by Sean Slater
Striker looked at Rothschild. ‘You think this guy could have swum there?’
Rothschild let out a laugh filled with smoke. ‘Mitchell fucking Island? I guess that depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether our suspect is Aquaman.’
‘I know it’s a long ways off . . . but it’s not impossible.’
Rothschild shrugged. ‘Not impossible. But that’s far, man. And the currents are really bad. This guy would have to be one hell of a swimmer. Strong, and in great friggin’ shape.’
Striker said nothing back, he just stared silently across the way. When Inspector Osaka returned from his phone call, Striker got the man’s attention and pointed at the island. ‘Order the bird there, sir. And send in a search team with a dog.’
The inspector gave him an odd look. ‘You honestly think he could have swum all that way? Especially while holding a woman hostage?’
Striker offered no further explanations.
‘Just send the bird.’
Eleven
Garbed in a black tracksuit, the bomber drove down West 52nd Avenue and stopped at Cartier Street under the shadowy overhang of a cherry blossom tree. On the seat next to him were two piles of The Province newspapers, today’s issue and thirty in all – props to explain why he was out so early in case the police pulled him over.
Just delivering papers, Officer.
Sometimes the most simple explanations were the best.
In the back compartment of the van was the woman. She was bound and gagged with duct tape.
She would be no problem.
For what seemed like a long time, the bomber waited, listening to the van idle and savouring the minty taste of the chewing tobacco he had stuffed under his bottom lip. It was Skoal – always Skoal. Wintergreen pouches.
He’d been craving some baccy for the last two hours now. It was because of the job, he knew. The stress always did that to him. Heightened the addiction. Made time slow down on him. It fucked up a lot of things. He preferred chew over fags for one reason – cigarette butts were easily found and made perfect DNA cultures for forensic techs.
Which was unacceptable.
He cracked his fingers, one by one. Edgy, he was getting edgy. He needed to blow something up. Send it sky fucking high. In an effort to maintain control, he closed his eyes and muttered his favourite old rhyme:
Tommy Atkins went to war
and he came back a man no more.
Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.
He died, that man who looked like me.
He finished the rhyme. It was one he recited often. Like always, it stirred up old feelings, ones he could not define or place. That – the lack of recollection – bothered him more than anything.
He spat the baccy out the window. Grabbed another pouch. Inserted it.
Finally, the radio came to life – one soft click of a mike, followed by Molly’s tinny but decisive tone: ‘West 52nd is clear from Cartier Street to Adera Street. Proceed.’
He pressed his own mike: ‘Copy. West 52nd is clear from Cartier Street to Adera Street. Proceeding.’
When the bomber reached the entrance to the command centre – an area wide open for the general public to see, yet a place everyone drove by every day and never so much as looked at – he slowed down.
He pulled onto a side road, just off the thoroughfare, and killed the engine. He had barely stepped out of the van when Molly, ever the silent ghost, was suddenly right there in front of him. Her drab brown hair was pulled back over her head into a short ponytail. Her pudgy face was tense and her fingers clutched the silver pendant around her neck so tightly that the chain dug into her skin.
‘Where’s your uniform?’ she asked.
‘I discarded it.’
‘Discarded it? Where—’
‘Don’t throw a wobbly, all right? I did it safely. Safely.’
He stared into her eyes. Molly was tense. So tense. He could see that, hear that, feel that. It was her way. In past times, he had tried hard to change that part of her. To project a sense of calmness into her being. But it never did any good and he had long since stopped trying.
Nowadays, he just let her be.
He opened the side door of the van. There, lying on her side, hands and legs bound behind her back, blindfolded and gagged, was the woman. Molly made a choking sound at the sight of her. Her face paled noticeably, and she shuddered.
‘This . . . this isn’t a game, love. These are real people.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Do you?’
He said nothing.
‘Did you get the information we needed?’ she asked. ‘Did she talk?’
