by Sean Slater
Something the family direly needed.
After taking a quick scan of his surroundings and seeing no threats, Striker walked up the rear lane to the backyard. He opened the fence, passed under the sweeping boughs of the maple trees, and glanced inside the garage window.
Nothing seemed out of place. Inside the garage was Rothschild’s teenage dream – his prized possession 1963 vintage Ford Cougar II. Ruby red in colour.
A collector’s item.
When Mike had gotten it three years ago – a surprise gift from his beloved Rosie – he’d been like a sugar-loaded kid with a new Star Wars toy on Christmas morning. It was all he talked about. Now, ever since Rosalyn’s death, he spent even more time working on the car, cleaning and waxing and polishing, making sure that not even a trace amount of dust covered the paint. It was a daily obsession. Almost religious to him – as if the slightest bit of grime would not only tarnish the car, but Rosie’s memory as well.
And that was unforgivable.
‘She’s a beauty,’ Striker had told him once.
Rothschild’s eyes had watered at the comment. ‘She was,’ he’d said in return, and Striker had realized he was talking about Rosie.
Striker swallowed hard. The memory was not only fresh, but emotionally powerful, so he willed it away. He walked past the garage, triggered the motion detector, and was lit up by the backyard spotlight. Immediately, the kitchen blinds parted, and one of the patrol cops – a tall East Indian male with a turban – looked down at him.
Striker flashed him the badge, came up the porch stairs and walked inside. Before he could ask where Rothschild and the kids were waiting, Rothschild stepped from the living room into the kitchen. His face was tight, as was his posture. A strong-smelling cup of coffee was in his hand.
‘Where are the kids?’ Striker asked.
‘Downstairs. With the other half of Echo 15.’
‘They away from the windows?’
‘They’re safe.’ Rothschild scrutinized him. ‘What happened to your eyes? They’re red.’
Striker blinked as if just remembering the pain. ‘Oleoresin, or something similar. It got set off near your old house.’
‘By who?’
‘Our suspect.’
The notion turned Rothschild’s face hard and his eyes took on a distant gaze.
Striker navigated between the piles of moving boxes that littered the kitchen floor and poured himself a cup of coffee. Rothschild, meanwhile, stood there looking lost and confused, rubbing his thumb against the side of his cup.
‘What the fuck is going on, Shipwreck?’ he finally said.
Striker turned around. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You were my first sergeant, Mike. And you’re my best goddam friend. So tell me the truth: do you have any connection to Sharise Owens or Keisha Williams – the two women who were killed yesterday?’
Rothschild looked taken aback by the question. ‘I would have told you if I did. You know that.’
‘You never had any calls where a bomber was suspected?’
‘None. Not one in my entire career.’
‘What about gangs – one that might have used electrical torture? Specifically, a picana? Like the Satan’s Prowlers? Or the Renegades? Or the Basi Brothers?’
Rothschild let out a heavy breath. ‘I’ve arrested tons of gang members over the years – from all those groups. But a fucking picana?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done and seen a lot in my career . . . but nothing like this.’
‘What about Chad Koda?’
‘Koda?’ Rothschild raised an eyebrow. He crossed the room and poured himself a second cup. ‘Well, there’s a name I haven’t heard in years.’
‘So you do know him.’
‘Of course, I know him. He was my first sergeant. Hell, you weren’t even on the force yet. That was a good ten years before your time. Why’d you bring him up?’
‘Because he was blown sky-high last night.’
Rothschild’s face tightened. ‘Blown . . . blown up? Like . . . literally?’
‘Is there any other way?’
Rothschild kept blinking, as if something didn’t compute. ‘Why? I mean . . . why?’
‘We don’t know. He’s in St Paul’s right now. Has been all night. He’s unconscious. Blasted pretty good from what I understand, but still has all his limbs intact. He got lucky.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it. What time did this happen?’
‘Long after you’d left. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the explosion – it’s been on every damn news channel all night long.’
Rothschild gestured to the unpacked boxes all around the room. ‘Do I look like I’ve had time to watch the news?’
Rothschild crossed the room to the kitchen table where several photos were spread out. The one in the centre was a family photo, taken when Rosalyn was still alive. Not long before her diagnosis. Rothschild looked at it, and his face took on a lost look. ‘I came home last night, barbecued up some food for the kids, unpacked more stuff, and started going through these . . . When it got to be too much, I crashed down on a mattress on the floor. I slept there all night long – till Patrol started banging down my door.’
Striker turned his eyes away from the picture of Rosalyn, because every time he looked at it, painful memories returned. And not just ones of Rosalyn. Images – feelings – of what he had gone through with his own wife, Amanda, and with Courtney, following her mother’s death. Every day had been a struggle back then. And now Rothschild was going through the same hell.
Striker felt for his friend, but didn’t know what to do. So he tried to see through the memories and find some clarity. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.
‘What can you tell me about Chad Koda?’ he asked.
‘Chad? I dunno. He was a good guy. Good boss. And he was smart. Jaded, sure, but who the hell isn’t after all that time?’ Rothschild smiled grimly. ‘I remember him bitching about the courts a million times a day. He really hated them. “It’s a legal system,” he used to say. “Not a justice system.” How’s that for truth?’
