‘Well?’ he finally asked.
She stared blankly at the papers and did not smile. ‘It’s pretty much what we already know.’
‘It damn well mirrors Osaka’s report.’
‘Almost. Unlike Osaka’s report, this one is pretty poorly written.’
Striker shook his head. ‘I disagree with that completely.’
Felicia gave him an odd look. She fanned out a few of the pages on a nearby filing cabinet and started quoting lines. ‘Chipotle acted erratically . . . He displayed hostile actions . . . Police responded as required . . . Don’t you see? The author doesn’t explain how Chipotle acted erratically, or what his hostile actions were, and he doesn’t even go into detail about how many rounds were fired in the mayhem. Someone should teach this guy a thing or two about detail.’
Striker grinned. ‘On the contrary, I think he knows his details perfectly. In fact, I think he’s expertly written this report without really saying all that much. Pretty hard to counter it in court, if it ever went that far.’
Felicia took a hard look at him. ‘You think the author was purposely vague.’
‘I’d bet my career on it.’
‘Why?’
‘Look at the badge number. Who authored the report?’
Felicia looked down at the header, and a shocked sound escaped her lips. The first two letters were VA, meaning the author was not a Mountie but a member of the Vancouver Police Department. ‘Badge Number 1176? Isn’t that—’
‘Chad Koda.’
Felicia stacked all the papers together. ‘The more we research this file, the more circular it gets.’
‘And the more frustrating.’ Striker punched the elevator button and waited for the booth to arrive. ‘We need to speak to someone who was on scene at ground zero. This breacher, this Archer Davies guy. Hopefully, he hasn’t moved out of province.’ He looked back at the report. ‘Where does it say he lives now?’
Felicia shuffled through the pages until she reached an updated Entities section, one that listed names and addresses for court subpoena purposes. She skimmed down the list and, after two pages, let out an excited gasp. ‘You’re not gonna believe this. The last known address for Archer Davies is down on Zero Avenue.’
‘In White Rock?’
Felicia nodded. ‘The Sunset Grove Care Centre.’
One Hundred and Twelve
It was one-thirty in the afternoon when Harry pulled back into town in his brother’s personal vehicle, a new-model Dodge pickup truck. Black. He drove down Camosun Street and parked out front of Striker’s house, directly across from the park. By the time he had rammed the gear shift in Park and shouldered open the door, one of the patrolmen guarding the house was already fast approaching him.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ the young cop asked.
Harry did not recognize the man. He was tall and thin, and had a look of no-nonsense about him. Harry flashed the badge and the man nodded.
‘Detective Striker isn’t here,’ the cop said.
‘I know that; I’m here to see Rothschild.’
The patrolman looked at him somewhat uncertainly, and Harry realized it was probably because of his appearance; he was unshaven and dishevelled today, wearing yesterday’s clothes – all gifts from a night spent sleeping in the truck.
‘Long shift,’ he finally said.
The cop just nodded.
Harry opened the wooden gate and stepped into the yard. He hiked the cement walkway, climbed the porch steps to the front door and knocked three times. Moments later, he heard the sound of footsteps inside and sensed someone looking through the peephole.
A lock clicked, a chain rattled, the door swung open.
Mike Rothschild stood in the doorway. It had been a while since Harry had seen the man, maybe eighteen months, and the time had not been kind. The lines on Rothschild’s face were cut deep into his flesh, like little dugout trenches on a battlefield. Like Harry, the man looked worn thin.
Rothschild took a half-step onto the balcony. ‘What are you doing here?’
Harry did not smile. He just took a step forward and met Rothschild’s stare.
‘You and I have to talk,’ he said.
One Hundred and Thirteen
The first thing Striker did upon returning to the Sunset Grove Care Centre was head for the front desk. Seated there, glossing over the newspaper with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand, was a new woman who looked terribly serious. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that it tugged at her eyes and made her face look like she’d had one too many lifts.
Striker showed the front-desk clerk his credentials, then grabbed the sign-in book. As he flipped backwards through the pages, Felicia watched eagerly beside him. The book was relatively new, and he reached the first page quickly. He looked at the clerk. ‘Do you have the previous book?’
Her eyes flitted up from her paper. ‘Previous book?’
‘For signing in.’
She stared back through steely dark eyes. Said nothing. And then finally moved off her stool as if this required all the energy she had left in her body. She slowly wandered over to the filing cabinet that sat behind the front counter, scoured through the top drawer, and eventually returned with another binder made up of imitation black leather.
‘It cannot leave the front desk.’
Striker offered no comment. He took the book, snapped it open to the end, and began turning back the pages, one by one. He found Osaka’s name only three pages back. And this time the signature was not beside Sal Hurst’s room number, but beside another name they were looking for.
Archer Davies.
Felicia smiled. ‘There it is. Archer Davies. Room 12.’
Striker looked up at the woman behind the desk. ‘Did you ever have any dealings with Inspector Osaka?’
‘No.’
Striker thought of the nurse he’d spoken with during their previous visit. ‘Did anyone else?’
The woman glanced down at the book. ‘Room 12 is Nurse Janet’s rounds. She’s in today. Probably somewhere down the hall. Ask her; she would know.’ She looked back down at her newspaper as if the detectives no longer existed.
Striker paid the woman no heed. He closed the book and slid it back to her, then proceeded down the hall. A nervous tension filled him, and for some reason the hall looked longer and narrower than it had the first time he’d been here. Everything felt dark and heavy.
He reached Room 12 and went inside.
A man occupied the bed. He was hooked up to an air compressor of some kind, and a soft intermittent shu-shush sound filled the room.
One look at the man and any person could tell he was not well. His face had an aged appearance. The colour of his skin was off, like cream gone bad, and the skin rimming his eyes was a faint purple colour. Beneath the stubble of his face, and under the faded tattoos of his arms, the meat and fat were gone, eaten away by time and sickness. It gave his body the appearance of a deflated balloon, one that had long since lost its resiliency. Compared to this man, Sal Hurst looked ready to run a marathon.
Felicia neared Striker, whispered: ‘He looks like he’s already dead.’
Striker thought the same. Any previous hope of questioning this man had been wishful thinking at best. Felicia moved up to the bed and gently placed her hand on the man’s left arm.
‘Sir?’ she asked. ‘Sir?’
But no response came.
‘Can I help you?’ a voice said from behind Striker.
He turned around and found himself standing face-to-face with a tall thin brunette who was wearing a pale-blue uniform and a pair of matching clogs. In her hands was a clipboard with some charts on it. Striker flashed her the badge.