The Guilty (42 page)

Felicia sat down next to them. ‘Is that why Terry was here, Sal? Just to visit you? Or was there another reason?’

Hurst took a few laborious breaths before responding. ‘Old friends . . .
squadmates
.’

Striker nodded. ‘We know that, Sal. But did he come here for any other reason, other than to say hi?’

Hurst just rolled his head lazily back and forth, as if shaking his head no. As he did this, Striker saw the sweat marks on the pillow. ‘Just . . . saying hi,’ Hurst got out.
‘Terry was always . . . a good guy.’

Striker nodded slowly, then cast a glance over at Felicia, who merely shrugged. She took a moment to ask Sal a few questions. But the answers she received were inevitably more of the same, and
she didn’t want to tire the poor man. One thing here was clear. Hurst was ill. Probably dying. And he looked like he had little time left. It seemed that Osaka had been merely paying his
final respects.

Striker stood to leave. ‘It was good to see you, Sal.’

‘Say . . . say hi . . . to Terry.’

Striker nodded and forced a smile.

‘Get some rest, Sal,’ he said.

They took Highway 99 back to the city. The road curved gradually through the flatlands, then dipped down into the City of Richmond. Coming this way, the scenery was less
appealing visually, but it shaved twenty minutes off their commute. Once back in Vancouver, Felicia spotted a Starbucks on Oak.

‘I need a caffeine jolt,’ she said.

Striker didn’t disagree. The thought of a hot cup of Joe was stimulating, and he pulled over. The Starbucks didn’t have a drive-thru, so he parked on the main drag out front. When he
opened his door, Felicia’s cell went off. She looked at the screen and said, ‘I need to take this – my contact with the Explosives Branch.’

Striker nodded and retreated from the car.

Felicia had contacts everywhere. It was one of the best things she brought to the partnership – her ability to liaise and schmooze with the best of them. Her contact at the Safety and
Explosives Branch of the British Columbia Government was a perfect example of this. And they needed that information badly.

Striker went inside the Starbucks.

When he returned five minutes later, Felicia was still on the phone. He put her drink – a vanilla-caramel latte, size Venti – in the cup holder, then passed her one of the egg-white
wraps he had bought. She took it, sniffed it, and made a face. ‘Doesn’t smell like a lemon scone.’

‘Want me to throw some icing sugar on it?
Eat.
You need the protein.’

She just gave him a sideways glance and took a bite.

Five minutes later, when Striker was half done eating his own egg-white wrap, Felicia hung up her cell and turned to face him. ‘Okay, some interesting stuff here. As it turns out, there
was a major recall on PETN the other day – the same explosive your love crush thinks the bombers used to blow up the toy shop and Chad Koda’s place.’

Striker let the ‘love crush’ comment go. ‘Did your contact say why?’

Felicia nodded. ‘I don’t understand all the jargon, but in basic terms, the product was unstable.’

‘We need to get a list of all the places where that batch was sent.’

‘Already requested, they’re working on it now.’ Felicia took a bite of her wrap. ‘And just so we’re clear, next time I prefer lemon scones.’

Striker said nothing. He was too busy thinking about the bombers’ MO. Now it made sense why they’d switched to home-made explosives. It had been an unforeseen roadblock in their plan
– and one they had adapted to with seeming ease.

‘So PETN on the toy shop and Koda’s house, then HME on the two vehicles.’

‘Looks like it.’

Recollections of the bomb that had killed Osaka made the egg in Striker’s stomach feel off. Already, he missed his old friend. And try as he did to treat the bombing like it was just
another case, it was not possible. Not only because Osaka had been his friend, and not only because Osaka had been a cop, but because the man didn’t deserve an end like this. One thing Osaka
had always been was a good man.

He deserved better.

Striker threw the wrapper in the garbage. ‘I still find it strange that Osaka went all the way out there to visit Sal.’

‘He was a good friend. And the man’s not well.’

