The Guilty (21 page)

‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked.

Striker tussled his hair. ‘Police Parade.’ When Cody just looked at him through sleepy eyes, Striker told him, ‘It’s still awfully early, my little man.’

‘And the adults are talking,’ Rothschild said.

‘About what?’ the boy asked.

‘You two need to go back to bed, son.’

‘But Dad—’

‘No buts from either one of you.’

Rothschild took both children by the hand and guided them back to the stairwell, where the second member of Echo15 – a short, plump policewoman – was standing. Once the children were
being ushered down the stairs, Shana glanced back at Striker and waved.

‘Goodnight, Uncle Jacob.’

‘Pleasant dreams,’ he whispered.

Then they were gone – in presence but not in mind. The image of the little girl remained in Striker’s head. Shana was so much like her mother, in personality and appearance. And
Striker wondered how hard that was on Rothschild. When Striker’s own wife, Amanda, had died several years earlier, he had seen her every day in his own daughter – every time Courtney
smiled, or laughed, and even when she cried.

It had been emotionally exhausting.

It was something he loved and hated all at once, a reflection that constantly filled him with life and yet killed him at the same time. He wondered at what point he had finally got over that.
Time seemed a blur.

When Rothschild returned, Striker threw back the rest of his coffee.

‘I gotta go,’ he said.

‘What – where?’

‘Koda is the hub in all this. I need to talk to the man.’

‘I thought you said he was unconscious.’

‘He is.’ Striker dropped his cup in the sink and headed for the door. ‘Sleeping Beauty’s about to get a wake-up call.’

Striker drove to the police fleet lot.

He grabbed an undercover cruiser – one of the new Ford Fusions with the reinforced bumper – and made sure the laptop was working and fully charged. He then checked to be sure the
trunk was filled with paper evidence bags and latex gloves. Satisfied, he picked up Felicia from the front steps of Cambie Street Headquarters.

‘You should have called me,’ she said as she climbed in.

‘There wasn’t time.’

‘For a phone call?’

‘Hey, I wouldn’t have had to call you at all if you’d just stayed the night like I asked.’

Felicia gave him a cool glance. ‘Are you really going to use that against me?’

He sighed. ‘Look, I’m tired and it’s already been a hell of a morning. Nothing but bad news, bad news, and more bad news.’

‘Well here’s some good. While I was waiting for you, I did some more searching, and guess who I located? Solomon Bay.’

Striker felt a smile return to his lips. ‘Where?’

‘Oakville Hospital, Toronto.’

‘Toronto?’

‘He’s sick, Jacob.’

‘How sick?’

‘Sick enough that he’s no longer considered a suspect in this file. He’s got some strange degenerative disease. An immune disorder. He’s been bedridden for over three
years now, which is why we couldn’t locate any more history on the guy.’

‘This all documented?’

Felicia nodded. ‘He’s not our guy.’

Striker said nothing at first, he just let the information sink in. Ruling Solomon out was necessary, but it left him with an empty feeling. Like someone had stolen something from him.

One more lead destroyed.

He hit the gas and headed for St Paul’s Hospital so that they could speak to Chad Koda. Along the way, he gave Felicia a rundown on all that had happened this morning. By the time they
arrived some ten minutes later, she was as befuddled as he was about the file.

They headed inside the hospital.

Admitting was unusually calm, even for a Thursday morning. No patients lined up at the front desk. No paramedics or cops gathered in the lobby. No drunks or mental health apprehensions screamed
in the waiting area.

Sitting behind the counter was the same girl who had helped them yesterday. When she saw Striker, a nervous look flittered in her eyes, as if she was thinking
Oh God, what now?

Striker and Felicia passed her by. They took the elevator to the third floor, where the Critical Care Unit was located. As always, the doors were electronically locked. A small round nurse of
black ancestry scanned them inside.

‘Dis way,’ she said softly.

Striker followed her down to Koda’s room.

Standing on duty outside the door was a Caucasian cop. Big, bald, and fat with lots of padded muscle bulk. A long vertical scar made his already-hard face appear even more fierce, and Striker
was glad they had posted this guy at the door. He looked like a mixture of an Ultimate Fighter and a Hollywood soldier.