‘And?’
Rothschild shrugged. ‘And what? Koda reached the mandatory minimum and took his leave. Got out of the VPD years ago. Went into real estate. And from what I hear, he does pretty good . . . How is he connected in all this?’
Striker hedged the issue. ‘All I know is I got Koda in the hospital, and Keisha Williams and Sharise Owens are dead from two separate bomb blasts. And now, with the suspect being found at your house, Koda is the only real connection I can see here. He knows all three of you.’
Rothschild looked like his mind was a million miles away. ‘I just can’t see why.’
‘He’s left a couple of dolls at the scene,’ Striker said. ‘They’ve obviously been broken up from the blast, but they might be policemen the way they were dressed. And each one of them has had a number drawn on the chest. That mean anything to you?’
Rothschild just shook his head again. Looked lost.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
Striker was about to say more when the door to the basement opened and Shana walked into the room. She was dressed in a pair of long-sleeved pyjamas, pink in colour, with princesses and unicorns on them – the perfect motif for any six-year-old girl. Upon seeing Striker, she smiled wide.
‘Uncle Jacob!’ she said.
She stumbled sleepily across the room and gave him a long, hard hug.
Striker squeezed her back. ‘How’s my little cupcake?’
‘You didn’t come over last night.’
‘I know. I tried to, but—’
‘You had to work.’
Striker smiled grimly. Pretty sad when even a six-year-old knows the same old song and dance.
‘Next time,’ he said.
‘You promise?’
‘How ’bout I don’t promise, but I bring you some ice cream later?’
The littl
e girl smiled. ‘Okay.’
Seconds later, Shana’s brother shambled through the doorway. Though Cody was only twenty minutes younger, he had not yet shed some of his childhood insecurities. He clutched his light-blue blankie and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the uniformed patrol cop who had been standing there completely silent the whole time, then at Striker.
‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked.
Striker tussled his hair. ‘Police Parade.’ When Cody just looked at him through sleepy eyes, Striker told him, ‘It’s still awfully early, my little man.’
‘And the adults are talking,’ Rothschild said.
‘About what?’ the boy asked.
‘You two need to go back to bed, son.’
‘But Dad—’
‘No buts from either one of you.’
Rothschild took both children by the hand and guided them back to the stairwell, where the second member of Echo15 – a short, plump policewoman – was standing. Once the children were being ushered down the stairs, Shana glanced back at Striker and waved.
‘Goodnight, Uncle Jacob.’
‘Pleasant dreams,’ he whispered.
Then they were gone – in presence but not in mind. The image of the little girl remained in Striker’s head. Shana was so much like her mother, in personality and appearance. And Striker wondered how hard that was on Rothschild. When Striker’s own wife, Amanda, had died several years earlier, he had seen her every day in his own daughter – every time Courtney smiled, or laughed, and even when she cried.
It had been emotionally exhausting.
It was something he loved and hated all at once, a reflection that constantly filled him with life and yet killed him at the same time. He wondered at what point he had finally got over that. Time seemed a blur.
When Rothschild returned, Striker threw back the rest of his coffee.
‘I gotta go,’ he said.
‘What – where?’
‘Koda is the hub in all this. I need to talk to the man.’
‘I thought you said he was unconscious.’
‘He is.’ Striker dropped his cup in the sink and headed for the door. ‘Sleeping Beauty’s about to get a wake-up call.’
Forty-Seven
Striker drove to the police fleet lot.
He grabbed an undercover cruiser – one of the new Ford Fusions with the reinforced bumper – and made sure the laptop was working and fully charged. He then checked to be sure the trunk was filled with paper evidence bags and latex gloves. Satisfied, he picked up Felicia from the front steps of Cambie Street Headquarters.
‘You should have called me,’ she said as she climbed in.
‘There wasn’t time.’
‘For a phone call?’
‘Hey, I wouldn’t have had to call you at all if you’d just stayed the night like I asked.’
Felicia gave him a cool glance. ‘Are you really going to use that against me?’
He sighed. ‘Look, I’m tired and it’s already been a hell of a morning. Nothing but bad news, bad news, and more bad news.’
‘Well here’s some good. While I was waiting for you, I did some more searching, and guess who I located? Solomon Bay.’
Striker felt a smile return to his lips. ‘Where?’
‘Oakville Hospital, Toronto.’
‘Toronto?’
‘He’s sick, Jacob.’
‘How sick?’
‘Sick enough that he’s no longer considered a suspect in this file. He’s got some strange degenerative disease. An immune disorder. He’s been bedridden for over three years now, which is why we couldn’t locate any more history on the guy.’
‘This all documented?’
Felicia nodded. ‘He’s not our guy.’
Striker said nothing at first, he just let the information sink in. Ruling Solomon out was necessary, but it left him with an empty feeling. Like someone had stolen something from him.
One more lead destroyed.
He hit the gas and headed for St Paul’s Hospital so that they could speak to Chad Koda. Along the way, he gave Felicia a rundown on all that had happened this morning. By the time they arrived some ten minutes later, she was as befuddled as he was about the file.
