The Guilty (25 page)

Molly looked at him through desperate eyes. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

He didn’t answer, didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Instead, he reached out and grabbed the gel liner of his prosthesis and its outer casing.

It was time to put himself back together again.

Striker and Felicia sat in the parked car with the engine running. With no other option available, they put an All Points Bulletin out for Sleeves, flagging him on every
critical database, be it police, border, or other emergency personnel services. When Felicia was done, she leaned back in the seat.

‘Well, the wait begins.’

‘Wait nothing,’ Striker said. ‘We’re getting ourselves a BirdDog.’

They headed for Cambie Street Headquarters.

BirdDog was the nickname cops used for a variety of manual tracking devices. Unlike the modern GPS devices, which were often built right into the vehicle, the BirdDogs consisted of two parts
– the main unit, which sent out a signal and could be attached anywhere, and the handheld tracker unit, which acted as a receiver.

The cost per unit was high, but what did that matter? Trackers were a necessary part of most investigations. The department needed them. In all, the VPD owned thirty BirdDogs, and the devices
were available for anyone involved in a legitimate file. But there was one important catch – the use of one required a tracking warrant. Otherwise any information gained was inadmissible in
court.

Striker and Felicia didn’t have a warrant, and for Felicia this was an issue. ‘I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to write up a warrant,’ she said as they stepped
through the front doors of Cambie Street Headquarters.

It was the third time she’d brought it up.

Striker frowned. ‘And I’m
just saying
it’s a waste of time. We don’t have enough hard evidence to get one yet. And even if we did, I’m not wasting three
hours writing one up when we can be out here investigating.’

Felicia shook her head. ‘They’re going to fry us in court on this one.’

‘Like a piece of bacon,’ Striker admitted. ‘But I’ll worry about it later.’

Before Felicia could say more, Striker moved on.

When they reached the sixth floor, they walked down the hall in search of Sergeant, David Connors – or Pooch, as he was better known. The man was a surveillance god, and he regularly
taught his techniques not only within the Vancouver Police Department, but at the academy as well.

Striker opened the door to Stolen Auto, and they went inside.

The Stolen Auto section was small – nothing more than a thrown-together row of cubicles in the southeast corner of the building. Piled high in two of the cubicles and spread out against
the walls were numerous types of electronic gadgetry – all bait for Theft From Auto projects.

Sitting on the other side of the cubicles was the man they were looking for, David Connors. His long blond hair was braided back over his head, and the goatee he had been trying to grow for two
years was still missing patches. Together, the braids and goatee made Connors’ head look too small for his body, which was a feat in itself because David Connors had the tiniest build that
Striker had ever seen on a man.

‘Hey, Pooch,’ Striker said.

Connors looked up and frowned. Pooch was the nickname his old patrol squad had given him years ago, since everyone said he looked like Dawg the Bounty Hunter – if Dawg had failed to reach
puberty.

It was a nickname Connors hated.

‘Shipwreck,’ he grumbled. Then he spotted Felicia. ‘Santos.’

Striker grabbed a couple of chairs from a nearby cubicle and slid one over to Felicia. They sat down opposite Connors, and Striker started the conversation.

‘You seem to be in your usual bad mood, I see.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be? It’s my last day here before they transfer me out.’

Striker hadn’t known the man was moving. It was unfortunate news. Connors
loved
Stolen Auto. It was his baby. And he was damn good at it.

‘So where are they sending you?’ Striker asked.

‘Police Standards.’

‘Ouch.’

Both Striker and Felicia made a sour face. Police Standards was just another name for Internal – the place where cops were forced to investigate other cops. It was an assignment no one
wanted.

‘Who’d you piss off to get sent there?’ Felicia asked.

‘Just God.’

Striker grinned. ‘Well, I’ve got some more news to brighten your day – we come seeking favours.’

Connors put down the camera he was fidgeting with and looked up. ‘Well, now there’s a surprise. What do you need?’

‘BirdDog,’ Striker said.

‘Got a warrant?’

‘I need one I can use without the documentation.’

Connors frowned. ‘Oh boy. I dunno, Shipwreck.’ He leaned back in the chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. Made a clucking sound with his tongue, as if he was adding
things up in his head. ‘What is this for?’