The cop craned his neck at the sight of them and demanded to see their badges. After a quick show of credentials, they went inside.

The recovery room was private, holding only one bed and a chair. Everywhere Striker looked, there were degrees of white – from the faded ivory bed sheets to the cream-coloured curtains to
the sterile eggshell of the walls. The only object that held any true colour was the quilt that ran across the lower half of the bed. It was pale blue.

Like Cody’s security blankie.

Felicia wrinkled her nose. ‘It always smells like bleach in here.’

Striker nodded. ‘Cologne of the sick.’

He approached the bed. Lying on his back was Chad Koda. The man’s eyes were closed and didn’t look like they were moving beneath the lids. A line of stitches ran up the bridge of the
man’s nose and continued right up his forehead well into his shaved hairline.

It looked like a purple-red zipper.

Striker moved out of the man’s earshot, pointed at the scar, and whispered to Felicia. ‘Still think he was trying to stage an attack on himself?’ When Felicia said nothing, he
added, ‘An inch more to the right or left, and the metal would have taken his eye out.’

Felicia also kept her voice low. ‘If it was a murder-suicide, he wouldn’t have cared. Besides, it was just a
theory
, Jacob. Something to consider and rule out.’

‘Well consider it ruled out. This bomber’s started a countdown. We don’t have time to entertain other theories.’

Felicia shot him a look of daggers, and Striker turned away. He was being a dick, he knew, and not because of the case but because Felicia hadn’t stayed the night. It was unfair. He got
that. But for some reason, he couldn’t let it go.

He assessed the man. On Koda’s face, surrounding the line of stitches, was a mottling of abrasions that were already turned a bruised-banana colour at the edges. Bruises also marred his
right cheek and right chin. Yet the other side of him was completely untouched.

‘Two-Face,’ Felicia said dryly.

‘In more ways than one.’

Striker stepped right up to the bed, until his hip touched the tubular steel railing. Lines were hooked from Koda’s left arm and chest; they ran to a trio of machines that sat bedside. One
machine was designed to regulate pulse and blood pressure; one was for fluids; and one was for something Striker didn’t know.

‘Koda,’ he said softly, then a little louder. ‘
Koda
.’

There was no response. Not even a blip on the machine.

Felicia frowned. ‘He’s really out of it.’

‘Koda,’ Striker said again, and gently squeezed his forearm.

‘Please, you do not touch this man.’ The voice came from the doorway, and was heavily accented. Eastern European maybe.

Striker craned his neck and spotted a doctor he did not recognize from any of his previous visits. The man was tall with a thick rug of silver hair and eyes so dark they appeared black.

‘I am Dr Varga,’ the man offered.

‘Detectives Striker and Santos.’ Striker flashed him the badge. ‘Vancouver Police. We need to speak to this man.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘That will not be possible. We sedate this man very much last night. He will not communicate for several hours.’

‘Can’t you wake him? Just for a few minutes? Time is crucial here.’

Dr Varga shook his head. ‘The body of this man does require much rest.’

‘I understand that,’ Striker said. ‘And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t completely necessary. But right now, we have a bomber out there in the city, and this man might
be our only key to stopping him.’

The doctor’s expression turned from defiance to concern. ‘This is an unfortunate thing, I know. But to administer further medications would be negligent. There is too much
risk.’

Felicia humphed. ‘Tell that to the next victim who gets blown up.’

When Dr Varga offered no response, but merely stood there, looking uncomfortable, Striker pulled out one of his business cards and shoved it in the man’s hand. ‘Call me the second he
wakes up, Doctor.’

‘I will do this. Anything else I can do?’

Striker gave the man a hard, unforgiving look. ‘Yes. Pray to God no one else is dead by then.’

The bomber stood between the two houses on the east side of Trafalgar Street, under the shadows of the roof overhang, and struggled with the tremors inside of him. Deep
pulsations racked his head. Bounced around in his skull. It had been this way ever since the explosion at Chad Koda’s house – an invisible tide lapping the shores of his mind.