He nodded slowly. ‘They all talk.’
‘But did you get confirmation?’
‘We were right all along.’
Molly closed her eyes and let out a long breath. She looked ready to cry. ‘Well thank God, because nothing else is going according to plan. Absolutely nothing.’
He touched her arm. ‘We’ll assess. Adjust. Adapt. Like we always do.’
Molly said nothing. Her face looked hard and her thin lips were pressed together tightly.
For a long moment, the bomber studied her gentle face. The tenderness in her eyes. And the memories flooded him – moments that were good and bad and somewhere in between, but all of them jumbled in time. Without uniformity or order. Like marbles rolling around uncontrollably in a porcelain basin.
For a moment, he tried to sort through them. Like he always did. When he failed miserably, yet again, he broke from his thoughts and focused back on Molly. Her small hands trembled, and he found that strange. Over the years, she had been on more missions than him. She had faced death numerous times.
So why so edgy now?
And then, slowly, it dawned on him. He reached up and gently took her hands. Pulled her close. Kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m fine.’
She looked up at him intently. ‘I don’t want the darkness coming back on you.’
‘Sunny days are here again.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I love you, Molly.’
‘I know,’ she replied. ‘I know.’
Twelve
Striker watched Felicia exit the cement plant. The morning light glinted in her brown-black eyes and made her long straight hair appear thick and flaxen. She looked beautiful, and Striker couldn’t help but stare at her for a moment. When she climbed into the passenger seat, he started the car.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Anything on the tattoo?’
‘Nothing I can directly connect to a black female.’ She spoke the words almost begrudgingly. She struggled to secure the laptop back into the mount; the brackets were notoriously fickle. ‘This friggin’ laptop keeps crashing. How the hell are we supposed to do our job when the department can’t even fix their own software?’
Striker felt her tension like a hot breeze.
As the engine warmed up, he filled Felicia in on everything that had happened in her absence: his alerting the border and the hospitals; Noodles now processing the crime scenes; and how the police chopper was sweeping the shores of Mitchell Island. So far, nothing positive had come back – not from Noodles and not from the helicopter.
It was all one big zero.
‘So what do we have?’ Felicia asked.
‘A bracelet and one hell of a strange torture weapon.’
Felicia nodded as she thought back to the scene. ‘What a weird torture device . . . and yet I think I’ve seen something like that before . . .’
Striker grinned. ‘You’re thinking of a curling iron.’
She gave him a hard look.
‘Or maybe a hair straightener,’ he added.
‘Don’t patronize me, Jacob. Not today.’
When his smile only widened, and she realized he was playing with her, Felicia laughed softly. She shook her head and ordered him to go south. ‘Starbucks on Granville – if I’m going to be able to put up with you all day, I’m gonna
need some caffeine and carbs in me. Fast.’
Striker nodded; he felt like some java himself.
Five minutes later, they’d exited the drive-thru with a pair of coffees – a standard black for Striker, and a vanilla latte for Felicia. The brew smelled wonderful, enticing. Yet when Striker raised the paper cup to his lips, his hand trembled. Thoughts of the bullets tearing through the window, back in the steel barn, hit him hard again, and he took in a slow deep breath in an effort to stabilize himself.
Adrenalin, he justified. The jitters.
Hoping Felicia hadn’t noticed, he gulped down some coffee, then dropped the cup into the holder. He handed Felicia the raspberry-lemon scone she had requested and smiled.
‘Happy birthday,’ he said.
She took it. ‘No candles?’
‘I’d need a whole cake for that.’
Felicia gave him a deadpan stare. ‘Are you trying to incur my wrath?’ When Striker didn’t answer, she tore off a chunk, and stuffed it in her mouth. After a few chews, she let his comments go and returned to going over the file.
