The Guilty (9 page)

‘Someone might still be in there,’ she said.

She started for the building; Striker grabbed her by the arm.

‘No,’ he said.

She pulled away from him, but he held her tight. ‘Someone could be trapped in there, Jacob.’

‘There’s no one alive in there now.’

‘You don’t know—’

‘No one inside could survive that explosion, Feleesh . . .
No one
.’ He looked at the flames devouring everything in their path, and at the poisonous smoke flowing out of the
building. To attempt entry was beyond foolhardy – it was suicidal.

There was a reason why firefighters called cops
blue canaries
.

‘We’re not going in there,’ he said.

Felicia pulled her arm away. ‘But what if—’

She’d barely spoken the words when a second explosion rocked the street. A giant spire of flame burst upwards and was followed by a dirty gust of wind that sent the dust and plaster
particles hurtling into their eyes. Striker raised a hand to shield his face. He turned away, closed his eyes, grabbed Felicia.

‘Get back,’ he said. ‘
Back
.’

Together, they retreated.

They moved out of harm’s way to the far side of the road, then began scouring the area to make sure no one else had been injured in the second blast. The building was now completely
engulfed by the fire and shrouded in a thick unfurling smoke that was quickly blocking out the blue sky.

Felicia looked back at the flames with a sick expression on her face. ‘I hope to God no one’s in there,’ she said again.

Striker offered no reply. It was going on noon, he realized. And a Wednesday. That made the odds pretty good – almost a guarantee – that
someone
had been working today. He
expected fatalities.

The only question was how many.

When the first fire truck took a wide turn onto Anderson Street, only to be blocked by the undercover police cruiser, Felicia called out for the keys. Striker threw them to
her, underhand, and she ran back up the road to move their car.

As she went, Striker covered his mouth with his hand and tried to dampen out the burned smell. He began analysing their surroundings to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything.

The small crowd that had gathered across the street moments after the initial blast was now thickening as more and more onlookers came to watch the fire burn. Several times, he’d warned
them about the toxicity of the smoke and the randomness of the explosion, but it made no difference.

They were sheep.

Reporters were already on scene too. A guy with a CBC news shirt. Another from Global. A woman from News 1130. And all of them screaming out questions:

What caused the explosion?

Was it a gas tank?

A bomb?

Do you have any leads?

Striker ignored their questions, but soon the entire crowd was muttering about ‘the bomb’ that had destroyed the toy shop.

Having had enough, Striker grabbed a couple more patrol cops, and the three of them guided the crowd down Anderson Street to a safer gathering point. Then he pointed out an access line.
‘Cordon off the entire street starting
there
. No one in but emergency personnel. And don’t speak to any of the reporters about what’s going on. Leave that to Media
Liaison.’

The two cops nodded, then got to work.

With the scene now preserved as good as they were going to get it, and with fire crews now preparing to tackle the ongoing blaze, Striker began the slow, monotonous process of a grid search. No
doubt, search and canvass crews would be called out – Inspector Osaka was a stickler for following procedure – but an extra pair of eyes never hurt anyone.

Striker started at the farthest end of the sidewalk, just up from the dock, and got to work. Searching was always a painstaking task, and a job that could never be rushed. In ten minutes,
he’d gone less than six metres.

But he found something – two dark squares on the boardwalk.

He crouched down for a closer look and saw that they were actually glass fragments. Their cuboidal shape suggested safety glass, likely blown from one of the nearby car windows, or perhaps that
of the toy shop.

Striker gloved up with fresh latex, picked up the two pieces, and turned them over. As he did this, Felicia came up behind him. ‘Take this,’ she said. ‘We might need it with
all the chaos going on.’

Striker looked back at her, saw that she had brought two portable radios from the car, and nodded. ‘Good thinking.’ He clipped the portable to his belt, then held up the glass for
her to see. ‘Look at this.’

She did. ‘Safety glass. Probably blown from one of the toy shop windows.’

‘Look at the
colour
of the glass. It’s tinted.’

