. ‘Something odd.’

‘What?’

‘I got video of Harry . . . coming by the house here yesterday.’

‘Yeah, we saw him.’

‘Not after the explosion –
before
.’

Striker frowned. ‘You check the tape time? Make sure it matched your watch?’

She gave him a look that said
I’m-not-an-idiot.
‘Yes, it’s correct. Pacific Standard Time. There’s no denying it. Harry came by here not a half-hour before the
bomb went off. It makes me wonder why.’

Striker nodded. ‘It makes me wonder why he never told us – he said he hadn’t talked to Koda in years.’

The questions hung there for a long moment. Then Striker’s cell went off, breaking the silence. He looked down and saw the words ‘St Paul’s Hospital’ on the display
screen. He picked up the call and heard a thick, Eastern European accent:

‘Detective Striker, if you will please.’

‘This is him.’

‘It’s Dr Varga. Mr Koda is awake now.’

Striker felt his fingers tighten on the phone.

‘Do
not
let him go back to sleep. We’re heading right up.’

A young redheaded nurse who looked no more than twenty swiped Striker and Felicia into the Critical Care Unit. The halls were busier than the last time they’d been there,
with pods of nurses and doctors in the middle of their morning rounds. The scene appeared ordinary, routine . . . but something about it felt wrong. When Striker neared the halfway point of the
corridor and spotted the door to room 315, he understood why.

No patrolman stood in the hall.

‘Where’s the guard?’ Felicia asked.

Striker hurried down to the room. Dropped his hand near his pistol. Pushed open the door.

Inside, the room was empty. On the bed, the steel rail guard had been lowered and the comforters were folded back. Next to the bed, the blood pressure and heart rate monitors stood unattached.
The bathroom door was closed. Striker knocked on it. When no one answered, he opened it up and looked inside.

Empty.

He got on his cell and called Dispatch. Sue Rhaemer answered with a ‘What-up, Rockstar?’

‘Save it, Sue. I’m in no mood.’

‘Pissy.’

‘You got no idea. I’m standing here at St Paul’s Hospital and Chad Koda is gone. I need you to raise the guard for me.’

‘Okay, one sec.’ The soft clicks of a keyboard filled the phone, then Sue Rhaemer made a confused sound. ‘Weak. Says here that the unit cleared, like, ten minutes
ago.’

‘Cleared?’

Striker frowned; ten minutes ago was the same time Dr Varga had called to tell them Chad Koda was awake. It made no sense. He was about to get Sue to raise that unit when the door to the
recovery room swung open and the doctor walked inside.

‘I’ll call you back, Sue.’ Striker hung up and turned to the doctor. ‘Where is Chad Koda?’

Dr Varga frowned. ‘Mr Koda is released.’

‘
Released?’
Felicia said. ‘In his condition? The man was half killed.’

The frown on Varga’s face turned into an expression of concern. ‘I tried to make him stay. But the man would not listen to reason.’

Striker stepped into the doctor’s personal space. ‘He’s supposed to be under police guard.’

Dr Varga looked confused. ‘But . . . he
was
under police guard. The officer released him.’

Striker felt his jaw tightening. ‘What officer?
Who
released him?’

Dr Varga looked down at the pad in his hand and searched for the name of the releasing officer. After a long moment, he found it.

‘Detective Harry Eckhart,’ he said.

Striker was seething.

The moment he and Felicia exited the hospital, he whipped out his cell phone and dialled Harry’s number. It rang three times, then went straight to voicemail. He hung up, dialled again,
and got the same response. This time he left a message telling Harry to call him – immediately.

‘This is giving me a headache,’ Felicia said.

‘Nothing like the one Harry’s going to have after I throttle him.’

Striker called Dispatch back and got Sue Rhaemer to raise Harry over the air. She said it was no problem and put him on hold while she did this. Almost five minutes later, the line clicked and
Rhaemer returned.