The Guilty (6 page)

‘She’s got me.’

Felicia laughed softly. ‘Oh joy.’

‘She hasn’t even finished her therapy yet.’

‘So what? What the girl really needs is some time away. Besides, this has nothing to do with therapy, or Tate, or her trip to Ireland, and you know it . . . Courtney’s growing up, is
all. And you don’t like it.’

‘She’s only sixteen, Feleesh.’

‘So what? I had two kids by the time I was sixteen.’

Striker turned to look at her. ‘
What?’

‘Gotcha.’

She laughed out loud and Striker said nothing. He just let out a long breath, steered into the fast lane, and drove across the Granville Street Bridge.

They couldn’t get there quick enough for his liking.

The Gold Building – a 27-storey high-rise, located in the very centre of the downtown core – was not the actual building name, but a nickname cops had given it due
to the high amount of gold vendors it housed.

Striker had been by the place a thousand times in his career – mainly because the Granville strip was a magnet for problems – but had never once set foot inside the building. Now, as
they rode the elevator up to the top floor, he took the bracelet from the bag, turned it over in his hands, and looked for a signature or a serial number. When he found none, he looked back at
Felicia.

‘How’d you know this was a Campetti?’

She smiled. ‘Any time you need information, baby, you just come to momma.’

He shook his head. ‘You can be so annoying.’

‘
I
can be so annoying? Wow, talk about the pot and the kettle.’

Striker let the conversation go. When the doors opened, he wasted no time in walking down the hall.

Campetti Jewellers was the last door at the end of the corridor. All that gave away its location was a simple black sign with copper writing. Striker pressed the buzzer and watched the exterior
camera pan down on them.

He held up his badge. ‘Vancouver Police.’

Seconds later, the electronic door clicked open.

Inside, the office was small but immaculate. Everything was cherry wood, black felt casings, and glimmering glass. Behind the front desk, the entire north wall was one continuous
floor-to-ceiling window. The morning sun blazed through it, making the jewellery in the cherry wood display cases gleam.

From a side room came a man so big that, despite Striker’s 186-centimetre height, he felt small. This man behind the desk was easily 200 centimetres and 140 kilos, with hands so big they
looked like hockey gloves. His square face held a look of forty years, and his olive skin colouring was deepened by the contrast of his greying short hair.

Striker knew him at a glance. ‘You gotta be kidding me – are you Monster C?’

The man behind the counter smiled. ‘Now there’s a name I don’t hear much any more.’

Striker shook his hand. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos. VPD.’

Felicia looked genuinely surprised. She turned to Striker. ‘How did you know his nickname?’

Striker smiled. ‘Any time you need information, baby, you just come to poppa.’ When she gave him one of her irritated looks, he explained. ‘Monster C here used to be a tight
end for the Seattle Seahawks.’

The big man nodded. ‘
Was
. Until Tyson Williams blew my knee out.’ He spoke the words with obvious disdain.

Striker asked him, ‘So what are you doing here? Security?’

‘No, I design jewellery.’

‘You mean,
you’re
Campetti?’

The big jeweller laughed softly. ‘I get that a lot. People expect some old Italian dude with tiny hands and thick glasses. Not these meat hooks.’

Striker grinned at that; it was true.

The three of them talked openly for a few minutes, then Striker got down to business. ‘I need you to look at something and tell me if you recognize it.’ He pulled the bracelet from
his jacket pocket.

Campetti sat down on a stool and examined the piece for less than five seconds before speaking. ‘Of course I recognize this. It’s one of a kind. I made it.’

‘You remember for who?’

‘It was a
gift
. For Sharise Owens – the trauma surgeon who worked on my boy after he got jumped by a gang of pricks at the fireworks two years ago.’ His face darkened.
‘Cops had to carry him into St Paul’s Hospital. He was barely hanging on.’

‘Is he okay?’ Felicia asked.

