The Guilty (10 page)

The explosion had turned the area into a congested nightmare.

Striker looked left, looked right, looked straight ahead. There was no sign of the man. And when he approached many of the drivers who were stuck in the backlog, none of them recalled a man in a
utility uniform.

He was gone.

‘
Goddammit.
’

Striker grabbed the radio from his belt and broadcast the man’s full description and last known direction of travel. Then he headed back. Halfway down the lane, he looked for the woman
he’d seen loading the van, but she was already gone. And there was no surveillance video he could see. Not a single camera adorned the lane.

Frustrated, cursing this entire day, Striker headed back down the walkway. The explosion scene was waiting for him.

As Striker made his way back towards the scene of the explosion, his iPhone went off. He looked down at the display and saw the word ‘JaKo’. Short for Jay Kolt. He
picked up. ‘Jay – thank God. Where the hell you been?’

‘Testifying.’ The man let out a weary sound. ‘I’m down at Georgia right now. Been here all damn day.’

‘You almost done? I need to talk to you about a case we got going on here. A real weird one. Involves electrical torture. A wand of some kind.’

‘Hmm. Not exactly a layman’s tool.’

‘It’s not a layman’s file,’ Striker replied. He took a short cut between the condominiums and started walking back around the seawall. ‘Torture session down by the
river.’

‘Sounds nasty all right.’ Kolt broke from the phone to talk to someone, then returned. ‘Listen, Striker, I’m back on the stand any second. It’s gonna be a full day
here, but I’ll call you once I’m done.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

Striker stuffed the cell back into his jacket pocket and continued walking around the inlet’s bend. When he reached Anderson Street he stepped off the kerb, and almost slipped on the
fragmented remains of one of the toy shop’s wooden toys. Cursing, Striker started to walk past it, then stopped.

Something about it intrigued him.

A second, closer look told him why. The toy appeared to be a doll of some kind, though it was difficult to tell for sure, because the head and feet had been blown right off in the explosion. The
remaining torso – the back half of which was also missing – was covered in grime and garbed in a blue uniform of some type.

A
policeman’s
uniform.

Striker gloved up and picked up the toy. He brushed away some of the grime with his thumb. With the dirt and plastery powder removed, the uniform was much more distinct – as was the
strange number painted amateurishly onto the front chest of the doll.

A large, red number 5.

Striker stared at the number for a long moment, wondering if there was some significance. When nothing came to him, he looked around the road at the array of broken-up toys and figured it was
just another part of the debris. He bagged the broken remains for evidence and headed back to the primary crime scene.

There was still much to do.

It was going on three by the time the primary explosion scene was under control. There was less chaos now, but sprawling examples of the destruction everywhere Striker looked.
The whitish smoke had now all but dissipated into the harbour, and the only hints of the pre-existing fire were the clusters of HAZMAT members still hosing down the rubble.

Striker leaned under a slash of yellow police tape at the south end of the block and looked at the gallons of water going down the drain. With it went so much evidence. Screens should have been
set up.

Someone had really dropped the ball.

The thought angered him, and it took some determination to tear his eyes away from the drains. He found Felicia. Even though she was busy talking to Inspector Osaka – and a tall Native
woman Striker did not recognize – she gave him a nod to let him know she’d seen him. After a few more seconds, she broke from the group and met him halfway.

‘EDT’s in full effect,’ she said wryly.

Striker grinned at the comment: EDT was cop slang for the Evidence-Destroying Team – a nickname police often used for the fire crews.

‘We should have screened the drains before they got here,’ he said.

‘We don’t have any screens. Osaka’s already called for some, but they haven’t arrived yet.’ Felicia reached up and brushed some cherry blossoms and ash out of his
hair. ‘I’m just glad you’re okay. Last thing we need is you getting hurt in some useless chase.’

‘It was far from useless—’

‘That came out wrong.’ Felicia pointed up the road. ‘I ran south on Anderson in case he doubled back. But he was long gone by the time I got there. And then you came over the
radio and killed the search.’

Striker listened to her words and came to the realization that the man must have escaped south or west. ‘He ran for a reason, Feleesh. They always do. The question is
why
? Was he
involved in this explosion? Or was it something else?’

‘It could have been something simple. For all we know, he had a warrant – they always run when they have a warrant.’

‘Maybe so, but I don’t like the coincidence.’

Striker let the issue die, and Felicia filled him in on the scene details. ‘Fire crews have all but gotten the flames out now. Everything’s just smouldering. I called up the gas
company and had the line shut down. Also, the City’s sending down an engineer right now to condemn the place.’

Striker nodded. ‘We’re going to need some help on this one.’

‘We already got it.’ Felicia jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Corporal Summer’s on scene.’

Striker paused. ‘
Corporal?
’

‘You heard right.’

Striker immediately didn’t like it. The Vancouver Police Department didn’t utilize the rank of corporal; instead, they employed different classes of constables, ranging from 5th all
the way up to 1st. After that, the rank jumped straight to sergeant. So if this
Summer
person was a corporal, that meant only one thing:

The brass had brought in the Feds.

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Why’d Osaka bring in the RCMP? What’s wrong with our guy – Christiansen?’

‘He’s back east at a funeral.’

‘What about Truc Tai then?’

‘She’s on annual leave.’

‘Then call her in.’

‘Hey, it’s not like they haven’t tried. She’s not answering her cell.’ Felicia glanced back at the tall Native woman who was walking around the crime scene with
Inspector Osaka by her side. ‘Like it or not, the RCMP is all we got – and she’s it.’

Striker rubbed his hands over his face. It was frustrating. Not that the members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police weren’t of the highest calibre; they were. But they brought with them
a lot of red tape. And a lot of different rules and regulations, most of which led to infighting between the integrated units. Whenever possible, Striker always tried to keep Vancouver files
in-house.

