by Sean Slater
Striker sighed. ‘I’ll cancel my prostate exam too.’
The woman gave a soft chuckle before Striker finished the conversation and hung up.
‘Well?’ Felicia said.
‘Purged. All of it.’
‘But that call was a death threat.’
Striker shook his head. ‘Why does this feel like Groundhog Day?’
He scratched his chin as he thought. With no known victim, their weapons expert still unreachable, and Noodles needing another four hours to process the crime scenes, they were quickly running out of leads.
Felicia said, ‘We’re at a standstill.’
Striker agreed. He stood up. Put on his coat. Adjusted his holster. And made sure that the magazine was seated securely. ‘Come on.’
Felicia stood up as well. ‘Chad Koda’s place?’
‘You got it.’ Striker grinned. ‘Time to see how a multimillionaire lives.’
Seventeen
Striker stared at the inlet and faraway border of Stanley Park as they drove across the Burrard Street Bridge, his mind not able to enjoy the glorious view and instead focused on the details of the case.
Where they were headed – the 1300 block of Pacific Avenue – was the lateral edge of the downtown core, an area nestled in between the sprawling urban jungle of city life and the tranquil walkways of the sandy-beached Burrard Inlet.
The seawall below Pacific Avenue ran all the way to Stanley Park. Felicia looked at the bay, at the sun shimmering off the waters, at the people windsurfing, and sighed. ‘I wish I could own a place down here. But I’d have to sell my soul to afford one.’
‘That wouldn’t get you the down-payment.’
She let out a bemused laugh. ‘You’re probably right. I’ve probably lowered its value over the years – I’ve been known to be a bad girl from time to time.’
Striker grinned. ‘Not often enough.’
They exited the bridge.
On the southwest side of Pacific Avenue, apartment complexes rose up twenty storeys high. They blocked the view of the bay that the northeast houses had once boasted so many decades ago. Not that people living there could complain. The view may have been blocked, but those houses were still within throwing distance of Sunset Beach.
Striker drove past the row of homes, each one in its own Victorian style, and took note of the surroundings. The house Chad Koda owned was a single detached residence, three levels high, with a steep wooden stairway. The exterior wood sported a brand new burgundy paint job with clean white trim. Out front was a wall of recently trimmed hedges and a red brick patio with garden.
Everything looked professionally maintained.
Felicia whistled. ‘Something tells me he’s not operating on a policeman’s salary.’
‘A cop couldn’t afford the gardener. You do a history check on this place yet?’
‘Yeah, but there’s nothing relevant. Only call ever made here was a noise complaint, and that was six years ago.’
The information was disappointing; Striker had hoped for something more.
They parked away from the traffic flow, on Thurlow, and walked down the sidewalk with the hot sun pressing down on them. By the time they reached the front walkway, Striker felt stuffy in his suit. It was only ten-thirty in the morning, but already the day was beginning to swelter. And being next to a row of cars spewing out exhaust fumes didn’t help.
At the front door, Striker went to knock, then hesitated. There was no known history of dangers connected to this address, but he never took chances. He leaned over the railing and tried to peer through the window, but it was too dark to see.
‘The window’s got some kind of tint on it,’ he said.
‘Wards off the sun.’
‘Sure. And it stops people from seeing inside.’
Striker approached the door and rapped hard, three solid knocks. Less than thirty seconds later, footsteps could be heard inside. A latch rattled. The front door creaked open. And Striker got his first real-life look at the man from the billboard ads.
Chad Koda.
Realtor extraordinaire.
Striker was somewhat surprised. The man was not what he had expected. Chad Koda was a bit shorter than average height, a bit stockier than his billboard photo suggested, and he looked every bit his fifty years of age. His silvering hair was almost gone on top, and kept short on the sides. His goatee was darker than the hair on his head – Felicia mouthed the word dyed once more – and it stuck out against his deeply bronzed skin. He wore a wine-coloured kimono that hung half open and matching slippers.
Koda gave them both an impatient look. ‘Well, what is it?’
Striker badged the man. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos. We’d like a few minutes of your time, if you don’t mind.’
The man rubbed his eyes. ‘This really isn’t the best time.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘I’ve heard that one before.’
Striker made no move to leave. ‘You are Chad Koda, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you once used to date Dr Sharise Owens?’
Koda’s face tightened at the mention of the name, and he let out a long weary breath. ‘Now what has she done?’
Striker took out his notebook. ‘Dr Owens hasn’t done anything, as far as I know. But there’s a lot of convoluted things going on right now, and I’m trying to find the woman. I was wondering if, perhaps, you had seen her.’
‘Only in my nightmares.’
‘Not a fan, I take it.’
‘I like my women warm-blooded.’
Striker just nodded. ‘Have you been home all night, Mr Koda?’
‘Yes, I have been – look, is there a reason you’re asking me all this?’
‘It’s coming.’
‘Well, make it come quicker – or I’m closing the door and going back inside.’
Striker gave Felicia a sideways glance to see if she wanted to give it a try. She caught it and spoke. ‘Is there anyone who can corroborate your being home last night, Mr Koda?’
