Harry sat up straight. Met Striker’s stare. And spoke coldly.
‘You didn’t have to tell me,’ he said. ‘I watched Koda shoot him.’
Before returning to the undercover police cruiser, Striker spent over thirty minutes obtaining a proper statement from Harry, but in the end, no matter how much he prodded the
man, the answers remained the same – vague and without logic.
According to Harry, Chad Koda had asked him to stop by the A&W restaurant for a hamburger. While there, he had suddenly informed Harry that he needed to step out for a minute to meet with a
contact about a possible real estate venture regarding the car dealership lot.
Koda had left the restaurant, crossed Semlin Drive, and entered the laneway behind the Hing-Woo warehouse. Finding the situation odd, Harry had followed. When he reached the mouth of the lane,
he heard the gunshots. Then he had spotted the two men.
Koda, standing holding the gun; Sleeves, dead on the ground.
The moment had stunned Harry. Frozen him. And before he’d realized what was happening, Koda had fled to the A&W parking lot. And that was where the car had exploded and they had
suddenly come under fire.
Back in the car, Striker read and re-read the statement over several times.
When he finally finished, he passed the statement over to Felicia. She read it over and came up with the same conclusion. ‘He’s blocked every investigative lead we could have taken.
His reason for being with Koda. His connection to the event. Even any possible gunpowder residue we could swab from his hands – it’s all redundant now. And with Sleeves and Koda both
dead, there’s no one to rebut his version of events.’
‘He’s tied it all together perfectly.’
She looked at him hopefully. ‘Will he take the poly?’
Striker laughed. ‘Says he’s already done his duty by providing the statement. Any more follow-up, and he’ll call the union to lawyer up. Says he’s been traumatized enough
by what’s happened and that he’s concussed by the explosion – which is also a perfect excuse for having the entire statement stricken from the record anyway.’
‘He’s a master manipulator.’
‘Hey, according to Harry, he’s the victim here.’
‘Stop it, you’re breaking my heart,’ Felicia said dryly.
‘Well, like it or not, an attempt was made on his life, and there’s an onus on us – legally and ethically – to protect him.’ Striker shook his head as he thought
back to the shootout in the parking lot. ‘Harry was lucky today. If he hadn’t been wearing that vest, it would all be over for him. Hell, the bombers probably think they got
him.’
The moment he spoke the words, Felicia looked over, and they both knew what the other was thinking.
‘If they already think he’s dead,’ Felicia said, ‘then let’s keep it that way.’
Striker nodded. ‘It makes sense. We already have to give a press release for Koda’s death, why not just add in Harry’s name while we’re at it?’
‘We can retract it later,’ Felicia said.
‘And it will keep him safe, at least for a while, until we can figure this whole mess out.’
‘There’s just one problem,’ Felicia said. ‘He’ll have to agree with it.’
Striker thought that over and nodded. ‘That won’t be a problem,’ he finally said.
‘You don’t think?’
Striker shook his head. ‘No. Because he’s not doing it for himself. He’s doing it for his son. He’s doing it for Ethan.’ He looked at Felicia and his grin widened.
‘You set up what you need to with Laroche and Media Liaison. Leave Harry to me.’
Following a lengthy discussion with Harry, Striker got the man to agree with the plan. He would allow them to release his name as one of the officers killed in the line of
duty; what he would not allow is police protection. No guard. No safe house. No nothing.
‘You’re being foolish,’ Striker said.
‘We can protect you,’ he said.
‘We can even relocate you,’ he said.
But Harry knew the routine well. And the man was adamant.
‘I’ll make my own way,’ he said.
It left Striker with no other recourse. He returned to the undercover cruiser and informed Felicia of Harry’s response. Upon hearing it, she shook her head and her eyes flared with
anger.
‘It makes him look guilty, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘He wants to be out here. In the field. So he can see what’s going on.’
Striker did not disagree. But this was the best they could do in an imperfect situation. He said nothing more; he just leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and went over the file in his
head. Nothing seemed to fit. And his mind felt overworked now.
He was tired.
