Striker stepped forward and introduced himself. ‘And this is Detective Felicia Santos. She’s with the VPD too.’
Hurst just blinked.
‘We’re here because of Terry Osaka,’ Striker said.
A flicker of happiness filled the man’s eyes. ‘Terry . . . he was . . . just here . . . some day.’ He looked at the box of chocolates on the side table, all of which remained. ‘Take some.’
Striker did not. Instead, he pulled over a chair and sat closer to the bed. ‘I haven’t seen you in years, Sal. Not since you left for the secondment.’
Hurst’s eyelids closed for a moment, then opened again. ‘. . . didn’t last long . . . got sick.’
Felicia sat down next to them. ‘Is that why Terry was here, Sal? Just to visit you? Or was there another reason?’
Hurst took a few laborious breaths before responding. ‘Old friends . . . squadmates.’
Striker nodded. ‘We know that, Sal. But did he come here for any other reason, other than to say hi?’
Hurst just rolled his head lazily back and forth, as if shaking his head no. As he did this, Striker saw the sweat marks on the pillow. ‘Just . . . saying hi,’ Hurst got out. ‘Terry was always . . . a good guy.’
Striker nodded slowly, then cast a glance over at Felicia, who merely shrugged. She took a moment to ask Sal a few questions. But the answers she received were inevitably more of the same, and she didn’t want to tire the poor man. One thing here was clear. Hurst was ill. Probably dying. And he looked like he had little time left. It seemed that Osaka had been merely paying his final respects.
Striker stood to leave. ‘It was good to see you, Sal.’
‘Say . . . say hi . . . to Terry.’
Striker nodded and forced a smile.
‘Get some rest, Sal,’ he said.
One Hundred and Five
They took Highway 99 back to the city. The road curved gradually through the flatlands, then dipped down into the City of Richmond. Coming this way, the scenery was less appealing visually, but it shaved twenty minutes off their commute. Once back in Vancouver, Felicia spotted a Starbucks on Oak.
‘I need a caffeine jolt,’ she said.
Striker didn’t disagree. The thought of a hot cup of Joe was stimulating, and he pulled over. The Starbucks didn’t have a drive-thru, so he parked on the main drag out front. When he opened his door, Felicia’s cell went off. She looked at the screen and said, ‘I need to take this – my contact with the Explosives Branch.’
Striker nodded and retreated from the car.
Felicia had contacts everywhere. It was one of the best things she brought to the partnership – her ability to liaise and schmooze with the best of them. Her contact at the Safety and Explosives Branch of the British Columbia Government was a perfect example of this. And they needed that information badly.
Striker went inside the Starbucks.
When he returned five minutes later, Felicia was still on the phone. He put her drink – a vanilla-caramel latte, size Venti – in the cup holder, then passed her one of the egg-white wraps he had bought. She took it, sniffed it, and made a face. ‘Doesn’t smell like a lemon scone.’
‘Want me to throw some icing sugar on it? Eat. You need the protein.’
She just gave him a sideways glance and took a bite.
Five minutes later, when Striker was half done eating his own egg-white wrap, Felicia hung up her cell and turned to face him. ‘Okay, some interesting stuff here. As it turns out, there was a major recall on PETN the other day – the same explosive your love crush thinks the bombers used to blow up the toy shop and Chad Koda’s place.’
Striker let the ‘love crush’ comment go. ‘Did your contact say why?’
Felicia nodded. ‘I don’t understand all the jargon, but in basic terms, the product was unstable.’
‘We need to get a list of all the places where that batch was sent.’
‘Already requested, they’re working on it now.’ Felicia took a bite of her wrap. ‘And just so we’re clear, next time I prefer lemon scones.’
Striker said nothing. He was too busy thinking about the bombers’ MO. Now it made sense why they’d switched to home-made explosives. It had been an unforeseen roadblock in their plan – and one they had adapted to with seeming ease.
‘So PETN on the toy shop and Koda’s house, then HME on the two vehicles.’
‘Looks like it.’
Recollections of the bomb that had killed Osaka made the egg in Striker’s stomach feel off. Already, he missed his old friend. And try as he did to treat the bombing like it was just another case, it was not possible. Not only because Osaka had been his friend, and not only because Osaka had been a cop, but because the man didn’t deserve an end like this. One thing Osaka had always been was a good man.
He deserved better.
Striker threw the wrapper in the garbage. ‘I still find it strange that Osaka went all the way out there to visit Sal.’
‘He was a good friend. And the man’s not well.’
‘I understand that. But why now? In the middle of the investigation? Was there not a better time to do it? I mean, think of the hours he’d been putting in with all these bombs going off. Plus the kidnapping in District 4. He must have been running on fumes. Then, two days in a row, he gets up early and drives almost an hour into the valley, just to say hi to an old friend? The timing seems off.’
‘You heard the nurse. Sal’s not doing well. Maybe he wasn’t saying hi, maybe he was saying goodbye.’
‘I get that,’ Striker said. ‘But I talked to the nurse. Sal hasn’t been doing well for months. I don’t know . . . to me, the timing doesn’t make sense. Not when we have a mad bomber running around the city. Visiting Sal could have waited a few days.’
He put the car into gear and pulled into the fast lane.
‘Where to?’ Felicia asked.
Striker sighed. ‘White Rock was a bust. But there’s something going on with Osaka, otherwise he wouldn’t have been involved. We need to obtain all his old files – especially ones from about ten years ago.’
‘Why? Where was he working ten years ago?’
Striker gave her a dark look. ‘The Police Standards Section. Internal.’
One Hundred and Six
The bomber lay back on the heavy steel table. He was thirsty.
And cold.
So cold.
When Molly wiped him down with more lidocaine, it chilled his overheated skin and stung him at the same time. He flinched when she began removing the packing gauze from the entry wound in his shoulder; it slithered out of him like a bloodied snake and turned the steel bowl pink.
‘If you’re going to vomit, let me know.’
‘. . . so cold.’
Molly washed the wound with saline, then injected him with another dose of meds – some antihistamines, some plasma and antibiotics – before patching him back up again.
‘You need rest,’ she said.
‘. . . out of time.’
‘Lay still. You’re tearing your wounds open. Lay still.’
‘The operation . . . we’re almost done.’
Molly held up the bowl of gauze and pointed to the white pus within the blood. ‘It’s purulent. Infection’s setting in fast. Your body needs time. It needs to rest.’
He refused to look at her.
‘You’re making this personal,’ she said.
He heard that, and he laughed. ‘Personal? It always was personal, Molly. We were kidding ourselves to think it wasn’t.’
‘Maybe so . . . but you’re enjoying it.’
‘Feelings and emotion have nothing to do with it. The world is black and white, not grey. You’re either guilty or innocent, right or wrong, alive or dead . . . You used to see that once, a long time ago.’