He killed the thought and got back to recon. To planning. He focused on Rothschild’s new home. The place had been easy to find – just one single tail of Detective Striker’s
Saab along the winding, empty roadways of Dunbar.

Right now, security there was omnipresent. A minimum of three cops were on scene at all times – one out front, one in the rear, and one on the upper floor somewhere. He suspected there was
one more downstairs, but had not yet confirmed that suspicion. And the more he tried to sort out the information, the more his brain throbbed. A constant, steady thud-thud-thud.

It was maddening, the price he had to pay for sanity.

At his side, the cell phone vibrated. It was the black model – he always carried two.

For personal reasons.

The ringer and LCD display had been deactivated, so as to not attract unwanted attention. But display or no display, he knew the caller. There was only one person who knew this number: Molly.
And he was not happy with her.

He answered.

‘Bombs-R-Us,’ he said dryly.

There was a slight pause. ‘Oh bugger, that’s not funny – what if someone overheard you?’

He made no reply.

‘Do you have a good VP?’ she asked.

‘Vantage Point is good,’ he said. ‘Wait – hold on.’

Across the street, a uniformed cop exited the house and walked down the sidewalk. Seconds later, another police cruiser pulled up. The driver handed the other cop a tray of coffees. Two cups.
Then the first cop returned inside the house, and the cruiser drove away.

Two
cops inside the house, he thought.

Now he knew.

‘Are you still there?’ Molly asked. ‘What’s going on?’

His head was pounding, like there was a bass drum set up behind his eyes. ‘The vantage point is fine,’ he got out. ‘The situation is not. It’s a tactical nightmare . . .
We need to reassess and replan.’

Molly made an unhappy sound. ‘Sounds a bit dodgy. Our timeline’s already way off.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

She hesitated. ‘I beg pardon?’

‘Intel and acquisitions is your job.’

‘What exactly are you implying?’

‘That if you were less worried about
how
I set off the bombs and
how much
explosives I used, you might have realized that Rothschild was moving.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Life’s not fair. All I know is we used less explosives, and now Chad Koda is still alive.’

Molly hung up on him.

A half-minute later, the cell phone vibrated again – not with a phone call but an email message. He opened it up. The header was from: HMPSC – The Hazardous Materials Product Safety
Commission.

He read the email:

The details that followed focused on
distance time-progression
and
linear burn rates.
The news release had been issued by the company’s media relations
unit only seventeen minutes ago. It told him one important thing: their execution had been fine; the materials were faulty.

It was not Molly’s fault.

His cell buzzed again, and he picked up.

‘Well?’ Molly asked.

‘I was wrong.’

‘So now what do we do?’

He said nothing, he just thought everything over. Given the timeline they were on, there were few remaining choices. Obtaining more PETN would take time they didn’t have and require more
risk. Buying other explosives through the black market was even more dangerous. The more he assessed their situation, the more he realized there was no choice in the matter.

‘Pick me up,’ he finally said. ‘It’s time to cook.’

Striker and Felicia stopped on Denman Street at Striker’s favourite coffee shop – an old mom & pop business named Rafello’s. The coffee was always strong
and the sandwiches were good, and the old couple had been kind to Striker since his first days in Patrol. Striker liked to give them the business. They grabbed a couple of breakfast melts, then ate
in the car and went over the bomber’s MO.

‘Whoever he is, the man is smart,’ Striker said. ‘Not only does he have the expertise to work with explosive materials, but he knows assembly as well. Add to this the fact he
can do surveillance, swim the goddam channel, and has knowledge of various torture devices – in particular electrical – and we can narrow down our search. Military is the first thing
that comes to mind.’

‘Or some kind of mercenary,’ Felicia agreed. ‘Possibly a gang hitman or a professional assassin. So much depends on the motive. All that aside, we can’t rule out someone
with a basic explosives training.’

Striker nodded. ‘Like an engineer from a mining company. Or someone in any of the pyrotechnic fields. Even a teacher of explosives would be plausible.’