Felicia spoke up. ‘I checked the lane, by the way. Where Sleeves was killed.’ She closed the laptop, clearly frustrated. ‘There’s nothing – we got no video
surveillance and no witnesses. It’s an investigative dead end.’
Striker opened his eyes. ‘Let’s switch gears for a bit. Focus on Chipotle. He’s the other end to this equation.’
Felicia agreed wholeheartedly.
‘Head to Source Handling?’ she asked.
Striker nodded. ‘It’s time to see if this guy was coded.’
Without full authorization, Striker and Felicia couldn’t access the coded files of the Source Handling Unit. This was standard and a necessary safety measure. Regardless,
it left them with only two options – contacting Trevor Eckhart, or contacting Clara Sykes.
Due to Trevor’s obvious conflict of interest with having Harry for a brother, Striker chose to contact Detective Sykes. She lived in the fisherman’s village of Richmond known as
Steveston – a twenty-minute drive to Cambie Street Headquarters – and she took every one of those minutes getting down there.
Not that it mattered much. Clara Sykes spent less than two minutes searching through the database before saying the one word Striker had been fearing all along:
‘Purged.’
The coded information was gone.
Striker swore out loud and felt himself deflate. It was disappointing, though not exactly surprising – the information on Chipotle was a decade old. Striker thanked the detective for
coming in after hours and trying to help them, then he and Felicia left the Source Handling Unit and returned to Homicide.
There they printed up every file ever created for Carlos Chipotle. There were many. They also attended Archives in an effort to locate the Vancouver Police file for Chipotle’s homicide.
When Striker found the folder, a jolt of excitement hit him – one that quickly turned to frustration when he found the folder to be empty. He threw it on the shelf and cursed.
‘Missing,’ he said. ‘Gone – just like the coded information.’
Felicia didn’t give up. ‘I’ll check the fiche.’
She left the room and Striker continued searching through the files. When Felicia returned ten minutes later, an equally dejected look smeared her features.
‘Nothing?’ Striker asked.
‘Zilch.’
Striker laughed out of scorn. Missing source papers, missing homicide reports – it was beyond coincidental. Someone had taken them. He knew it. There was simply no other logical
explanation.
He grabbed all the folders he could find that were Chipotle-related and realized with all certainty that their day was done. He gave Felicia a weary stare.
‘Let’s get the hell outta here,’ he said. ‘Read this stuff at home – over an ice-cold beer.’
For the first time in hours, a smile found Felicia’s face.
‘You had me at
ice cold
,’ she said.
On the way home, Striker drove in a circuitous route and cut through the Kerrisdale area. He stopped in at the Stone Cold Creamery and bought a two-litre carton of ice cream
for Cody and Shana – blue bubble gum, their favourite.
Once back in the car, Felicia stared at the odd blue colour of the dessert and made a wary sound. ‘This stuff looks like it was made in Chernobyl.’
Striker grinned. ‘Looks like your attempt at risotto last week.’
‘Hey, at least I try – what have you ever tried to make for us?’
‘I do all my cooking in the bedroom.’
‘Yeah? Well next time you need to preheat the oven a little more.’
Striker laughed; the banter felt good. Getting away from the work for a bit felt good. He could suddenly breathe again.
They drove to Rothschild’s new residence and parked out front. The engine died with a rattle. Carton in hand, Striker climbed out and approached the front door. Rothschild opened it before
he could so much as knock, and in behind him, two tiny faces peered out.
Cody and Shana.
Striker held up the ice cream container. ‘Hey, little ones. Who wants a sugar high?’
Shana’s tight expression vanished and was replaced by one of glee, while Cody let out a scream of delight and began chanting the words ‘ice cream’ over and over again, and
marching in a circle around the boxes in the living room.
‘Oh man, you’re gonna get them all hyper,’ Rothschild said.
‘Who cares?’ Felicia said with a grin. ‘Jacob and I can always leave.’
Rothschild just laughed softly. ‘You’re an evil woman.’
