The Guilty (15 page)

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.’

Still wearing the grey workman’s suit and a pair of white latex-free surgical gloves, the bomber stood in the kitchen area of Chad Koda’s house and finished taping
the entire bay window with thick transparent duct tape. It was a necessary step if he was going to remove the pane and take his place in the preplanned observation point. Now all he had to do was
break the outer edges and knock the entire square out onto the rear deck. But before he could begin the process, Molly’s tight voice flooded the radio waves once more:

‘Target approaching from the south. One block out.’

He closed his eyes.
One block?
He pressed the plunger. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

‘Follow radio command.’

He sighed. ‘Copy. One block out.’

‘Exit,’ came the reply.

The bomber said nothing. He just stood there going over things in his head. This was too soon. He wasn’t ready yet. And still Molly persisted:

‘You need to exit.
Now.
’

He said nothing.

‘Now!’

He turned down the volume. Grabbed the crowbar. Began smashing out the glass edges of the pane. When he was near completion and the entire window started to tilt and buckle outwards, he gave it
one solid push and the whole structure fell on the deck with a loud, hard, flat sound.

Breathing heavier now – as much from anticipation as exertion – he took the crowbar and raked it all around the windowsill, ridding the frame of any remaining glass shards. It was
critical. Even one of those shards could kill him if directed the right way from the bomb’s percussive force; each one was like a glass arrowhead.

Experience had taught him well.

Sweating, shivering, he stopped. And then he smiled.

Done.

It was
done.

He turned around and took one final look at the setup before him. The doctor was strapped to the chair, in just the right viewing angle from the front entranceway; the ducks were perfectly
positioned on the kitchen island beside her; and, if he moved out to the back patio, he’d be able to discreetly watch the moment unfold from his observation point, then escape in the utility
van.

Everything was set.

Almost.

As a final step, he removed a
second
remote – the one intended for the police to find – from his workman’s suit and placed it in the doctor’s lap.

Molly’s voice came across the radio once more – a barely audible yell:

‘You must exit the building! Now, now,
NOW
!’

From the front alcove, he heard the excited sound of Koda’s dog barking. It was a young, spritely golden retriever. Oddly, this was the one part of the task that bothered him. He
didn’t want the animal to get hurt. He never liked it when animals got hurt.

Koda’s voice penetrated the front door. ‘Down, Jake,
down
!’

The dog scratched at the wood and barked again; keys jingled.

Out of time.

He grabbed his toolbox, the crowbar, and the remote activator, and quickly made his way across the hard stone tiles of the kitchen floor. He opened the back door and stepped outside. As he
closed the kitchen door, he heard the rattle of the front door as it opened and banged into the wall behind it. Then, the scuffling sound of claws on wood.

The dog was coming.

He hurried across the yard until he reached the laneway where the utility van was parked. He obtained his position directly beside the telephone pole, then waited and watched for the moment to
come.

It happened quickly.

In one magical moment, the look on Chad Koda’s face turned from relaxed weariness to shocked disbelief. He came to a full stop halfway between the foyer and kitchen, stared at the woman
tied to the chair, and then dropped all his mail.

To the bomber, the moment was all-encompassing. No happiness filled him, just a deep sense of satisfaction out of the knowledge that they would be one step closer to the completion of this
horrible job.

He gently thumbed the activator and remotely armed the bomb. When Koda hurried forward and removed the duct tape from the doctor’s mouth, she began screaming something – fast,
garbled words. And Koda’s head snapped from the woman in the chair to the two wooden ducks sitting on the kitchen island.

He knew.

He damn well fuckin’
knew.

The bomber wasted no time. He burst forth from his place of cover and raced down onto the back deck, until he was less than thirty feet from the open area where the window had been removed.
Until he was staring inside the room at Koda and the woman and the ducks.

Once there, he breathed in deeply.

Closed his eyes.

And hit the switch.

The fusing system arced. And in one giant blast of light and smoke and swirling debris, Chad Koda, the doctor and the ducks were consumed by the explosion, and the bomber felt himself flailing
backwards . . . backwards . . . backwards in the percussive blast of the bomb.

It was
bliss.

Striker and Felicia reached the District 2 Courthouse, located at Triple 2 Main Street. All proceedings had long since ended and the building was now empty, save for the odd
sheriff left wandering the halls and the night-time security guards, most of whom were killing time by reading books and chugging coffee.

Striker and Felicia entered the foyer. Lying down on one of the benches was Jay Kolt. On the ground next to him was a brown leather briefcase and, on top of it, a folded trench coat. Kolt saw
them coming, let out a groan, and sat up, adjusting his glasses as they approached.