Harry waited for almost five minutes until she finally rounded the corner. ‘Hot as a fuck in here,’ she said, then eyed him up and down. ‘Harry Eckhart? I thought you were dead.’
‘Long story.’
Desiree didn’t mince words. ‘Well, welcome back to the land of the living. What ya want?’
‘GPS records.’
‘For what?’
He held up the base of the GPS device – the unit he had broken off the Ford cruiser before it had exploded in the A&W parking lot. ‘Found this in the back lane. Not sure if it fell out of my car or someone else’s. Can you check the database?’
Desiree grabbed the device from him, yanking it from his fingers. Harry felt his hands ball into fists. Had any street toad done that, he would have busted their jaw . . . but this was the VPD, and around here you got more flies with honey.
He watched patiently as Desiree searched through the database for the part number. When she located one and cross-referenced it through the system, she found what she was looking for. She didn’t even bother to look up.
‘Not yours.’
‘You sure?’
‘You change your name to Connors? Leave it here. I’ll see that it’s returned.’
Without so much as another word, she approached the front counter and muttered, ‘Closing time.’ She slammed down the window partition, leaving Harry standing there, staring at a grey steel barrier.
He barely noticed. All he could think of was the name she had spoken. Connors . . . that meant David Connors. The man had just been transferred to the Police Standards Section. To Internal. And the thought of it turned Harry cold.
They know, he thought. The department knows.
And they were coming after him.
One Hundred and Twenty-One
When they got back to HQ, Felicia continued with the task of figuring out where their suspects had managed to obtain the explosives. While she was following the PETN trail, Striker began making phone calls on Oliver and Molly Howell.
The task was not an easy one.
Time differences were always an issue with federal and international files. It was six p.m. Pacific Time when Striker finally got through to a sergeant in the National Central Bureau of Canada’s Interpol branch. After almost a half-hour of run around time and dead ends, he gave up.
He hung up the phone and dialled the operator. Soon he was connected directly with the City of London Police and speaking to a weary-sounding but polite female staff sergeant.
Striker told her what he required and why.
‘The information you’re asking for is protected,’ she explained. ‘I can’t just tell you this over the phone. Not without proper verification.’
Striker nodded absently. ‘I understand that completely. We can do this one of three ways. You can send the information to my Vancouver Police Department email account, you can send it via CPIC – the Canadian Police Information Centre; but that will take time – or you can verify my badge and identity through the main switchboard and call me back on this line.’
‘How time-sensitive is this information?’ the staff sergeant asked.
‘Extremely. Lives are at stake here. Minutes count.’
‘I’ll call you right back then.’
The staff sergeant verified that she had Striker’s correct name, badge number, and position, then she hung up. Striker did the same and then waited by the phone. After ten minutes, he was getting edgy. After twenty, he was downright annoyed. After thirty, he turned on the Internet, opened Google, and typed in:
Time: London, UK.
The response came back: 01:59 a.m.
Then the phone rang, and he picked up on the first ring.
‘Striker,’ he said.
The staff sergeant identified herself once more. ‘Sorry about the delay, Detective. There was a problem transferring the call – it got dropped several times.’
‘The distance, I guess.’
‘That – and I made some other calls first.’
‘To?’
‘The British Army.’
The words made Striker’s heart skip a beat. ‘The army?’
The staff sergeant made an uncomfortable sound. ‘Look, Detective, I’d be lying if I said the information here isn’t of great concern to us. These two individuals – Oliver and Molly Howell – have outstanding service records with our country’s military. You do realize they’re both members of the Royal Logistics Corps.’
Striker’s stomach knotted up. ‘I knew their father was a member of the RLC, and had my worries their paths might have turned out similar.’
‘They’re both war heroes, Detective. Highly decorated. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how extremely sensitive this information is.’
‘I’ll be as discreet as is legally possible.’
‘Legally possible . . . That doesn’t sound well on this end. And considering the urgency of your call, I’m assuming the worst.’
‘Have you Googled Vancouver?’ he asked.
There was a pause. ‘I have indeed.’
‘What was the first thing that came up?’
The staff sergeant made an uncomfortable sound. ‘The bombings.’ When Striker made no reply, she cursed and said, ‘Bloody hell, this is awful.’
‘Tell me, Staff Sergeant, what exactly did they do in the RLC?’
There was another brief pause and the sound of pages being flipped before the staff sergeant spoke again. ‘Molly is a demolitions tech and a sharpshooter.’
Striker thought back to the woman firing at him in the A&W parking lot – her pinpoint accuracy, her use of suppressing fire just above his head, designed to keep him down and out.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘And the brother, what about him?’
‘Oliver Howell is a Commando-trained Ammunitions Technician . . . a Warrant Officer – Second Class.’
Striker closed his eyes and felt a rush of concern. Ammunitions Technician was just a fancy title for a man with a deadly job. Oliver Howell was the one thing that Striker had feared most.
A bomb hunter.
One Hundred and Twenty-Two
The first thing Striker did was flag every single database available for Oliver and Molly Howell. He then notified the airports, ferries and the US border. Following all this, he contacted Acting Deputy Chief Laroche.
Laroche listened intently, then said, ‘We need to debrief.’
For once, Striker agreed with the man.
The brass and their advisors all met in the briefing room on the seventh floor of Cambie Street Headquarters. Occupying the centre of the meeting room was a twenty-foot-long mahogany desk. Laroche took one look at Striker and Felicia, then offered them the head of the table.
‘Finally, we can begin,’ he said. ‘Detective Striker, why don’t you give us a rundown of everything you’ve learned these past three days. Bring us up to speed on where we stand.’
Striker did as asked. And the more he told the story, the greater the disbelief on their faces grew. When he was done explaining, Superintendent Stewart was the first to speak. ‘But why? What do these people want?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Felicia said. ‘They haven’t asked for anything.’
Striker nodded. ‘Which makes the motive pretty clear in my estimation – revenge.’
Constable Lincoln Johnstone, the Media Liaison Officer, and Heath Ballantyne, a civilian who acted as the department’s public image consultant, let out simultaneous grumbles. Johnstone’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘This is going to be a difficulty with the media.’