When they reached the sixth floor, they walked down the hall in search of Sergeant, David Connors – or Pooch, as he was better known. The man was a surveillance god, and he regularly taught his techniques not only within the Vancouver Police Department, but at the academy as well.

Striker opened the door to Stolen Auto, and they went inside.

The Stolen Auto section was small – nothing more than a thrown-together row of cubicles in the southeast corner of the building. Piled high in two of the cubicles and spread out against the walls were numerous types of electronic gadgetry – all bait for Theft From Auto projects.

Sitting on the other side of the cubicles was the man they were looking for, David Connors. His long blond hair was braided back over his head, and the goatee he had been trying to grow for two years was still missing patches. Together, the braids and goatee made Connors’ head look too small for his body, which was a feat in itself because David Connors had the tiniest build that Striker had ever seen on a man.

‘Hey, Pooch,’ Striker said.

Connors looked up and frowned. Pooch was the nickname his old patrol squad had given him years ago, since everyone said he looked like Dawg the Bounty Hunter – if Dawg had failed to reach puberty.

It was a nickname Connors hated.

‘Shipwreck,’ he grumbled. Then he spotted Felicia. ‘Santos.’

Striker grabbed a couple of chairs from a nearby cubicle and slid one over to Felicia. They sat down opposite Connors, and Striker started the conversation.

‘You seem to be in your usual bad mood, I see.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be? It’s my last day here before they transfer me out.’

Striker hadn’t known the man was moving. It was unfortunate news. Connors loved Stolen Auto. It was his baby. And he was damn good at it.

‘So where are they sending you?’ Striker asked.

‘Police Standards.’

‘Ouch.’

Both Striker and Felicia made a sour face. Police Standards was just another name for Internal – the place where cops were forced to investigate other cops. It was an assignment no one wanted.

‘Who’d you piss off to get sent there?’ Felicia asked.

‘Just God.’

Striker grinned. ‘Well, I’ve got some more news to brighten your day – we come seeking favours.’

Connors put down the camera he was fidgeting with and looked up. ‘Well, now there’s a surprise. What do you need?’

‘BirdDog,’ Striker said.

‘Got a warrant?’

‘I need one I can use without the documentation.’

Connors frowned. ‘Oh boy. I dunno, Shipwreck.’ He leaned back in the chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. Made a clucking sound with his tongue, as if he was adding things up in his head. ‘What is this for?’

Striker thought of Harry and Koda, and said, ‘You don’t want to know.’

Connors looked away, said nothing.

‘I know the rules,’ Striker stressed. ‘But this is really important, Pooch. Otherwise I’d never ask.’

Connors nodded slowly, then sat forward. ‘I got one of the older models left. You can use it – on one condition.’

‘That we don’t drag you into court?’ Felicia said.

‘No. That you never call me Pooch again.’

Striker felt a grin come to his face. ‘How about pup?’

‘How about you get no device?’

‘Fine, fine. You win.’

Connors reached under the desk and pulled out the unit. ‘Make sure this gets back to me when you’re done – and don’t you dare try using this as part of any criminal charge. Last thing I need is some other cop investigating me when I’m in Internal doing the same damn thing.’

Felicia laughed. ‘Think about it, Connors – a breach of the Police Act would actually keep you out of Internal.’

Connors looked at her and his face remained hard. ‘Am I smiling, Santos? I’m serious here. Don’t leave me with my ass in the air on this one.’

Striker took the device from him and smiled.

‘Don’t worry, Connors,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep you covered. The last thing any of us want is to see you hanging with your ass in the air.’

Sixty

Having the BirdDog was only half of the solution. They still needed to locate Harry and Koda, and that wasn’t an easy task. Neither man was answering their phone. They weren’t back at the station. They had disabled their vehicle’s GPS system. And they were ignoring all radio broadcasts.

After another failed attempt of raising them over the air, Felicia slammed the mike back into its cradle and cussed. ‘We should just call Superintendent Laroche and fry their ass for not answering us.’

Striker shook his head. ‘All that would do is put Harry and Koda even more on the defensive. Plus I don’t want to attract unwanted attention. Believe me, Laroche is the last guy we need to get involved there. There’s got to be a better way.’

‘Better way, schmetter way. What else can we do? Wait outside their house all damn day?’

Thoughts of wasting a half-day setting up on their residences didn’t appeal to Striker. He grabbed the laptop from Felicia, hit the chat icon, and sent out a message to every patrol unit that was currently logged on:

If anyone sees Detective Harry Eckhart or retired member Chad Koda, call Detective Jacob Striker immediately.

He then listed his cell phone number. It was unorthodox at best, but at this point he was willing to try anything.

‘We’ll see if that brings us any luck.’

They didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes after sending the message, Striker got the call from the 3/10 report car. ‘You looking for Harry Eckhart?’ the man asked.

‘Desperately,’ Striker replied.

‘I just saw him. He’s gassing up at the yards.’

‘How long?’

‘Like thirty seconds ago.’

Striker felt a jolt of excitement. The City Yards – the place where the police cruisers were fixed and gassed up daily – was only a five-minute drive from Cambie Street HQ. Two minutes, if he drove like a wild man.

Striker thanked the man, hung up, and raced to the yards.

Once there, he spotted them. Harry was sitting in the undercover cruiser, drinking coffee and waiting with a vacant look on his red puffy face. The passenger seat was empty. A half-second later, the washroom door opened and Koda stepped out, using a paper towel to dab at the stitches running up his nose.

‘There they are,’ Striker said. ‘Play it cool.’

‘You’re talking to the ice queen, dear.’

Striker hit the gas and pulled up to the pump next to Harry’s Crown Vic. He killed the engine and got out. When he grabbed the gas nozzle, he glanced over at Harry and acted like he was surprised to see the man. ‘Harry? Shit, I’ve been calling you all morning. Why don’t you answer your cell?’

Harry put on a waxy smile. ‘Been a crazy day.’

Striker looked past him at Chad Koda, who had now reached the passenger side of the vehicle. The man looked sick. ‘Shouldn’t he be in protective custody?’

Koda held his head with both hands as if he was trying to hold his skull together, then spat on the ground. When he looked over at Striker, his eyes were glassy and the whites were rimmed with red. ‘I’m done with hospitals. And police protection.’

He climbed into the vehicle.

Beside him, Harry shrugged and forced a smile. ‘He’s a stubborn ass, what can I say?’

Felicia joined them. ‘Hey, Harry.’ She looked over at Koda. ‘How come he’s with you?’

‘Me and Chad are old friends,’ Harry said. ‘I’m just helping him out.’

Striker acted like it wasn’t a big deal. ‘Protection, no protection, I really don’t care. That’s your choice, Koda. I’m just glad we bumped into you. How’s the head, by the way?’