Felicia took a closer look. ‘That’s not tint, it’s
residue
from the smoke.’

Striker nodded. ‘Exactly. The glass surface is oily and dark – which could suggest there was a fire in there
before
the first explosion occurred. Otherwise, the surface
would have been clean.’

He looked back at the shop, then at the road and walkways before continuing.

‘Look at those large flats of drywall that were sent flying onto the road. And this smoke residue on the glass . . . This explosion might have been the result of faulty gas lines.’
He moved back to the front of the building that had once been the Toy Hut. He gestured to one of the large squares of drywall that was still lying flat on the road, then to the area where the gas
lines ran. ‘There’s definitely a natural gas source there. And the way the walls were blown out, it could be indicative of a pooling effect.’ He pointed to another large chunk of
wall in the street. ‘See?’

Felicia shook her head. ‘No, I don’t see. It all looks like rubble to me.’

Striker tried to explain it better. ‘This could be another case of copper thieves. They turn off the valves, steal the lines, then recycle them for cash. Problem is, they don’t
always shut off the valve when they’re done. Then you get a pooling effect of the gas. One spark is all it takes.’ He looked at the gas lines one more time and then shook his head.
‘Either way, gas or bomb, we need to call the City.’

‘Already done. An engineer’s en route.’ Felicia gloved up and took one of the cubes from Striker. She studied it for a moment, then spoke again. ‘You’re assuming,
of course, that this glass was a result of the first explosion and not the second.’

‘It had to be. There was no window left when the second explosion occurred.’

‘No window maybe, but there could have been fragments stuck in the frame. Bits that were blown out when the second explosion went off.’

Striker thought this over; she was right about that, and it frustrated him.

‘We’re gonna need a tech here,’ he said.

Felicia handed Striker back the glass, and he dropped it into a brown paper evidence bag. He marked the front with black felt and was in the process of stuffing it into his pocket when something
caught his eye – a gleam of sun on something metal.

It was coming from across the harbour.

Striker turned westward for a better look. There, on the small section of grass that fronted the Granville Island condos, was a man. He was standing under the foliage of a cluster of maple
trees, a foot or two back from the seawall. His attire – dark orange vest; tool belt; a baseball cap with sunglasses on the rim – suggested he was a utility worker. But something about
him didn’t fit.

‘He’s watching us through binoculars,’ Striker said.

Felicia saw him too. ‘Maybe he’s with the gas company.’

‘Then why doesn’t he come down and help?’ He turned to Felicia. ‘You got your monocular on you?’

‘Always.’

‘Give it.’

She took it from her inner jacket pocket and handed it over.

Striker peered through the mini-telescope. As he focused in on the man across the way, two things became apparent. One, the man was Caucasian. Two, he was bleeding from the left side of his
cheek.

From exploding glass?

Striker tried to zoom in for a better look, but the man suddenly let the binoculars fall to his chest. Slipped the sunglasses down over his eyes. Spun away and began walking.

Striker lowered the monocular.

‘Something’s wrong with that guy,’ he said. ‘I want him checked.
Now.
’

Harry Eckhart heard the check request come over the radio as he drove his unmarked patrol car across the Granville Street Bridge. Part of him wanted to ignore the call. Ignore
everything about this whole rotten day, and just go back home, get into bed, and pull the comforters over his head. Maybe drink some rum. Some vodka. Do whatever it took to get him through another
21 July.

It was always a hard date. Today was the twelfth anniversary of Joshua’s death, and he missed the boy as much now as he ever did. Maybe more.

The hurt never went away.

Normally, on every 21 July, Harry wouldn’t even manage to drag himself from bed. But today Ethan had roused him.

Little Ethan. The boy born six years after Joshua’s death.

Little Ethan. The boy who had brought Harry back to the world of the living.

Little Ethan. The only thing that mattered any more.

The boy was a six-year-old little saviour with foppish blond hair and chocolate-brown eyes. And the boy had not only roused him, but somehow managed to
lighten
him. To bring him back
from that dark and hollow place, just as he had so many times before. Even now, the thought of the little boy brought a weak smile to Harry’s face.