Striker did the same. He wondered: had they prevented what was to be a gangland execution here? The fact that the victim was a woman made it seem less likely – unless, of course, their witness had been mistaken. Given the girl’s drug-fed mental state, her anxiety, and the dimness of the barn loft, the victim could even have been a man with long hair. To tell now was impossible; they didn’t have enough information, and Striker wasn’t into making assumptions.
‘We need to talk to a weapons expert. And the sooner, the better.’
Felicia agreed.
Only one person came to mind – fellow cop, Jay Kolt. He was the only expert the Vancouver Police Department had on these matters. Kolt spent the bulk of his time teaching Use of Force tactics to cops on training days, and also to recruits at the Justice Institute. And with a name like Kolt, he was damn well born for the part.
Striker telephoned the man on speed-dial. When the call went straight to voicemail, he left a message, asking for a return call ASAP. Then he turned back to Felicia. ‘Weapons expert will have to wait for now.’
Felicia remained undeterred. ‘The bracelet then.’
Striker reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out the brown paper evidence bag. He handed it over to Felicia. She removed the bracelet and studied it for less than a second before her left eyebrow raised in admiration of the piece.
‘This is a Campetti,’ she said.
‘A what?’
‘A Campetti. He’s a well-known designer here in Vancouver.’
‘How do you know that?’
Felicia grinned. ‘Anyone who loves jewellery and lives in Vancouver knows of Campetti. The man’s an artist. He has a shop in the gold building – for those who can afford to go there.’
‘The gold building . . . you mean the Granville high-rise?’
‘That’s the one.’ Felicia used her iPhone app to look up the phone number. She found it, called, then hung up. ‘They don’t open till eight-thirty.’
Striker looked at his watch. It was eight-fifteen now. He put the car into gear and drove north through the rush-hour grind. They headed for District 1, the downtown core.
Destination: Campetti Jewellers.
Thirteen
What would normally have taken fifteen minutes for Striker and Felicia turned into a half-hour commute. The rush-hour jam was thicker than usual and every traffic light was red. When they reached yet another backlog on the Granville Street Bridge, Striker grew frustrated. He pulled out his cell phone and called his voicemail. It was the third time he had done so in two miles.
Felicia gave him a sideways glance. ‘Doesn’t your phone alert you when you get a message?’ When Striker pretended not to hear her and pressed the cell tighter to his ear, she smirked. ‘Oh, I get it.’
‘Get what?’ he asked.
‘You’re worried about Courtney.’
Striker said nothing at first. Courtney, his sixteen-year-old daughter, had left for Ireland with her boyfriend, Tate, over fourteen hours ago now. Striker had driven them to the airport himself, and he couldn’t help thinking of her.
‘She’s fine, Daddy,’ Felicia added. ‘God, you’re such a worrywart.’
Striker had no messages, so he put the phone away. ‘She was supposed to call the moment the plane landed. She promised.’
‘And she will. God, give her a break, Jacob. It’s not like she’s gone to some Third World country. It’s Ireland. And she’s with Tate.’
He grunted. ‘Tate. That’s what bothers me.’
‘Oh, come on. It’s not just the two of them – his whole family went. Besides, you should be happy she has Tate. He’s a good kid. And he treats her well. After all Courtney’s gone through the last year – getting shot and all – she’s lucky to have someone who supports her and cares for her.’
‘She’s got me.’
Felicia laughed softly. ‘Oh joy.’
‘She hasn’t even finished her therapy yet.’
‘So what? What the girl really needs is some time away. Besides, this has nothing to do with therapy, or Tate, or her trip to Ireland, and you know it . . . Courtney’s growing up, is all. And you don’t like it.’
‘She’s only sixteen, Feleesh.’
‘So what? I had two kids by the time I was sixteen.’
Striker turned to look at her. ‘What?’
‘Gotcha.’
She laughed out loud and Striker said nothing. He just let out a long breath, steered into the fast lane, and drove across the Granville Street Bridge.
They couldn’t get there quick enough for his liking.