‘He is . . . now.’ Campetti stared at the bracelet and his eyes took on a faraway look. ‘It’s made from gold and sterling silver. A Celtic Knot. The
Triquetra
.
It symbolizes life, death, and rebirth – which is exactly what Dr Owens did for my boy.’

‘Dr Sharise Owens.’ Striker wrote the name in his notebook ‘This might sound funny, but is she black? African-American?’

‘Well, yes . . .’ Campetti’s face suddenly took on a concerned expression and he stared at the bracelet. ‘How did you get this? Is everything all right?’

Felicia interjected. ‘We’re not sure what’s going on yet. This bracelet might not even be related. It’s just something we’re checking into right now.’

The words didn’t appear to offer Campetti any comfort.

Striker took the bracelet back and placed it in the evidence bag. He then gave Felicia the nod to leave.

‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said to Campetti. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

A nervous expression still covered the jeweller’s face. He stood up as they opened the door. ‘If you need anything, just call.’

Striker said he would, then closed the door behind them. Once in the hall, Felicia cocked an eyebrow at him.

‘St Paul’s Hospital?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. ‘Time for a doctor’s appointment.’

‘Run her,’ was the first thing Striker said when they got back to the car.

Know who you’re dealing with
: it was a standard rule he always went by – one learned from his first sergeant, once mentor, and now best friend Mike Rothschild.

Information was the key; it opened new doors.

Felicia ran the name Sharise Owens through the database. A few seconds later, the laptop beeped and the feed came back. On the screen was a list of names. There were three entities for Sharise
Owens. Two of them lived in the City of Vancouver, and one resided in Squamish.

Felicia clicked on the first entity, saw a date of birth that equalled eighty-six years of age, and ruled the woman out. She then clicked on the second name – age forty-two – and the
entity popped up on the screen. Felicia pointed at the information in the Particulars section. ‘Look what it says right there. Trauma Surgeon. St Paul’s Hospital.’

‘Check if there are any tattoos listed.’

Felicia did. Frowned.

‘None,’ she said.

Striker wrote down all the listed telephone numbers. While Felicia read through the rest of the documented history, Striker began calling.

The first number, listed as
Cell,
was no longer in use. The second number, listed as
Home,
rang three times and went straight to voicemail. Striker left a long message. The
third number, labelled
Work,
was the number for St Paul’s Hospital. Striker called it, and was soon transferred to the nurses’ station.

‘It’s Detective Striker,’ he explained, ‘with the Vancouver Police Department’s Homicide Unit. I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens. She’s a trauma surgeon
there.’

The nurse’s tone gave away her weariness. ‘One second, Detective.’

For a moment, the line clicked and Striker was stuck listening to pop music. John Secada or Marc Antony – he wasn’t sure. Then the line clicked again and the nurse returned.
‘I’m sorry. But Dr Owens isn’t in just yet.’

‘When does she get in?’

‘Her shift starts at eleven.’

Striker looked at his watch.
An hour and a half
. ‘Do you have another number I can reach her at?’ When the nurse made an uncomfortable sound, Striker read off the numbers he
already had. ‘Are there any others?’

‘No, those are the same ones we have here.’

‘Does she hang out with any of the other doctors or nurses?’

The woman made a doubtful sound. ‘Dr Owens doesn’t really socialize with anyone – she’s a very private person . . . but I’ll ask around for you.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Just give me a minute, Detective.’ After another long moment, the nurse came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, but no one has seen her. And the only emergency contact we
have is her cell phone number.’

Striker found that odd. ‘No family or friends?’

‘None.’

He let out a long breath, debated in his mind. ‘I need her to call me the moment she arrives.
The moment
. Understand?’

‘Yes, yes of course.’

He gave the nurse his cell number, hung up, and then turned to Felicia.

‘I’m shooting zeroes here. Anything on your end?’

She looked up from the laptop. ‘No. Same here, I’m afraid. The woman has no known associates. Not even one family member. From what I can tell, she’s the only daughter of
deceased parents . . . I say we flag her.’