‘I understand that. But why
now
? In the middle of the investigation? Was there not a better time to do it? I mean, think of the hours he’d been putting in with all these
bombs going off. Plus the kidnapping in District 4. He must have been running on fumes. Then, two days in a row, he gets up early and drives almost an hour into the valley, just to say hi to an old
friend? The timing seems off.’

‘You heard the nurse. Sal’s not doing well. Maybe he wasn’t saying hi, maybe he was saying goodbye.’

‘I get that,’ Striker said. ‘But I talked to the nurse. Sal hasn’t been doing well for
months.
I don’t know . . . to me, the timing doesn’t make
sense. Not when we have a mad bomber running around the city. Visiting Sal could have waited a few days.’

He put the car into gear and pulled into the fast lane.

‘Where to?’ Felicia asked.

Striker sighed. ‘White Rock was a bust. But there’s something going on with Osaka, otherwise he wouldn’t have been involved. We need to obtain all his old files –
especially ones from about ten years ago.’

‘Why? Where was he working ten years ago?’

Striker gave her a dark look. ‘The Police Standards Section.
Internal.
’

The bomber lay back on the heavy steel table. He was thirsty.

And cold.

So
cold.

When Molly wiped him down with more lidocaine, it chilled his overheated skin and stung him at the same time. He flinched when she began removing the packing gauze from the entry wound in his
shoulder; it slithered out of him like a bloodied snake and turned the steel bowl pink.

‘If you’re going to vomit, let me know.’

‘. . . so cold.’

Molly washed the wound with saline, then injected him with another dose of meds – some antihistamines, some plasma and antibiotics – before patching him back up again.

‘You need rest,’ she said.

‘. . . out of time.’

‘Lay still. You’re tearing your wounds open. Lay
still.
’

‘The operation . . . we’re almost done.’

Molly held up the bowl of gauze and pointed to the white pus within the blood. ‘It’s
purulent.
Infection’s setting in fast. Your body needs time. It needs to
rest.’

He refused to look at her.

‘You’re making this personal,’ she said.

He heard that, and he laughed. ‘Personal? It always was personal, Molly. We were kidding ourselves to think it wasn’t.’

‘Maybe so . . . but you’re
enjoying
it.’

‘Feelings and emotion have nothing to do with it. The world is black and white, not grey. You’re either guilty or innocent, right or wrong, alive or dead . . . You used to see that
once, a long time ago.’

The bomber closed his eyes. Despite what he had said, Molly was right, he knew. At least on some level. He
was
enjoying this. More than anything, he wanted to stay active. In the
moment.
Engaged.
Whenever inactivity returned, bringing with it the passivity and the silence, so too did the awful, awful memories.

It was a strange notion – that peace would be hell, and hell would bring peace. But that was the way it was now. The way it had always been.

Ever since that first explosion in Afghanistan.

The one that took his leg off.

He fought to get up from the heavy metal table and stared at the grey cement walls of the command room. Overhead, the red and blue pipes began making noise again, their rumbling call something
between the hiss of snakes and the thunder of a storm.

On the only other table the room offered was the last wooden duck, dressed in a policeman’s uniform.

Number 1.

The most crucial of all.

He reached over and picked it up. Stared at the little white duck. And he smiled weakly.

It was time.

‘Where’s my uniform?’ he said.

When Striker and Felicia made it to Cambie Street Headquarters, it was going on for eleven. They took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked down the hall to the Deputy
Chief’s office.

As Striker turned the corner, he spotted Laroche. The man was on the phone, barking more than talking, and absently brushing his fingers through his thick black hair, trying to keep every strand
in place. In front of him, spread out across the mahogany desk, were several inter-office memos.

Striker read a few of the headings:
Global TV. News 1130. The National.

All media outlets.

Before being demoted from the Deputy Chief position, Laroche had been known as
Deputy Drama Queen
by many of the men. Now some of the street cops called him the
Superintendent
Starlet.
It was probably unfair – one of the man’s responsibilities was, in fact, assisting Media Liaison in dealing with the press. But the fact that Laroche so
revelled
in the spotlight rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.

