‘He’s not answering the broadcasts.’

‘You try all districts?’

‘Of course. And the Ops channels.’

Striker closed his eyes, felt the tension swelling inside of him. ‘Thanks, Sue. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Rock till ya drop,’ she said, and the line went dead.

They headed back for the car. As they walked, Striker turned silent and thought things over. When they reached the cruiser, he snapped his fingers and looked at Felicia. ‘I got it – Harry doesn’t drive one of the Fusions, does he?’

Felicia thought it over. ‘No, he’s old school. He likes the older Ford sedans. So what?’

‘In the Crown Vics, the GPS is built right into the dashboard, not the laptop.’

She caught on and smiled. ‘We can trace him.’

Striker called the Fleet Manager and found out which car Harry had signed out for the day. Sure enough, it was one of the Crown Vics.

Call sign: Juliet 13.

With the vehicle ID now known, Striker called back Dispatch. He gave Sue Rhaemer the call sign and asked her to locate the vehicle with the GPS system. She made an uneasy sound. ‘You do realize we’re only supposed to use GPS in cases of emergencies, right?’

‘This is an emergency, Sue. You’re preventing a homicide – because I’m going to kill Harry if he screws up my case.’

The Central Dispatcher laughed, but said nothing.

‘I’m desperate here, Sue.’

‘Oh fine, just . . . chill.’

Striker heard the woman typing on the terminal. Moments later, when she came back on the line, her voice was rough. ‘Okay, listen up. The car’s gone mobile. East on Hastings. Three thousand block.’

Striker nodded absently. ‘Thanks, Sue. As always.’

He put the car in gear.

‘Time for some surveillance?’ Felicia asked.

Striker nodded, but did not smile. The fact that they were actually spying on another cop, and a man he had liked for years, did not sit well with him. And thoughts of what it might possibly lead them to left him feeling ill and anxious.

He stepped on the gas and the car surged down the road. He headed east after Harry, searching for evidence, but – maybe for the first time in his career – hoping to come up zero.

Fifty-Two

Harry drove across the Vancouver-Burnaby border and eventually turned left on Gilmore Street. Sitting beside him in the passenger seat, hazy from the medications but conscious, was Chad Koda. The man was looking out the window at nothing in particular and groaned constantly.

Harry stole a glance at him.

Chad Koda looked bad. The zipper sutures up the middle of his face were even more noticeable in the daylight, and because the hospital had shaved the top of his head during the process, the entire length of the injury was apparent. It extended from the middle of his nose all the way to the top of his skull.

It was amazing he had survived.

‘You gonna make it there?’ Harry asked.

Koda made no reply. He just took another T3 and shoved it under his tongue. After a long moment, he cleared his throat.

‘I want him dead for this,’ he finally said.

Harry let the comment hang there for a moment, then he gave Koda a cool look. ‘We need to be calm here. Smart.’

Koda gave him a hot look. ‘I almost got killed here, Harry. My whole fucking life – gone.’

‘Your whole life will be gone if you flap those lips to the wrong person.’

‘I know what I can and can’t say.’

‘Not when you’re all doped-up on meds, you don’t.’

Koda said nothing back, but his pale face darkened.

Harry took a sudden right down a narrow back lane and parked ten feet from the rear of his yard. The garage door opener was on the fritz again, so he got out and left the car parked in the lane. When they entered the garage, Harry closed the door securely behind them. He plugged in the radio. Cranked the volume.

‘Now we can talk.’

Fifty-Three

With the aid of Central Dispatcher Sue Rhaemer and the GPS, Striker learned that Harry’s undercover cruiser was stationary in the Burnaby area. He and Felicia drove there, and within minutes found the old Ford. It was sitting empty in the north lane of Pandora Street, parked alongside a detached garage.

Felicia looked up from the computer and studied the house. She saw the address number on the garage. ‘This is Harry’s place.’ She looked around and saw no one. ‘They must have gone inside.’

‘Or into the garage,’ Striker noted. ‘Otherwise, why not park out front?’

He drove the undercover cruiser past the lane entrance, a half block down the road, then put the car into Park and jumped out.

‘What are you doing?’ Felicia asked.

‘Take the wheel and wait for my call.’

‘Shouldn’t we both—’

‘I need you driving in case they bolt again.’

‘But—’

‘Who’s better at driving surveillance?’ he asked.

‘Well, me.’

‘Exactly. You were the one in Strike Force, Feleesh, not me. So just be ready. We’re gonna need to follow these guys when they leave. You’ll be driving.’

Before Felicia could respond, Striker did a one-eighty and walked down the lane. Like most alleys in the area, the road was extremely narrow, with just enough room for one car to travel down. It was decorated with City garbage cans and blue recycle boxes.

Striker reached the old Ford Harry had been driving and looked inside. On the back seat were some McDonald’s hamburger wrappers and a booklet for the Vancouver Police Union. On the floor was a torn-off hospital tag. Along the lateral edge of the band was a red line and the words ‘Allergic to Penicillin’. The name on the front was visible:

Chad Heath Koda.

Striker looked around the lane, then at Harry’s backyard. No one was there. So he focused on the house. It was a plain model, just a rectangular box. All the windows were dark, upstairs and down, and there was no movement inside.

No one appeared to be home.

Striker approached the lot. As he reached the garage, the soft sound of music filtered through the door. It was quiet, almost inaudible, but there. He moved closer and realized it was a radio – with voices intermingled.

He placed one ear against the door and listened. All he could make out were mumbles, so he rounded the garage. On the west side of the structure was a small window. As Striker neared it, he caught a glimpse of the two men inside.

Harry and Koda.

Having a conversation of some kind.

A serious one.

Koda was slowly pacing the room on wobbly legs and looked ready to keel over at any moment. His split-apart face was gaunt and looked freakish. Unreal, like a Halloween mask. Harry was sitting on a milk crate in the centre of the room, leaning with his elbows on his knees. His red and puffy face held only one expression:

Concern.

Striker crouched down low enough to hide under the ledge and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation, but all he could make out was the din of the radio. Gently, he reached up and tried to inch open the window, but it would not budge and he feared making too much noise.

From his pocket, he withdrew his Spyderco knife and flicked open the blade. Wedging it in between the window and frame, Striker gently pried until the window creaked open a quarter of an inch.

Then he listened.