The Guilty (14 page)

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.

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:

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.’

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.

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.