The Guilty (26 page)

Harry looked at Striker. ‘Rumour is you’ve already been there. That true?’

‘I’ve heard the same rumour ’bout you and Koda.’

‘Funny guy,’ Harry said.

As the sunlight flooded through the windows, it lit up Koda’s face and made him squint against the brightness. The light highlighted his sickened condition. The golden-copper tone of his
skin was still there, but it looked almost spray-painted on now, with a sicker gauntness lurking beneath. He pounded back two more T3s.

‘Those ain’t Tic-Tacs, man,’ Striker said. ‘You’d better slow down a little.’ When Koda said nothing, Striker forced a small chuckle and continued the
conversation. ‘Like I was saying, Chad, yesterday you and I got off on the wrong foot. But I got to admit, your Kardashian joke was a good one – I’ll be stealing that from
you.’

Koda grinned for the first time. ‘It was a good one,’ he said.

‘Chris Rock level.’

Koda grinned, almost smugly.

Striker took another long sip of his coffee to give himself a moment to think. One moment Koda could remember nothing of the previous few days, the next he recalled the joke he had made to them
in the alcove of his home.

Striker pulled out his notebook and went over things.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Since my partner seems to be taking a sabbatical, we might as well get started without her . . . This whole case is really strange; anyone can see that.
Starts off with a victim down by the river – a woman who we now know was your ex-wife Sharise Owens.’

‘Common law,’ Koda stressed.

‘Granted, but still your ex. Next thing you know, a bomb goes off in your place and not only are you almost killed by the blast, but Owens is actually there with you. She dies in the
process.’ He looked directly into Koda’s eyes. ‘Hell, if I didn’t know better, given the bad history you two share, I would have guessed it to be a
murder-suicide.’

Koda blinked a couple of times, as if he had only now considered the optics of the situation. ‘I remember a
little bit
,’ he finally said.

Striker smiled. ‘Do tell.’

‘I came home and Sharise was already there. In my kitchen. Tied to a fuckin’ chair. I started walking towards her and . . . and then . . . well, nothing else is there. It’s all
just one big
blank
.’

‘Concussion,’ Striker said. ‘Maybe it will come back to you later. But let’s forget about the actual explosion for now. Do you have any idea why someone would want to
blow up your house in the first place?’

Koda’s expression went from one of weariness to that of tension. He wiped away some of the perspiration covering his brow. Cleared his throat. Drank some more coffee and then some water.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and sounded faraway.

‘I’ve been over that a million times today. And the answer is
not a clue.
I’ve had some pretty big real estate deals with some Hong Kong people over the last few
years, and a couple of bad law suits as well. But nothing that should warrant
this
.’

‘Any of these business associates ever threaten you?’

Koda laughed. ‘The angry ones? All of them.’

‘With physical violence?’

Koda just shrugged. ‘Indirect shit.’

Striker wrote this information down in his notebook. ‘Forward me the names of the people in these law suits. I’ll need them.’ He flipped through the book. ‘What about
Owens? Could this be somehow related more to her than to you?’

Koda’s eyes took on a distant look. ‘I hadn’t spoken to Sharise in . . . God . . .
years.
Our relationship didn’t exactly end well.’

‘So I take it. You know Keisha Williams, right? The cousin of your ex? She was also blown up. About eight hours earlier in her toy shop on Granville Island. You see any connections
there?’

Koda’s face paled even more, turned less tan and more grey. He rubbed his finger down his nose, along the stitches, and swallowed hard. ‘I knew her, yeah, of course. But I
don’t know why she would be targeted for anything. I mean, she’s a mother. A family person. A
good woman.
She’s been nothing but a toymaker the last ten years; why would
anyone want to hurt her?’

Striker looked up from the notebook. ‘For the last
ten
years?’

Koda bit his lip. ‘Or however long. Figure of speech.’

Striker just nodded. ‘This might sound a bit odd to you, but on the note of toymakers, did Keisha Williams ever give you any dolls?’

‘Dolls?’

‘Yes, dolls. Toys. Like a miniature policeman.’

‘No.’

