‘I got a message,’ she said.
‘From the bomber?’
She nodded, half surprised. ‘You get one too?’
‘We need to trace the email ASAP.’
Felicia frowned. ‘Already done.’
‘Through Ich?’
She gave him an irritated look. ‘Of course, Ich.’
‘And?’
She shook her head. ‘The message was sent through an offshore proxy. It’s completely untraceable. You can’t even reply. It won’t connect.’ She opened her email app and showed Striker the message she had received.
It was the exact same.
‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Why send this at all? What, is he taunting us?’
Striker thought it over. It didn’t seem that way. If anything, it was almost like the man was genuinely warning them off. The idea that they would ever stop the investigation was ludicrous – a break from reality. It told much of the bomber’s mental state.
‘Nothing makes sense any more.’
Striker looked at the scene behind them, where Corporal Summer was now taking complete control of the latest bomb scene. Patrol was busy canvassing, forensic techs were filtering through the debris, and the Media Liaison unit was busy dealing with the constantly amassing press.
They could do no more here.
‘Come on,’ Striker said. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. We got a wildcat to see.’
They headed out east to the 2800 block of Pender Street with Striker at the wheel. That was where E-Comm was located. While en route, Felicia went through the CAD call remarks of the Osaka bombing, looking for anything unusual.
‘Interesting,’ she said after a while. ‘Listen to this: not five minutes after Osaka was killed in the blast, a witness reported seeing a white van racing south on Kerr Street.’
‘They get a plate number?’
‘No . . . Then, ten minutes after that, one of the Alpha units tried to pull over a white van in the Marpole area. But it bolted on them.’
‘Any plate?’
‘No.’
‘A make or model?’
‘Again, no. It was a good block ahead and going fast.’
Striker frowned. ‘Get the analyst to put that information into the Overnights. I want Patrol to see it. Have checks done on all generic white vans spotted between the hours of midnight and five a.m.’
Felicia agreed; she got on the phone and got things done.
When they reached E-Comm, the Emergency Communications Centre, Striker and Felicia entered the security foyer. Striker flashed his badge to the guard inside the booth, then they obtained a pass key.
Before heading on, Striker grabbed a bottle of Coke from the dispenser. Once on the main floor, they located Sue Rhaemer. The woman was seated in District 2 Command, west side of the facility. She was leaning forward in a high-backed office chair, wearing a set of earphones complete with a voice-activated mike. She was busy scanning three huge monitors that were full of information.
Felicia pointed at her. ‘Didn’t I see her in the last Star Trek movie?’
‘I think it was The Matrix.’
As they finished their conversation, Sue looked over and spotted them. She yelled out, ‘Hey, dude and dudette!’ and pumped her fist in the air.
Striker just smiled at her. Sue was more than uninhibited. She’d played electric guitar in her own band – the Femme Fatales – wore low-cut shirts and push-up bras, and teased her bleached, platinum-blonde hair like Samantha Fox.
Now midway through her forties and wearing plus-size clothing, her dream of gyrating on the hood of a Jaguar in a Whitesnake rock video may have passed, but she was still known to frequent the back of a few Buicks. She wore that rumour unabashedly and made no apologies for it. It was for reasons like this that Striker couldn’t help but like the woman. Sue was genuine.
He approached her work station, backed up by Felicia. ‘You got my list there, Bananarama?’
Sue scowled. ‘Bananarama? Puu – leeeze.’ She spun her chair around. ‘My stage name was Wildcat, not Bubbles or Candy. Now where the hell’s my Coke?’
Striker handed her the bottle, and Sue unscrewed the cap. She took a couple of swigs. Let out a sigh. ‘Sweet sugar bliss.’
Striker prodded her. ‘The GPS history on Osaka’s car.’
She put down the bottle. ‘Fine, fine, okay. But this is the last of it, Striker. The last. You know the protocols. You’re going to get me in some serious trouble here.’
‘You’re helping us save lives.’
Sue said nothing back. She just logged into the GPS tracking system, located Osaka’s vehicle number, and brought up the history. ‘This is just the basic hourly rundown. You want the full history, you need to retrieve the unit and hook it up to a computer.’
‘I just need a list of all of his GPS coordinates over the last few days, in particular the morning hours. Places where he’d been – especially ones out in the valley.’
Sue ran her finger down the monitor, scanning the electronic list. She stopped a third of the way from the bottom and made a noise. ‘Hmm, look here . . . and here. Two times in two days. Same place, out in the valley.’
Striker leaned closer and looked at the list. ‘Where is this? White Rock?’
‘Yeah. But way, way, way down south. We’re talking Zero Avenue here – right down by the US border.’
Striker looked at the times Osaka had been there. 09:00 hours. Both times. And on two consecutive days. He turned back and looked at Felicia. Her eyes were focused on the screen with the same intrigue.
‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘Why would he go all the way out there when there’s so much chaos going on right here in the city?’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Striker said.
It was time for a road trip.
One Hundred and Three
The holiday rental Harry booked was a small yellow house with wood siding. It sat on the edge of the Fraser River in the quaint, historical town of Fort Langley, a fifty-minute drive from Vancouver’s downtown core. Harry had found the place online, and immediately knew it was the perfect hiding place for his family. The B&B was far enough from the city to be removed, yet still close enough to be reachable.
It was no solution, but it would buy him time.
Harry finished unloading the last suitcase from the car and carried it up the walkway. Ethan went with him the entire way, skipping more than running, holding Harry’s free hand. When they reached the foyer, Ethan bounded ahead to the TV and put on the Teletoon channel. Soon enough, he was deeply enmeshed in the wonderful world of The Smurfs.
Harry’s wife Sandra stood by the sink in the kitchen, staring out at the river’s edge. Her hands were folded over her stomach and a nervous expression marred her face. She glanced at Harry, then back at the river. ‘The currents look bad,’ she said, and her voice broke.
‘Sandra—’
‘I’m not comfortable here, Harry.’
‘It’s necessary. For now.’
‘But why?’
‘Because no one knows you’re here.’
A mix of fear and resentment filled her eyes. ‘I can’t take much more of this,’ she said. ‘Cryptic phone calls. Moving to secret locations. Press releases of your death – my God, Harry! I’m scared. I’m scared for Ethan.’
Harry grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘You and Ethan are precisely why I’ve done all this,’ he said. ‘Look, Sandra, I can’t explain it all right now. You have to trust me on this one. But I will tell you. Later. I promise.’
For a brief moment, her worry mutated into anger, and she gave him a hot look. ‘Sometimes, I wonder why I listen to you.’