It prevented a lot of unnecessary headaches.

As if on cue, Corporal Summer began barking orders to her searchers: ‘Gear up, people – masks and gloves, everyone. We need evidence of
components.
Anything you can find
related to a fusing system: batteries, speaker wire, steel brackets. Nothing is trivial. And someone get some screens over those drains – we’re losing trace evidence!’

Screens on the drains?

It was music to Striker’s ears.

He watched the woman work for a moment, and he had to admit that something about her commanded presence. She was tall – a head taller than Felicia – and lean yet muscular. Athletic.
She was also quite pretty. She looked no more than thirty-four – which would be ridiculously young for a federal bomb investigator, so he assumed she was older.

Her thick straight hair fell to her shoulders and was dyed a soft honey-blonde that contrasted with her darker skin tone. All in all, her looks were entirely civilian, yet her middle-of-the-road
business suit screamed cop.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Well, I’ll say this – she takes command well.’

Felicia rolled her eyes. ‘She’d better be able to take command. She’s a
corporal,
after all – she’s told me that three times.’

Striker smiled. ‘Corporal. The dreaded C-word.’

As if sensing that their conversation was about her, Corporal Summer stopped walking around the crime scene and glanced in their direction. Upon seeing Striker, she beelined towards him. When
she was near enough, she extended her hand and offered him a wide smile.

‘Are you Detective
Striker
?’ she asked.

He took her hand, a bit wary. ‘Yes . . .’

‘The same Detective Striker who dealt with the St James massacre?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, yeah, well, that was a while ago.’

Her already wide smile got even wider. ‘Oh my God, it’s such an
honour
to meet you, Detective. Really. I’ve read all about you and the active shooters you took down at
St Patrick’s High School. That was such a . . . such an
extraordinary
case.’

The memories of that time were bad, and Striker tried to make light of it. He forced a laugh. ‘Well, I’m an extraordinary detective.’

Corporal Summer laughed wholeheartedly.

Felicia, meanwhile, just crossed her arms. ‘I seem to recall being beside you during the St James attack.’

Before Striker could respond, Corporal Summer brushed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and continued speaking to him. ‘You know, I would
love
to buy you a drink sometime and
hear all about it – strictly in a professional manner, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Striker replied. ‘Corporal . . .’

‘Summer,’ she offered. ‘But you can call me Kami. We might as well be on friendly terms since we’ll be working together for a while.’

‘Tammy?’

She laughed. ‘
Kami
– with a K.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m Striker – with an S.’

Felicia rolled her eyes. ‘And I’m confused – with a C. Shouldn’t we be investigating
this
case?’

Striker gave her a surprised look, then nodded. ‘Of course, of course.’ He looked at Corporal Summer and changed the direction of the conversation. ‘So what exactly is your
designation here?’

‘I’m a Certified Fire and Explosion Investigator. I’m also a member of the IABTI.’

‘Which is?’ Felicia asked against her better judgement.

‘The International Association of Bomb Technicians and Investigators. I trained down in Huntsville, Alabama, at the Hazardous Devices School. It was quite the course, really. You should
try it sometime.’

Striker gestured to the front of the shop. ‘So, with your training and experience, what would you say this is – a bomb, or an accidental explosion?’

Corporal Summer adjusted the badge clipped to her belt and studied the scene. ‘Well, any determination at this point of the investigation would be merely
preliminary,
of course.
But I will say this – I have mixed feelings. Could have been a natural gas explosion, the way the front wall was blown forward like that.’

Striker agreed. ‘And I couldn’t make out a definable epicentre.’

A look of surprise covered Corporal Summer’s face. ‘Well, well – someone’s been doing their homework.’

‘I like to dabble.’

Felicia gave him an annoyed look, one that Striker pretended not to see. He was about to suggest deploying a bomb dog when one of the firemen hosing down the smouldering rubble let out a
startled cry. The man raised his hand in the air, alerting everyone of a casualty find, and the moment made Striker’s heart drop.

‘What have you got?’ he called out.

The fireman said nothing for a short moment, then his voice took on a nervous tone.

‘Looks like a woman,’ he finally said. ‘I just can’t tell for sure.’

The bomber gripped the walkie-talkie tightly as he struggled to navigate through the tunnels. It wasn’t easy; everything kept moving around on him and distorting –
like the images in a funhouse mirror. The percussive blast had hit him good. Bits of plaster debris. Glass too.

Molly was right – he had been too close.

All in all, it had shaken his foundations, but that was okay because it had jarred his mind right again. To a place where everything almost lined up. Following the blast, he’d felt like he
was floating on clouds. Or filled with a fever and lifting above it all. The memories . . . the memories slammed into place:

The timeline was wrong, he knew. Still in shambles. Out of place.

But it was better than before.

Despite the external chaos of the world around him, an inner calmness found him. A serenity. Because the jigsaw of his years was slowly unscrambling. And he hadn’t felt this good since . .
. since . . .

Well,
sometime.

He placed one hand against the cold wet concrete of the tunnel wall and took a moment to ward off the dizziness that was slowly submerging him. At his side, the radio crackled:

‘All clear. Proceed.’

‘. . . copy, all . . . all clear . . . Proceeding.’

When he reached the end of the tunnel, he used the ladder to climb out. It took all his strength. Once at street level, he slid into the back of the utility van, and Molly took care of the rest.
He heard her climb into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and the vehicle got moving.

For a long time there was only silence. After many kilometres, Molly spoke. ‘You were too close.’ She turned around to look at him and let out a gasp. ‘God in Heaven –
your face. You’re going to need stitches.’