‘Would it have any significance to you if we found one at the crime scene?’

Koda’s face reddened. He looked confused and worried. ‘I don’t . . . think so.’

‘Don’t
think
so?’

‘No. It wouldn’t.’

‘Well, let me know if something comes to mind.’

Koda said he would and Striker asked a few more questions.

During the entire conversation, Harry sat there quietly, drinking his coffee and watching the two men. For the first time, he spoke up. ‘Maybe we should get going,’ he said.
‘You’re not looking too well, Chad.’

‘We’re almost done here anyway,’ Striker said. He kept his eyes on Koda, refused to look away. ‘What about Mike Rothschild? You knew him from your earlier days with the
department, right? You two share any common enemies?’

‘
Rothschild?’
Koda asked. The name obviously shocked him.

Harry cleared his throat. For the most part during the conversation, his expression had remained one of calmness and patience, but over the last few questions, that serenity appeared to have
escaped him. His eyes narrowed, and his already-crimson cheeks turned a darker shade of red. ‘What does Rothschild have to do with any of this?’

‘The bomber went for him today. Fortunately, he wasn’t successful.’

‘Rothschild?’ Harry asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

His eyes glossed over and a look of disbelief filled his face. He sat back stunned and speechless. Koda, meanwhile, pushed back from the table. He looked blankly around the room. Shielded his
eyes from the bright light pouring in through the windows.

‘I don’t feel so good,’ he said. ‘Gonna use . . . gonna use the washroom.’

He stood up. Stepped awkwardly back from the table and stumbled. Righted himself and walked down to the men’s restroom.

Striker watched him go, then looked to Harry. ‘Maybe Koda should be back in the hospital.’

Harry didn’t comment; he just looked at the front door and said, ‘Your partner sure is taking an unusually long time to get a laptop.’

Striker sipped his coffee, forced a smirk. ‘Probably locked herself in the car again.’ When Harry didn’t laugh and instead kept staring at the door, Striker went on the
offensive. ‘So why the game, friend?’

Harry finally looked away from the door and focused on Striker. ‘What
game
?’

‘I had Koda under guard.
My
order. Who are you to release him?’

A look of something between doubt and concern flooded Harry’s features. ‘Look, Shipwreck, it wasn’t like that. It was
his
decision to leave, not mine. I tried to make
him stay there. Under doctor care.’

‘But he refused?’

Harry splayed his hands. ‘Chad is like that. Said he wanted to get the hell out of there. And how was I to legally stop him? I mean, you tell me, is he being charged with anything? Even
detained?’

Striker saw through Harry’s veil. This was a fishing exercise. To see what he and Felicia really knew.

He didn’t bite.

‘Koda’s not being charged with anything, Harry. He’s the
victim,
right? But I still needed to question him in order to find out who the hell is really behind this, and
why it’s happening. I thought that was fairly obvious.’

Harry looked down into his coffee cup.

‘Nothing is obvious,’ he said. ‘Fact is, I’ve been over this a dozen times with him myself, and his brain is hash. Guy has no idea why it happened or who would do it. Not
a clue.’

‘So, basically, you conducted an interview with him yourself. You’ll need to put a police statement into the report then.’

Harry acted as if he had never heard Striker. ‘If I were you, I’d focus my investigation on the forensic details. See what your bomb girl can give you.’

‘I’ll keep it under consideration.’

Harry glanced down at Striker’s open notebook, and Striker closed it. For the first time, Striker saw a flash of suppressed anger in the man’s eyes. He looked back at Striker and his
blue eyes were cold.

The dance was over.

‘You know, Striker, I remember when you just got on this job. You were cocky as hell then too. A real piss kid.’

‘Long time ago, Harry. Life changes. The job changes. Hell, even the people change. Eventually, all dinosaurs go extinct.’

Harry’s face hardened. ‘You saying I’m old now?’

‘I’m saying things change.’

‘Yeah? Well sometimes not for the better.’

Striker eyed the man. ‘We fighting here, Harry?’

‘Course not. We’re on the same team, Striker.
I
always remember that.’

