Forty-Nine

Striker and Felicia stopped on Denman Street at Striker’s favourite coffee shop – an old mom & pop business named Rafello’s. The coffee was always strong and the sandwiches were good, and the old couple had been kind to Striker since his first days in Patrol. Striker liked to give them the business. They grabbed a couple of breakfast melts, then ate in the car and went over the bomber’s MO.

‘Whoever he is, the man is smart,’ Striker said. ‘Not only does he have the expertise to work with explosive materials, but he knows assembly as well. Add to this the fact he can do surveillance, swim the goddam channel, and has knowledge of various torture devices – in particular electrical – and we can narrow down our search. Military is the first thing that comes to mind.’

‘Or some kind of mercenary,’ Felicia agreed. ‘Possibly a gang hitman or a professional assassin. So much depends on the motive. All that aside, we can’t rule out someone with a basic explosives training.’

Striker nodded. ‘Like an engineer from a mining company. Or someone in any of the pyrotechnic fields. Even a teacher of explosives would be plausible.’

‘Any demolitions guy,’ Felicia agreed. ‘I looked up a few things on Google, and you can learn how to perform surveillance. Hell, there’s not only lessons online, but entire courses you can actually take. And not only on surveillance, but counter-surveillance. And as for the associated electronic gadgetry, well you can order that stuff right on Amazon.’

‘And the electrical torture?’

‘Same thing, I’m afraid. I’ve never dealt with a picana before, but I looked it up on the net and found directions on how to make one. It’s crazy, I know, but I found it.’

The information was disheartening, and Striker shook his head absently. ‘So what you’re saying is, the MO might point towards a person with this kind of expertise, but a lot of people with the willpower and tools could do this on their own.’

‘Unfortunately, yes. It’s all just a click away.’

Striker frowned. ‘Which is why we keep finding ourselves back at square one, waiting on lab results and following the trails and connections of our victims.’ He shook his head and drank some more coffee. ‘It’s so damn frustrating.’

Felicia agreed. She threw her half-eaten breakfast melt in the garbage and spoke. ‘With Solomon ruled out, Koda’s our best lead.’

‘Well, he’s on hold for now.’

She nodded for a long moment, as if debating something. Finally, she crooked her neck to look at him. ‘What about Harry?’

‘Harry Eckhart?’ Striker asked. ‘He’s a cop, Feleesh.’

‘I know that, Jacob. But don’t forget, Koda was also a cop. And like it or not, Harry’s the only other person I can think of who’s got some kind of connection to everyone involved.’

‘When the first bomb went off, Harry was stuck in a traffic jam on the bridge.’

‘I’m not saying he was the actual bomber, Jacob, but he might know more than he’s telling us. I’ll tell you this: something’s up with the man. He’s been acting downright odd.’

Striker said nothing and thought it over. It was true. Harry did have links to Chad Koda, Keisha Williams, and even Dr Sharise Owens, indirectly. And the man had seemed resistant with the information about Solomon Bay.

But still, Striker gave the idea little credence; he’d known Harry for years. And as hard-nosed and irascible as the man could be, he was a good cop. Always had been. Through the death of his son. Through the breakup of his first marriage. Through everything.

Striker liked the man.

As they both sat there, mulling over the facts, a pair of Harley Davidsons roared by. With their mufflers obviously removed, the motorcycles’ loud rumbles shook the street.

Irritated, Striker looked up. The two bikers were members of the Satan’s Prowlers gang – the affiliation made obvious by the weeping-skull patch on their jackets. The smaller of the two riders craned his neck and met Striker’s stare. He smirked, gave a mock salute, and the bikes drove away.

‘Don’t you need an IQ greater than three to get a licence?’ Felicia asked.

Striker said nothing at first. He just looked at the stereo clock. ‘Odd time for them to be out. Early.’

‘They’re probably still partying from last night.’

Striker said nothing else. The sight reminded him of something else – something their weapons expert, Jay Kolt, had told them:

Some of the high-end gangs use electrical torture, like the Satan’s Prowlers.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Kolt mentioned a biker named Sleeves. Burns was his real name. Or something like that. See what you can find on the man.’

Felicia made an ahh sound, then started punching the name into the computer. Two mandatory fields.

Gang Affiliations: Satan’s Prowlers.

Surname: Burns.

After a moment, she smiled. ‘Direct hit. Brice Burns. Alias: Sleeves.’

Striker looked at the screen and whistled. ‘Three pages of files – this guy’s a career criminal.’

‘He’s a dirt-bag, is what he is.’

Striker smirked. Felicia wasn’t one to refrain from speaking her mind.

As she began reading through the list of reports and Intel files, Striker put the car into gear and drove around the corner onto Pacific Avenue. Chad Koda’s house was just a mile away, and he wanted to visit the scene again, free of all the chaos.

They were still missing something.

He could feel it.

When they arrived, Striker pulled in behind a white utility van that had the Vancouver Police Department crest on the door and a large dent in the rear panel. It was Ident’s van.

‘Noodles is here.’

Felicia didn’t even look up. ‘Be still, my beating heart.’

‘I need to talk to him about the different scenes. Can you run the bomb call for me before I go on? See if the forensic team’s added anything to the file since we last checked.’

Felicia said ‘sure’ and brought up the report. It was long, filled with numerous evidence pages, police logs, and scanned-in civilian statements which were now in PDF format. Striker read the last supplement link which was marked: Canvass.

‘Open that one,’ he said.

Felicia did. The page was divided into three columns – one for the addresses that had been canvassed, one for the names of the witnesses living there, and one for whether or not any evidence had been obtained. Out of the eight other homes on the block, only three of them had been occupied during the time of the explosion. Three of the residences had ‘(PV)’ beside their addresses.

PV: Possible Video.

Felicia took the initiative. ‘You talk to Noodles. I’ll check out these addresses.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

They exited the car and parted ways.

As Felicia walked northward down the block, Striker headed for the stairs leading up to Koda’s residence. Halfway there, he stopped, turned around, and watched Felicia go.

In her dark women’s suit, with her long black hair draping down to her shoulders, she looked professional and pretty at the same time. As if sensing his gaze, she glanced back and caught him. A grin parted her lips, and she mouthed the words ‘stop fantasizing’. Then she turned into a nearby lot.

With Felicia disappeared from sight, Striker approached Koda’s residence. The look of the house was deceiving. Aside from the blown-out windows and the string of police tape blocking off the front yard, nothing indicated that anything was amiss – certainly not that a bomb had gone off, killing one woman and injuring the homeowner.

In the exterior alcove stood a young constable – a tall white guy with his head shaved. He greeted Striker without interest, but did his job and recorded Striker’s badge number for the continuity purposes required. Once done, Striker went past the man.