The child was innocence and joy.

Over the radio came several responses to the check request. Bravo 11 said they could do it, but they were coming from the downtown core. And Fox 13 said they could also take the call, but they
were just as far. Even Car 10 – the current Road Boss, Inspector Osaka – offered to perform the check, but he was currently out on foot.

Too far from the scene to be of any use.

Harry cursed under his breath. He was the closest unit, and his conscience wouldn’t let him ignore the plea from another officer. He reached the turn-off onto West 2nd Avenue, glanced
west, and spotted the exact man Homicide Detective Striker had been describing on the radio:

A utility worker.

Orange vest with tool belt.

A baseball cap and sunglasses.

And binocs.

The man was limping a little as he hustled along, his right leg kicking back on him but moving well enough. He was heading south towards West 4th Avenue, cutting into the laneway behind the
Starbucks.

Escaping.

Harry grabbed the mike and pressed the plunger.

‘I’ll take that check,’ he said.

He turned down the off-ramp, ready to perform another one of the millions of checks he’d done in his 25-year career. But within ten feet, the traffic came to an abrupt stop. Swearing,
Harry tried to steer around the gridlock, but there was nowhere to go. And far below the man in the utility vest was running now – fleeing in long, awkward strides.

Harry pressed the plunger on the mike one more time.

‘We got us a runner.’

Striker was already racing around the seawall when he heard Harry come over the radio. The suspect was running. Goddammit, he was running! And with most of Patrol already
dealing with the explosion scene, and only him and Harry in pursuit, the odds were against them.

Striker grabbed his radio and hit the plunger: ‘I’m coming north from the harbour. Can you take him from the south, Harry? Trap him in?’

‘Negative. I’m boxed in on the bridge.’

‘Okay then, just hold your position.’

Striker raced on.

Outlining the harbour, the swerving red-brick path of Island Marina Trail slowly angled southward around a man-made lagoon. It was the centrepiece for the Granville Island condo development.
Striker raced around the path into the complex. He knew the area well from previous Patrol calls. Up ahead, Marina Trail bifurcated, with one path leading west along the inlet to Kitsilano Beach,
and the other cutting south through the condo complex.

When Striker reached the mouth of the divide, he stopped. Glanced west. Saw nothing but dock workers. Glanced south. Saw a winding brick pathway leading between two Japanese plum trees.

In front of them, an elderly woman was walking two Yorkie terriers.

‘Did you see a man run through there?’ Striker asked her.

She glanced back the way she had come. ‘You mean that construction worker? Yes, he went that way.’

Striker bolted on.

The trail cut deeper into the condo development, then ended on West 2nd Avenue. To the west sat an empty stretch of road with no one on it. To the east was a Starbucks coffee shop. And three
storeys above it, on the off-ramp, was Detective Harry Eckhart, yelling and pointing.

‘Through the lane! The
lane
!’

Striker raced in behind the Starbucks. Within a half-block, all visual contact with Harry was cut off by the Honda dealership. Littering the lane were bald tyres, rusted oil drums, and bags of
recyclable oil containers. Trash.

But no sign of their man.

Parked in the lane was a white van, and behind it was a small woman with sandy-brown hair. She had wide sturdy hips, and beneath her blue bandana was a pale and pudgy face. Other than the
bandana, she was dressed in a pair of blue jeans with a beige work shirt. She was carrying a cardboard box.

‘You see a guy run this way?’ Striker asked her.

She put down the box and took a moment to wipe her brow. ‘You mean that tourist?’

‘What tourist?’

‘Guy with the binoculars round his neck.’

‘That’s him.’

She nodded and pointed. ‘He ran that way. Up the alley. He was really motoring though – what he do, steal somethin’?’

‘Stay here,’ Striker said, and raced on.

When he reached the end of the lane, he found himself standing at the mouth of West 4th Avenue. All his hopes faltered. Cars were backed up all along the drive, running from east to west, and
the backlog extended all the way up the off-ramp onto the bridge where Harry was stuck.