They headed inside the hospital.
Admitting was unusually calm, even for a Thursday morning. No patients lined up at the front desk. No paramedics or cops gathered in the lobby. No drunks or mental health apprehensions screamed in the waiting area.
Sitting behind the counter was the same girl who had helped them yesterday. When she saw Striker, a nervous look flittered in her eyes, as if she was thinking Oh God, what now?
Striker and Felicia passed her by. They took the elevator to the third floor, where the Critical Care Unit was located. As always, the doors were electronically locked. A small round nurse of black ancestry scanned them inside.
‘Dis way,’ she said softly.
Striker followed her down to Koda’s room.
Standing on duty outside the door was a Caucasian cop. Big, bald, and fat with lots of padded muscle bulk. A long vertical scar made his already-hard face appear even more fierce, and Striker was glad they had posted this guy at the door. He looked like a mixture of an Ultimate Fighter and a Hollywood soldier.
The cop craned his neck at the sight of them and demanded to see their badges. After a quick show of credentials, they went inside.
The recovery room was private, holding only one bed and a chair. Everywhere Striker looked, there were degrees of white – from the faded ivory bed sheets to the cream-coloured curtains to the sterile eggshell of the walls. The only object that held any true colour was the quilt that ran across the lower half of the bed. It was pale blue.
Like Cody’s security blankie.
Felicia wrinkled her nose. ‘It always smells like bleach in here.’
Striker nodded. ‘Cologne of the sick.’
He approached the bed. Lying on his back was Chad Koda. The man’s eyes were closed and didn’t look like they were moving beneath the lids. A line of stitches ran up the bridge of the man’s nose and continued right up his forehead well into his shaved hairline.
It looked like a purple-red zipper.
Striker moved out of the man’s earshot, pointed at the scar, and whispered to Felicia. ‘Still think he was trying to stage an attack on himself?’ When Felicia said nothing, he added, ‘An inch more to the right or left, and the metal would have taken his eye out.’
Felicia also kept her voice low. ‘If it was a murder-suicide, he wouldn’t have cared. Besides, it was just a theory, Jacob. Something to consider and rule out.’
‘Well consider it ruled out. This bomber’s started a countdown. We don’t have time to entertain other theories.’
Felicia shot him a look of daggers, and Striker turned away. He was being a dick, he knew, and not because of the case but because Felicia hadn’t stayed the night. It was unfair. He got that. But for some reason, he couldn’t let it go.
He assessed the man. On Koda’s face, surrounding the line of stitches, was a mottling of abrasions that were already turned a bruised-banana colour at the edges. Bruises also marred his right cheek and right chin. Yet the other side of him was completely untouched.
‘Two-Face,’ Felicia said dryly.
‘In more ways than one.’
Striker stepped right up to the bed, until his hip touched the tubular steel railing. Lines were hooked from Koda’s left arm and chest; they ran to a trio of machines that sat bedside. One machine was designed to regulate pulse and blood pressure; one was for fluids; and one was for something Striker didn’t know.
‘Koda,’ he said softly, then a little louder. ‘Koda.’
There was no response. Not even a blip on the machine.
Felicia frowned. ‘He’s really out of it.’
‘Koda,’ Striker said again, and gently squeezed his forearm.
‘Please, you do not touch this man.’ The voice came from the doorway, and was heavily accented
. Eastern European maybe.
Striker craned his neck and spotted a doctor he did not recognize from any of his previous visits. The man was tall with a thick rug of silver hair and eyes so dark they appeared black.
‘I am Dr Varga,’ the man offered.
‘Detectives Striker and Santos.’ Striker flashed him the badge. ‘Vancouver Police. We need to speak to this man.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘That will not be possible. We sedate this man very much last night. He will not communicate for several hours.’
‘Can’t you wake him? Just for a few minutes? Time is crucial here.’
Dr Varga shook his head. ‘The body of this man does require much rest.’
‘I understand that,’ Striker said. ‘And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t completely necessary. But right now, we have a bomber out there in the city, and this man might be our only key to stopping him.’
The doctor’s expression turned from defiance to concern. ‘This is an unfortunate thing, I know. But to administer further medications would be negligent. There is too much risk.’
Felicia humphed. ‘Tell that to the next victim who gets blown up.’
When Dr Varga offered no response, but merely stood there, looking uncomfortable, Striker pulled out one of his business cards and shoved it in the man’s hand. ‘Call me the second he wakes up, Doctor.’
‘I will do this. Anything else I can do?’
Striker gave the man a hard, unforgiving look. ‘Yes. Pray to God no one else is dead by then.’
Forty-Eight
The bomber stood between the two houses on the east side of Trafalgar Street, under the shadows of the roof overhang, and struggled with the tremors inside of him. Deep pulsations racked his head. Bounced around in his skull. It had been this way ever since the explosion at Chad Koda’s house – an invisible tide lapping the shores of his mind.
He killed the thought and got back to recon. To planning. He focused on Rothschild’s new home. The place had been easy to find – just one single tail of Detective Striker’s Saab along the winding, empty roadways of Dunbar.