Striker agreed. Flagging was the equivalent of an All Points Bulletin. If any emergency response worker came into contact with Dr Sharise Owens, Striker and Felicia would be notified
immediately.

He called up CPIC, the Canadian Police Information Centre, and got Dr Sharise Owens flagged on the system as a Missing Person and a Person in Danger. While he did this, Felicia called Sue
Rhaemer at Dispatch and got her to notify the hospitals, ferries, airports and borders once more.

After a long moment, she hung up.

‘Done,’ she said.

Striker said nothing. He just put the car into Drive and got going.

Sharise Owens’ home address was just two miles away.

Striker and Felicia headed just around the bend for Beach Avenue, where Sharise Owens lived in an apartment overlooking the sandy stretch of English Bay.

They made it there in five minutes and took the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. The doors opened into the hallway, directly across from the suite, and Striker wasted no time. He took up
his position at the side of the apartment door, waited for Felicia to parallel him, and then knocked three times. When no one answered, he looked down the hallway at the neighbouring suite.

‘Maybe there’s an onsite manager,’ he said.

Felicia shook her head. ‘I already checked. These are privately owned suites, and the concierge is offsite. We’ll have to call him.’

Striker frowned at that. They had reason to believe the woman was in danger. She wasn’t at work. She wasn’t answering her cell. She wasn’t answering her home phone.

‘I’m kicking it in.’

‘We should at least
try
to get the concierge.’

‘Just be ready.’

‘Jacob—’

Striker leaned forward and gave the door a solid kick. The entire structure bowed inwards, but held. A good lock, a better frame. Seeing that, he turned around and gave the door three solid
donkey kicks, landing the heel of his shoe between the door handle and frame. On his third attempt, the entire structure burst inwards and the shrill cry of an alarm filled the air.

‘Security system works fine,’ he said, and drew his pistol.

Felicia swore in frustration but did the same.

They made entry and began clearing the suite. As they worked from room to room, two things became immediately obvious. One, Sharise Owens was a wealthy woman. Everything was top end, from the
imported Kuppersbusch appliances to the genuine Persian carpets and teak floors.

The second obvious detail was that, if Sharise had been kidnapped, no struggle had taken place here. The woman clearly took pride in her home, keeping everything in its place, from the
fanned-out
Oprah
magazines on the coffee table to the folded laundry in her closets.

Everything was immaculate.

By the time they finished clearing the residence, the alarm had stopped blasting. Felicia holstered her piece. ‘This is a dead end.’

‘So far it is,’ Striker responded, his ears still ringing. ‘Let’s do a detailed search – see if we can find anything relevant.’

‘Fine. I’ll start with the kitchen.’

Striker nodded. That left him with the bedroom and the office area. He got right to work, searching through drawers and scavenging through the closets. But in the end, the bedroom yielded
nothing. He grabbed the phone and hit the callback feature to see what number had last called the Owens residence. It was him. He hit redial to see the last number dialled. It was St Paul’s
Hospital.

The time of the call was late last night.

No leads there.

Felicia called out from the other room. ‘No evidence in the kitchen or living room. I’ll search through the den.’

Striker yelled back okay and went into the office. On the shelf, in two long rows, were a series of micro-tapes and compact discs. Striker examined them. Each tape and disc said
‘copy’ on the cover, and was followed by a description:

The list went on.

There were many tapes and discs, all appearing to be audio files of past surgeries Dr Owens had performed. Eleven years’ worth. Striker was impressed. Most doctors kept reports, but it
appeared that Dr Owens went a step further.

The woman was meticulous.

He put back the tapes and finished his search. When he approached the computer, he saw that the screen was black. He moved the mouse and a password request appeared. Having little personal
knowledge of the woman, he didn’t even hazard a guess. Instead, he sat down, opened the drawers, and started rifling through the files.

Most of it was ordinary bills with some tax information slips and the odd photocopy of a medical certificate or diploma. An old address book was relatively unused. It had the numbers of two
other doctors listed in it, but nothing else. Striker called them both, but neither of them had seen or heard from Dr Owens in weeks.