Striker included.

‘Sir,’ Striker finally said to get the man’s attention.

Laroche looked up. A less-than-pleasant expression spread across his face. There was a certain thinness in his features, the kind brought on by extreme stress, and Striker could see that
Osaka’s death was affecting the man.

Laroche didn’t say hello, didn’t so much as nod. He just finished his phone conversation, then hung up – slammed the receiver so hard, the strands of his perfect hair fell out
of place.

‘Press is all over this goddam thing,’ he said.

Striker was not surprised. ‘Of course they are. We got bombs going off all around the city. Cops have been targeted. Civilians too. And we still don’t know who the bombers
are.’

Laroche’s face tightened. ‘As always, Striker, thank you so much for the wonderful goddam news. Jesus Christ, are you any closer to solving this thing?’

Striker moved out of the doorway into the office. He grabbed a chair for him and Felicia, then sat down and told the Acting Deputy Chief more of what they knew. ‘This might all come back
to a police-involved shooting – one that took place ten years ago, involving a Satan’s Prowler member and an integrated ERT squad.’

Laroche’s dark eyes took on a distant look. ‘Ten years . . . you’re talking about Carlos Chipotle.’

Striker was surprised Laroche even knew of the man. ‘We are.’

‘Chipotle was a psychopath and a cokehead.’ Laroche slumped back in his chair with a bewildered look on his face. ‘What makes you believe this might be related?’

‘It’s one of the few links that exist between all the parties involved. We’re still in the middle of the investigation. We’ll let you know what we uncover.’

Laroche’s face remained slack for a long moment, then his eyes turned suspicious as he realized they were here for a particular reason. ‘What do you need of me?’

Felicia spoke first. ‘Clearance.’

Striker clarified: ‘We need authorization to read Osaka’s files – the older ones from when he was working in the Police Standards Section. Osaka was working there at the time
of the Chipotle shooting. Those files are essential to this case.’

‘Which files do you need?’

‘All of them.’

‘
All?’
Laroche said nothing for a moment, then he nodded his head in submission. ‘PSS files are classified. So I need not remind you that whatever permissions
you’re given, the information in those files will be for your eyes alone.’

Striker nodded. ‘Understood.’

Felicia said the same.

Laroche got on the computer and began typing. A minute or two later, he was obviously done, because he sat back and shook his head like he was expecting something bad to happen. He looked up at
Striker, and his pale face was tight and grave-looking. ‘Why do I have a feeling you’re about to single-handedly sewer my career for the second time, Striker?’

Striker just smiled.

‘What can I say, sir? Misery loves company.’

The Police Standards Section, once located in the same building as Cambie Street Headquarters, had recently been moved outside the walls of the department in order to offer the
appearance of impartiality. In truth, it made no difference. The investigations were still done primarily by Vancouver Police Department sergeants, with the help of their assistants.

And that was the way it had to be.

Lately, a select portion of special interest groups had been fighting the system, trying to replace the police sergeants with civilian investigators who would then take charge of the
investigations.

Striker couldn’t see it happening. Not with all the requirements of the courts and the union and the ability to scour through secret police files. A purely civilian investigation team
seemed nothing more than a self-serving, special-interest pipe dream . . . but there was little doubt that
some
changes would be coming.

It was inevitable.

They parked out front. To most onlookers, the building looked like any other business. No department insignias decorated the tinted glass doors, no signs or inscriptions guided the way. The
building was small, plain, and newly built.

A modern facility for a modern force.

Striker and Felicia went inside and found their way to the records room, where they began searching through the files. By the time they were done, almost a half-hour later, they had removed and
photocopied twenty-three investigations, several of which were linked to other departmental files.

Felicia looked at the pile. ‘This is a ton of work to go through. Osaka must have been single-handedly working a dozen files back then.’

‘He was a busy man. We’ll start with the most relevant files and go backwards from there.’