Striker thought of Harry and Koda, and said, ‘You don’t want to know.’

Connors looked away, said nothing.

‘I know the rules,’ Striker stressed. ‘But this is really important, Pooch. Otherwise I’d never ask.’

Connors nodded slowly, then sat forward. ‘I got one of the older models left. You can use it – on one condition.’

‘That we don’t drag you into court?’ Felicia said.

‘No. That you never call me Pooch again.’

Striker felt a grin come to his face. ‘How about
pup
?’

‘How about you get no device?’

‘Fine, fine. You win.’

Connors reached under the desk and pulled out the unit. ‘Make sure this gets back to me when you’re done – and don’t you dare try using this as part of any criminal
charge. Last thing I need is some other cop investigating me when I’m in Internal doing the same damn thing.’

Felicia laughed. ‘Think about it, Connors – a breach of the Police Act would actually keep you
out
of Internal.’

Connors looked at her and his face remained hard. ‘Am I smiling, Santos? I’m serious here. Don’t leave me with my ass in the air on this one.’

Striker took the device from him and smiled.

‘Don’t worry, Connors,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep you covered. The last thing any of us want is to see you hanging with your ass in the air.’

Having the BirdDog was only half of the solution. They still needed to locate Harry and Koda, and that wasn’t an easy task. Neither man was answering their phone. They
weren’t back at the station. They had disabled their vehicle’s GPS system. And they were ignoring all radio broadcasts.

After another failed attempt of raising them over the air, Felicia slammed the mike back into its cradle and cussed. ‘We should just call Superintendent Laroche and fry their ass for not
answering us.’

Striker shook his head. ‘All that would do is put Harry and Koda even more on the defensive. Plus I don’t want to attract unwanted attention. Believe me, Laroche is the
last
guy we need to get involved there. There’s got to be a better way.’

‘Better way, schmetter way. What else can we do? Wait outside their house all damn day?’

Thoughts of wasting a half-day setting up on their residences didn’t appeal to Striker. He grabbed the laptop from Felicia, hit the chat icon, and sent out a message to every patrol unit
that was currently logged on:

If anyone sees Detective Harry Eckhart or retired member Chad Koda, call Detective Jacob Striker immediately.

He then listed his cell phone number. It was unorthodox at best, but at this point he was willing to try anything.

‘We’ll see if that brings us any luck.’

They didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes after sending the message, Striker got the call from the 3/10 report car. ‘You looking for Harry Eckhart?’ the man asked.

‘Desperately,’ Striker replied.

‘I just saw him. He’s gassing up at the yards.’

‘How long?’

‘Like thirty seconds ago.’

Striker felt a jolt of excitement. The City Yards – the place where the police cruisers were fixed and gassed up daily – was only a five-minute drive from Cambie Street HQ. Two
minutes, if he drove like a wild man.

Striker thanked the man, hung up, and raced to the yards.

Once there, he spotted them. Harry was sitting in the undercover cruiser, drinking coffee and waiting with a vacant look on his red puffy face. The passenger seat was empty. A half-second later,
the washroom door opened and Koda stepped out, using a paper towel to dab at the stitches running up his nose.

‘There they are,’ Striker said. ‘Play it cool.’

‘You’re talking to the ice queen, dear.’

Striker hit the gas and pulled up to the pump next to Harry’s Crown Vic. He killed the engine and got out. When he grabbed the gas nozzle, he glanced over at Harry and acted like he was
surprised to see the man. ‘Harry? Shit, I’ve been calling you all morning. Why don’t you answer your cell?’

Harry put on a waxy smile. ‘Been a crazy day.’

Striker looked past him at Chad Koda, who had now reached the passenger side of the vehicle. The man looked sick. ‘Shouldn’t he be in protective custody?’

Koda held his head with both hands as if he was trying to hold his skull together, then spat on the ground. When he looked over at Striker, his eyes were glassy and the whites were rimmed with
red. ‘I’m done with hospitals. And police protection.’

He climbed into the vehicle.

Beside him, Harry shrugged and forced a smile. ‘He’s a stubborn ass, what can I say?’