‘Yeah, the Kardashian sisters. Kim’s in there cleaning up right now.’
Her eyes hardened on the man. ‘Look, Mr Koda—’
‘No, you look, Detective. Sharise was my common-law wife – no doubt you got records on that. And you know what? It was a goddam nightmare. Every fucking minute of it.’
‘We understand there were problems.’
‘Problems?’ The tanned flesh of Koda’s face reddened. ‘Problems? Is that what you call it – a fucking problem? That bitch aborted my son! That was more than a problem to me, okay?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Then you need to become a better investigator.’
Felicia’s face coloured at the comment, but she continued questioning the man.
Striker, meanwhile, said nothing. He just wrote this information down in his notebook, not only to record the detail, but as a way of giving Koda a second to either calm down or say more – hopefully, something that might incriminate himself. After another long bout of hostile responses to Felicia’s questions, Striker put the notebook away.
‘Mr Koda,’ he began, ‘my partner here has asked you some pretty serious questions about Sharise Owens. And yet, there’s something here I find off – you haven’t even asked if she’s okay.’
The man’s face darkened even more. ‘That’s because I don’t give a rat’s ass. The moment that bitch aborted my son, she ceased to exist. I planned on keeping it that way for the rest of my life – until you two clowns showed up. As far as I’m concerned, it’s ancient fucking history.’
Striker studied the man. Saw him red-faced and sweating. ‘Your emotions would suggest otherwise.’
Koda’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you legally detaining me, Detective?’
‘No.’
‘Then fuck off – you want to speak to me again, you go through my lawyer. He’s at KDM. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. All cops have.’
Koda stepped back
. Slammed the door. And Striker and Felicia were left standing there in silence.
‘Well, that was pleasant,’ Felicia said.
Striker said nothing. He was preoccupied with analysing Koda’s reaction. Deep in thought, he walked back down the steps and headed for the car. When they reached the cruiser, they climbed inside and shut the doors.
Felicia asked, ‘What the hell is the KDM firm? I’ve heard that name somewhere before.’
‘You should have. KDM sues cops under the Police Act.’
‘Great.’
Striker was about to say more on the matter when his cell went off. He looked at the screen, saw the name Rothschild, and stuck the phone to his ear. ‘Gimme some good news, Mike.’
‘Okay – you’re looking more and more like me every day.’
‘I said good news.’
‘Then how’s this for you? The dogman just found a pair of flippers and some scuba gear on the northwest shore of Mitchell Island. Can you fucking believe it? You were right. Our gunman actually swam across the divide.’
Striker closed his eyes as he took in the information. Some of the oddities fell into place for him. ‘The cut twine – it wasn’t there for tethering a boat, it was used to hold the scuba gear.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I want that gear processed. Swabbed, traced, everything.’
‘Noodles is already on it. I’ll make some phone calls to the rental companies. See if any of them dealt with some strange customers lately. Who knows, maybe one of them even has some gear missing.’
‘I won’t hold my breath.’
Striker thanked Rothschild and said goodbye. He then told Felicia what had happened. As she listened, her expression became one of disbelief. ‘Electrical torture devices, breathing apparatus, and a guy who can swim to Mitchell Island . . . This file is getting weirder by the second.’
Striker couldn’t have agreed more. Any single one of those oddities would have been unusual on its own; but collectively, it was downright peculiar. Unnerving, even. More than ever, it made him wonder what they were up against.
Just what kind of people were they dealing with here?
Eighteen
The bomber stood cloaked in the shadows of the bridge overpass on the Granville Island docks and waited for the toymaker to arrive. She would be there soon. Keisha Williams was always on time. Like clockwork.
Today it would be her undoing.
The thought of it made the bomber shiver with anticipation. Despite the growing heat of the day, a coldness filled him – one that came from somewhere deep within. He understood why he felt this way, even if he could not put it into words. The past had made it this way. Made him this way. Killed any warmth left inside of him and scrambled his mind like a grey-matter omelette.
Like always, he tried not to think of it. He closed his eyes. Felt the humid wind sweep in off the False Creek waterways. Smelled the reek sourness of the salt water and seaweed and—
The radio crackled at his side:
‘The target’s en route. Five minutes until arrival.’
He opened his eyes, squinting against the pale white sun. He pressed his radio mike. ‘Copy. Five minutes until arrival.’
Five minutes. It seemed an eternity.
Dressed in a workman’s suit, he slid the radio into the inner pouch of his orange utility vest. He then lifted the binoculars from his chest and used them to examine the toy shop.
Inside the store, all the toys had been removed from the far shelf and replaced by one wooden duck. It stood there now, a twelve-inch bird, dressed in a blue policeman’s suit with a big red number 5 painted on its chest. In behind it was the bomb; just a small cardboard box containing miscellaneous cell phone parts, a steel pipe, aluminium wiring, explosives, and a power source consisting of nothing more than D-Cell batteries.
It was armed and ready for detonation.
The bomber checked his watch.
Three minutes to go.