Striker said nothing back. He just sipped his coffee and wondered what the hell was taking Felicia so long. As if reading his mind, she walked in through the front door, shook her head in
frustration, and sat down with the laptop.

‘You run into a shoe sale?’ Harry asked.

Felicia gave him a dry look. ‘That’s some funny stuff, Harry. Don’t quit your day job.’

‘What took you so long?’ he pressed.

She slammed the laptop on the table. ‘These things are shit, okay? Someone’s bent the entire cradle – the pin was jammed and I couldn’t get it to release. If you can do
better, then next time you go get it.’

She’d barely finished speaking when Koda exited the washroom. He walked slowly, gingerly, right up to the table. Placed his hand against the edge. Stabilized himself. ‘These goddam
pills . . . I don’t feel so well.’

Harry looked at Striker. ‘We finished our little masquerade?’

Striker acted as if he hadn’t heard the comment and pulled the laptop across the table. ‘Why don’t you give me the names of these real estate business partners you were talking
about, Chad, and we’ll run them through the system.’

The man’s eyes took on a lost look. Scared. Confused. Tired.

‘He needs rest,’ Harry said.

Striker nodded slowly, then muttered ‘fine’ and closed the laptop. ‘Go get some rest then, Chad.’ He handed the man his business card. ‘Email me the names of your
Hong Kong associates and these law suits, and I’ll check it out. And call me if anything else comes to mind.’

Koda took the card and nodded. Then Harry stood up and the two men left the coffee shop. The door slammed hard behind them.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Well? You get the tracker installed?’

She smiled. ‘We’re in business.’

He let out a relieved breath. ‘Thank God. You took so long, Harry started asking questions. You had me worried there.’

She held up her palms. They were clean. ‘Had to get the grime off my hands first; otherwise they’d know.’ She opened the flap of her coat, pulled out the handheld GPS tracker,
then pressed the
On
button. Seconds later, a small map appeared across the LED display and a car icon blipped. The icon was already heading south on Glen Drive.

Calculated speed: 100 kilometres per hour.

‘Holy shit, they’re
flying
,’ Felicia said.

Striker smiled at the sight.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling we’re about to find out what they’re looking for.’

The lung compressor in the corner of the room made a soft
shu-shush
sound as the bomber stood motionlessly at the foot of the bed. Dressed in a pair of ordinary blue
jeans, a flannel shirt, and sporting a pair of large mirrored sunglasses that covered up most of his face, he stared at the man before him.

He’s lost so much weight . . .

The thought pained him. He moved slowly around the bed until he was at the side, and there he delicately traced his fingers down the man’s arm. There was hardly any tissue there now, any
meat. It was bloody awful. They were so thin.
Child
thin. The full-sleeve tattoos looked like deflated balloons.

Shu-shush
, the compressor continued.

He continued tracing his finger up the man’s arm, all the way to his chest. So many bumps of scar tissue mottled the skin. On his arms. His chest. His neck and face and head. This, along
with his own similar tattoos, was all they shared any more – scar tissue. He had it too. All over his body. Scars and scars and scars.

Little physical memories.

He leaned closer to the man. Whispered, ‘I might not be back. Maybe not ever . . . But know this: I’m making things
right.
’

The man on the bed showed no response that he had even heard the words, showed no response that he was even alive; he only breathed through the assistance of the lung compressor, and that
rhythmic
shu-shush
sound continued to break the silence. It filled him with a sorrow so deep that his lungs ached, for he knew full well the outcome of a basilar artery stroke. Of
locked-in syndrome. Every voluntary muscle of a person’s body failed, and yet the patient remained awake and aware. It was a living hell.

There were no delusions here.

None at all.

But there is always hope
, Molly would say.

You can never give up,
Molly would say.

We just need to have faith
, she would say.

But Molly had not come with him. Like she never came. And there was no loving God up there, watching over them. Or if He was there, He sure as hell didn’t care.

No, there was no hope. There was no faith.

Not any more.

Hell, maybe there never had been.

Shu-shush.

His black cell rang. He picked up.

‘The GPS is done,’ Molly said. Her voice was tight, strained.

He said nothing back.