The Gold Building – a 27-storey high-rise, located in the very centre of the downtown core – was not the actual building name, but a nickname cops had given it due to the high amount of gold vendors it housed.
Striker had been by the place a thousand times in his career – mainly because the Granville strip was a magnet for problems – but had never once set foot inside the building. Now, as they rode the elevator up to the top floor, he took the bracelet from the bag, turned it over in his hands, and looked for a signature or a serial number. When he found none, he looked back at Felicia.
‘How’d you know this was a Campetti?’
She smiled. ‘Any time you need information, baby, you just come to momma.’
He shook his head. ‘You can be so annoying.’
‘I can be so annoying? Wow, talk about the pot and the kettle.’
Striker let the conversation go. When the doors opened, he wasted no time in walking down the hall.
Campetti Jewellers was the last door at the end of the corridor. All that gave away its location was a simple black sign with copper writing. Striker pressed the buzzer and watched the exterior camera pan down on them.
He held up his badge. ‘Vancouver Police.’
Seconds later, the electronic door clicked open.
Inside, the office was small but immaculate. Everything was cherry wood, black felt casings, and glimmering glass. Behind the front desk, the entire north wall was one continuous floor-to-ceiling window. The morning sun blazed through it, making the jewellery in the cherry wood display cases gleam.
From a side room came a man so big that, despite Striker’s 186-centimetre height, he felt small. This man behind the desk was easily 200 centimetres and 140 kilos, with hands so big they looked like hockey gloves. His square face held a look of forty years, and his olive skin colouring was deepened by the contrast of his greying short hair.
Striker knew him at a glance. ‘You gotta be kidding me – are you Monster C?’
The man behind the counter smiled. ‘Now there’s a name I don’t hear much any more.’
Striker shook his hand. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos. VPD.’
Felicia looked genuinely surprised. She turned to Striker. ‘How did you know his nickname?’
Striker smiled. ‘Any time you need information, baby, you just co
me to poppa.’ When she gave him one of her irritated looks, he explained. ‘Monster C here used to be a tight end for the Seattle Seahawks.’
The big man nodded. ‘Was. Until Tyson Williams blew my knee out.’ He spoke the words with obvious disdain.
Striker asked him, ‘So what are you doing here? Security?’
‘No, I design jewellery.’
‘You mean, you’re Campetti?’
The big jeweller laughed softly. ‘I get that a lot. People expect some old Italian dude with tiny hands and thick glasses. Not these meat hooks.’
Striker grinned at that; it was true.
The three of them talked openly for a few minutes, then Striker got down to business. ‘I need you to look at something and tell me if you recognize it.’ He pulled the bracelet from his jacket pocket.
Campetti sat down on a stool and examined the piece for less than five seconds before speaking. ‘Of course I recognize this. It’s one of a kind. I made it.’
‘You remember for who?’
‘It was a gift. For Sharise Owens – the trauma surgeon who worked on my boy after he got jumped by a gang of pricks at the fireworks two years ago.’ His face darkened. ‘Cops had to carry him into St Paul’s Hospital. He was barely hanging on.’
‘Is he okay?’ Felicia asked.
‘He is . . . now.’ Campetti stared at the bracelet and his eyes took on a faraway look. ‘It’s made from gold and sterling silver. A Celtic Knot. The Triquetra. It symbolizes life, death, and rebirth – which is exactly what Dr Owens did for my boy.’
‘Dr Sharise Owens.’ Striker wrote the name in his notebook ‘This might sound funny, but is she black? African-American?’
‘Well, yes . . .’ Campetti’s face suddenly took on a concerned expression and he stared at the bracelet. ‘How did you get this? Is everything all right?’
Felicia interjected. ‘We’re not sure what’s going on yet. This bracelet might not even be related. It’s just something we’re checking into right now.’
The words didn’t appear to offer Campetti any comfort.
Striker took the bracelet back and placed it in the evidence bag. He then gave Felicia the nod to leave.