Striker ignored the banter and walked into the kitchen. He pulled extra-large bowls from one of the opened packing boxes, gave them a quick rinse under the taps, and then began doling out the
cold blue concoction in huge overflowing spoonfuls. Once the treats were served, they all retreated to the living room and found a place to sit down – Striker and Felicia on the couch with
the two children nestled between them, and Rothschild perched down on a green plastic moving crate.
The blue bubble gum flavour turned out to be a hit, even for the adults. They ate well. Striker chatted about SpongeBob with Cody, and Felicia talked about Selena Gomez with Shana.
A half-hour later, bedtime came.
Shana was the first to get up.
‘Thanks, Uncle Jacob,’ she said. She gave him a quick hug, then looked uncertainly at Felicia but gave her one too.
‘Thanks, sweetie,’ Felicia told her.
Cody did the same, then followed his sister down the hall, whining the whole way about having to go to bed so early.
Striker watched them go and felt a strange mix of emotions. Amusement and yet anxiety, love and yet worry.
‘They’re nice kids,’ Felicia said.
He nodded.
While waiting for Rothschild’s return, Striker looked around the room at all the moving boxes, then at the fireplace mantel where a picture of Rosalyn had already been placed. The image
reminded him of Keisha Williams, and all the hell her children were going through right now. Suddenly the joy of the moment was gone, replaced by a deep melancholy.
‘They all deserved better,’ he said.
Felicia gave him a tender look, and before too long Rothschild returned. He sat down with them, spooned up the last of his blue bubble gum ice cream, and then sat back with an almost wary look
on his face.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do I want to know?’
‘Know what?’ Striker asked.
‘Where’s the investigation at now?’
Striker really didn’t want to get into it any more this night, but the man was owed a full debrief. Together, he and Felicia spent a good half-hour filling Rothschild in on all that had
transpired during the day’s events. With each word, Rothschild’s face took on an even deeper expression of disbelief.
‘This is a friggin’ nightmare,’ he finally said.
Striker let out a humourless chuckle. ‘You think?’
‘Nothing seems to fit,’ Felicia said.
Striker agreed. There were not only pieces of the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit, but pieces seemed to be missing as well. It almost felt like two entirely different puzzles had been
dumped together, making one big jumbled mess for them to sort through.
It was maddening.
Together, the three of them discussed many of the aspects of the case, and tried to sort things out. But the more they talked, the deeper their sense of frustration grew. When it was finally
time to head home, Striker couldn’t wait to go.
The tank was empty now. He was running on fumes.
When Striker and Felicia finally got home to Striker’s place and closed the door behind them, the clock on the living room wall read 10:17.
It felt
hours
later.
Striker dropped his coat on the floor beside the coat rack, stacked the Chipotle folders on the coffee table in the den, and then grabbed a couple of ice-cold beers from the fridge. Felicia took
her beer and pressed the bottle against her cheek. ‘God, that feels good.’ She rolled it against the side of her neck and shivered. ‘I need a shower.’
She wandered down the hall and disappeared into the bedroom.
Striker took a long swig of his beer and grabbed the first stack of papers. He read. In a few of the files, Chipotle had been charged. In a few more, he had been listed as a suspect. But in most
of them, he was simply labelled as a Known Associate.
Striker read the vast array of offences –
Living off the Avails, Running a Common Bawdy House, Theft Over, Robbery, Trafficking, Murder.
The list went on and on.
It was almost fifteen minutes later when the bedroom door opened and Felicia returned. Striker looked up at her and suppressed a chuckle. She was wearing a pair of red socks, black Lululemon
yoga tights, a yellow T-shirt, and had her hair pulled back with a purple scrunchie.
She caught his smirk and crossed her arms.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘You look like a rainbow exploded.’
She raised an eyebrow and walked into the room. ‘Might I remind you that
I’m
the one living out of a suitcase here – everything else I have is dirty.’
‘Which is why you should just move in.’
Felicia stared at him with a mischievous look on her face, but said nothing. She came over to the couch, shoved him hard against the backing, and straddled his hips. ‘If you hate the
colours so much, why don’t you take them off me?’
Striker wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close enough to kiss her.
‘Taste the rainbow?’ he asked.