The wooden boards of the dock bobbed beneath his boots, making him shift his weight to maintain balance. The action caused the screws in his leg bones to burn – burn like the tension inside of him. There was an anxiety there, an inner swelling difficult to control. More than anything, he wanted some Skoal. Wintergreen. Spearmint. Hell, even Regular would do.
But this was not possible. People noticed a man chewing tobacco.
It would have to wait until after the mission.
He focused in on the Toy Hut. It was a quaint little place. Just a small Swiss-style cottage that sat beside a duck pond and an adjoining playground, one which would be filled with children by noon.
Next door, in the same building but separated by a wall, was a coffee shop. The Ol’ Bean, its wooden sign read. There were people inside. Three of them. And a woman in a patio chair outside with her dog tied up nearby.
Collateral damage.
He watched with a sense of numb acceptance as the toymaker finally came walking down Anderson. She was a big woman, rotund, and black as night. She was dressed in a fuchsia shawl with purple tights – easy to spot.
Target Number 5.
In the bomber’s pocket was the remote detonator. The first button armed the fusing system, and it had already been pressed. The second button triggered the igniter. He kept his finger alongside the trigger as the toymaker approached from the south. She walked past the Ol’ Bean coffee shop, singing a song only she knew.
The moment the target went inside, the bomber left the docks and walked quickly up to Anderson Street. Staring through the toy shop window from across the street, he saw the woman milling about. Preparing for the day like it was just another ordinary Wednesday in July. When she spotted the toy duck in the policeman’s uniform, she paused, and a bewildered look crossed her face. She moved towards it.
And he knew the time had come.
He stepped forward, moving into the middle of the road, and stopped in front of the Toy Hut. Immediately, the radio crackled at his side and Molly’s digitized voice came across the air: ‘What are you doing? You’re too close. You need more distance.’
He ignored the command.
‘Get back.’
He pressed the mike. ‘I need this.’
‘No! You’re too close! Too close—’
The bomber reached down and turned off his radio. Detonator in hand, he took one step closer to the toy shop, swept both his arms out to the sides, tilted back his head, and closed his eyes.
Then he pressed the button.
Click – spark – combustion.
And the entire south side of the toy store exploded in a ball of light and flame and smoke, engulfing him in the process.
Nineteen
Dr Sharise Owens did not show up for work and was still not answering her cell phone. Aside from flagging the woman as a Missing Person, there was little else Striker and Felicia could do on the matter. So they headed for Cambie Street Headquarters to locate the department’s weapons expert Jay Kolt.
Striker was driving over the Granville Street Bridge, passing over the market, when a horrific thrashing sound filled the air and the entire bridge shook. Automatically, he hammered on the brakes and gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles blanched.
Beside him, Felicia jolted in the passenger seat. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘Sounded like something exploded right below us.’
Striker hit the gas and cut down the off-ramp that circled onto the Granville Island Market. By the time he made the sharp turn onto Anderson Street, the screams had already started.
And what he saw shocked him.
On the south side of the street, the front section of one of the buildings had been completely destroyed. Thick white smoke poured from a large gaping hole, and flames climbed all along the building walls. In the street out front, shattered glass, splintered two-by-fours, and metal fragments littered the pavement. And covering everything was a thick layer of grey-white dust; it floated through the air like a poisonous pollen, dissip
ating slowly into the harbour beyond.
‘Looks like a gas main went off,’ Felicia said.
Striker was unsure. He cranked the wheel, turned the car sideways, and blocked access to the area. ‘Call it in. We need ambulance, fire, and every patrol unit that’s not already on a Priority 1. Notify the gas and electric companies too. And get Rothschild down here – we’re gonna need a good sergeant to set up containment.’
Felicia got to work.
While she called Dispatch, Striker climbed out to look for casualties. Immediately, his ears were hit with the harsh roar of the fire and the strident cries of numerous car alarms.
On the opposite side of the road, a group of paramedics – perhaps already on scene when the explosion had occurred – were tending to a small group of people who had obviously been injured by the blast. Most of them looked stunned and bloodied, but conscious and aware.
Striker pointed at them. ‘They okay?’
One of the paramedics nodded. ‘Nothing critical. But who knows who else needs help.’
Striker turned his eyes away from the medic and scanned the perimeter. Here and there in the road, cars had been abandoned. Citizens wandered through the smoke like brain-dead zombies, gaping at the fire. Under an awning on the next block, a group of shop owners and customers was gathering, with many of them snapping shots with their cameras or taking video with their cell phones.
YouTube was just a click away.
Striker approached the front of the burning building. Splintered wood, torn-apart aluminium, broken concrete pieces with embedded rebar, and other rubble covered everything from the sidewalk to the docks. Also within the mess were numerous toys – wooden cars, dolls and other such stuff, most of which was half blown apart. The sight of the toys made him realize that kids could be victims here, and his guts tightened as bad thoughts flooded his mind.
He killed the thoughts and got moving. He searched through the area for more casualties, but found none.
Just smoke and fire and destruction.
At the south end of Anderson Street, a patrol car emerged. Striker waved them to a stop, then crossed the road to meet them. The car doors opened, and two young constables jumped out. Both of them looked newbie fresh from the academy and out of their element.
