Oliver’s eyes narrowed at the words, but he said nothing.
Striker continued:
‘You think that Dr Owens falsified her reports to hide the murder and that her cousin, Keisha Williams, was money-laundering the funds. And you believe that everyone is culpable, no matter how small or indirect their role in this mess.’
Still, Oliver said nothing.
‘I also know you derived this belief from inconsistencies in the police and medical reports, along with the audio tapes.’ Striker edged his way a little closer to the maintenance door. ‘That’s why you kidnapped Dr Owens – not to torture her, but to interrogate her. To corroborate what you already believed. And you think you got that from her.’
Oliver’s expression remained unreadable. After a short moment, he nodded slowly. ‘You’re good at your job, Detective.’
‘Better than you. I found the truth.’
A quick burst of anger flashed through Oliver’s eyes. ‘I know the truth.’
‘You know nothing.’ Striker took another step closer to the maintenance door. ‘The fact is, you’re right and you’re wrong.’
Oliver’s expression communicated nothing.
‘Koda did cover up the shooting,’ Striker said. ‘And Owens did falsify the report . . . but that’s as far as it goes. When your father was shot, Oliver, it wasn’t because everyone betrayed him. It was because the entire scene down there was chaos. Rothschild didn’t purposely shoot Archer in the back, it was an accident.’
For the first time, Oliver smiled. And he did so darkly. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Detective?’
Striker met the man’s stare. ‘I take you for nothing. I don’t have to – the evidence speaks for itself.’
‘What evidence?’
Striker edged a little closer to the maintenance door. ‘During that call, Rothschild had to reposition. He moved from a south to north position. He had to – because of the downward slope of the river. Otherwise he’d be shooting from a level position, lighting up his men instead of covering them.’
The dark look on Oliver’s face turned from one of anger to cold suspicion, but he remained silent.
‘You’re a military man,’ Striker said. ‘You have a hundred times more experience than I do. Wartime experience. So you tell me: does that make sense to you?’
Oliver let out a long breath, wiped away the sweat from his brow. ‘I’ve seen the radio reports.’
‘I know you have. You got printed-up copies of the entire CAD call. But you didn’t actually pull the tapes, did you? I know you didn’t. Know why? Because I did. And the tapes don’t match the call – just like the medical tapes don’t match the written report.’
‘The CAD call—’
‘CAD calls are typed out by Dispatchers on the fly, Oliver. People miss things, they make mistakes. If you had taken the time to listen to the actual tapes, you would have heard Rothschild repositioning.’
Oliver’s face took on a blank look, then it tightened.
‘Liar,’ he said.
Striker shook his head. ‘No. I’m not. It was a rookie squad, Oliver. A bunch of novices thrown together at a moment’s notice. When Chipotle started shooting, the men just panicked – all of them except your father, which doesn’t surprise me because he was the only one who had seen wartime action. Archer only turned to run when he realized he’d lost the entire squad. And that’s when Rothschild tried to take out Chipotle. The bullet went through the living room window, north side, and exited out the south side through the dining room. It struck your father as he ran for cover. That’s how he got hit in the back, Oliver. That’s how the breach went off.’
‘Liar,’ he said again.
‘It was an accident.’
Oliver’s face tightened. ‘It’s fucking bollocks.’
But Striker only shook his head solemnly. ‘Same goes for Osaka. His investigation was dropped only because he didn’t have enough evidence. Why? Because Koda wrote the police reports and Owens doctored the medical reports. There was no cover-up on his part. He was just overburdened with work and the shooting looked straightforward.’ Striker reached the maintenance door. ‘You murdered an innocent man.’
Oliver’s entire body began to tremble. ‘Lies.’
‘It’s true. Your father’s shooting and the subsequent explosion was nothing more than a horrible accident in a chaotic gun battle. Osaka, Koda, Owens, Williams, the cops back at my house, even your sister’s death . . . it’s all been for nothing. You were wrong.’
‘LIES!’ Oliver roared.
Striker stopped talking and took a long look at the man. The flesh of his face had turned a purplish-red colour now and spit bubbles formed on his lips. Beads of sweat covered his face and neck regions, and his eyes were large and wild and glaring.
‘Where are the children, Oliver?’
His stare was faraway, his voice quiet. ‘It’s not true.’
‘They have no mother. She died just months ago.’
‘. . . not fucking true.’
‘Their father is all they have left.’
‘. . . not true . . .’
‘Oliver,’ Striker said. ‘Oliver.’
But the man was no longer listening. He was zoning out now. Fading. And his posture was sagging, his entire body leaning to the left. Striker focused on the man’s hands. They were trembling, weakening, slowly loosening on the pressure-release plate of the detonator.
‘Oliver,’ Striker said again. ‘OLIVER!’
But it was no use. He was losing him.
One Hundred and Forty-Eight
Oliver heard his name being called, but the words seemed small – so distant that they were not only miles away but in another plane of existence. He was fading, he knew. He could feel it. Slipping away to that faraway place where he and Molly were kids again, where Mother was baking scones and Father was healthy and strong and alive.
‘Oliver! Focus on me, Oliver!’
So hot . . . he was so goddam hot.
And so cold too.
Light. Swelling. Floating.
Recollections hit him. Memories slowly untangling in time:
Father was spinning him round in the air, giving him an airplane ride.
Then Father was leaving. Standing at the car. And he was sobbing, peeking out between the drapes, saying, ‘Don’t go, Daddy, don’t go.’
Then he was off to war.
And Mother was crying, not wanting him to go.
His men were dying all around him – chunks of flesh being punched from their bodies by the AK47 fire.
And the helicopter was dropping down – the loud whup-whup-whup of the blades sounding like angry thunder . . .
Oliver looked up. Blinked. Let out a small laugh.
The memories made sense, the timeline was in order. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, his head felt clear. Like the clouds of confusion had finally dissipated.
He looked up at Striker oddly. ‘Do you believe, Detective?’
The question seemed to surprise the big cop. ‘Believe? You mean, in God?’
‘In God. In flesh and spirit.’
‘I believe there’s something there, yes.’
Oliver smiled sadly. ‘How fortunate for you. The feeling must be nice.’ When Striker offered no other words, Oliver continued. ‘You know what I believe in, Detective? I believe in Semtex. I believe in fuse kits. And copper jacket rounds.’