Felicia joined them. ‘Hey, Harry.’ She looked over at Koda. ‘How come he’s with you?’

‘Me and Chad are old friends,’ Harry said. ‘I’m just helping him out.’

Striker acted like it wasn’t a big deal. ‘Protection, no protection, I really don’t care. That’s your choice, Koda. I’m just glad we bumped into you. How’s
the head, by the way?’

Koda looked back at him with no expression. ‘Cloudy.’

‘I bet. How many stitches?’

‘Sixty-three.’

‘
Ouch.’

Striker finished gassing up the car and placed the nozzle back into its cradle. He then walked up to Harry’s Crown Vic and leaned down on the open windowsill.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Me and Feleesh have been doing some investigating here, and we got some stuff we need to run by you two. Some questions that need to be asked.’ He
glanced down at his watch. ‘It’s almost ten-thirty and I need some coffee. Why don’t we hit Four Chefs?’

Koda’s face tightened. ‘I got important stuff to do.’

‘More important than finding out who’s trying to kill you?’

Koda stared back and said nothing.

Striker splayed his hands.

‘Listen, Chad, I know you and I got off on the wrong foot, and I’m sorry about that – I had no idea you were a cop the first time I met you. But someone blew up your house and
killed a woman in the process. We
need
to do this, and we need to do it now. I’ve given you a break up till this point because you’re a former member.’

‘Retired,’ he corrected.

‘Sorry, retired. Point is I can only extend that leniency so far’ – Striker played his wild card – ‘I got Acting Deputy Chief Laroche on my back nonstop and he
wants to get involved in the file. I’m trying to ward him off as best I can, but you know how he can be. He wants to use this as his bid to get back to DC again.’

The mere mention of Acting Deputy Chief Laroche made both Harry and Koda take notice; everyone knew of Laroche’s anal attention to regulations and procedures. It was best for all of them
to avoid his involvement. And Striker knew that.

‘It will just take a few minutes,’ Felicia pressed.

Koda finally relented. ‘Right, right. Okay.’

Striker smiled at them. ‘Four Chefs then.’

‘Four Chefs,’ Harry said.

Striker and Felicia climbed back into their own car and left the yards. They drove around Strathcona Park and headed for Clarke Street. As they went, Felicia looked behind them.

‘They coming?’ Striker asked.

‘They’re having a conversation,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Working on a story, no doubt.’

Striker grinned.

‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I like fiction.’

Four Chefs was a small coffee shop tucked away on a dead-end road beneath the Georgia Street overpass. The woman who owned the business had been serving cops for twenty-five
years. She was friendly, unobtrusive, and most importantly, gave everyone a police discount.

Striker and Felicia took a seat in the far back, away from the windows, and waited. Five minutes later, the front door opened and Harry and Koda walked in. Felicia waved them over and the two
men grabbed coffee before sitting down.

Striker assessed them both.

Koda looked somewhat dazed. It was hard to believe this was the man they had woken up twenty-four hours ago. That man – tanned and rested – had emitted an aura of arrogance and
condescension. This man before them now was a shadow of his former self. He gave off an anxious vibe, and seemed constantly on edge – his eyes darting to every exit of the coffee shop. He
reminded Striker of a nervous prairie dog.

‘So how are you coping?’ Striker asked him.

Koda fought to take his eyes off the exit. ‘Head’s splitting in two.’ He popped a couple more T3s and slurped them back with his coffee. ‘I’m half deaf and I
can’t remember anything about the last two days.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Jack shit.’

Striker nodded. ‘Well, it’s not really all that surprising, is it? You’re just lucky you lived. We’re in the waiting process right now for forensics, but in the meantime,
Felicia and I have been going through some of the files and we’ve found something . . . well,
interesting
.’ He turned to Felicia, saw that she was ready for their little
charade, and said, ‘Show them.’

She blinked. ‘Show them?’

‘Where’s the laptop?’

‘In the car.’

Striker forced a grin. ‘We can’t read it from there.’

Felicia’s cheeks reddened. She gave him a cross look, then stood up from the table and headed for the front door without a word. Striker watched her go, then jabbed a thumb her way and
grinned at Harry and Koda. ‘I hate to see her leave, but I love to watch her go.’