The Guilty

She smiled. ‘Any time you need information, baby, you just come to momma.’

He shook his head. ‘You can be so a

‘I can be so a

Striker let the conversation go. When the doors opened, he wasted no time in walking down the hall.

Campetti Jewellers was the last door at the end of the corridor. All that gave away its location was a simple black sign with copper writing. Striker pressed the buzzer and watched the exterior camera pan down on them.

He held up his badge. ‘Vancouver Police.’

Seconds later, the electronic door clicked open.

Inside, the office was small but immaculate. Everything was cherry wood, black felt casings, and glimmering glass. Behind the front desk, the entire north wall was one continuous floor-to-ceiling window. The morning sun blazed through it, making the jewellery in the cherry wood display cases gleam.

From a side room came a man so big that, despite Striker’s 186-centimetre height, he felt small. This man behind the desk was easily 200 centimetres and 140 kilos, with hands so big they looked like hockey gloves. His square face held a look of forty years, and his olive skin colouring was deepened by the contrast of his greying short hair.

Striker knew him at a glance. ‘You gotta be kidding me – are you Monster C?’

The man behind the counter smiled. ‘Now there’s a name I don’t hear much any more.’

Striker shook his hand. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos. VPD.’

Felicia looked genuinely surprised. She turned to Striker. ‘How did you know his nickname?’

Striker smiled. ‘Any time you need information, baby, you just come to poppa.’ When she gave him one of her irritated looks, he explained. ‘Monster C here used to be a tight end for the Seattle Seahawks.’

The big man nodded. ‘Was. Until Tyson Williams blew my knee out.’ He spoke the words with obvious disdain.

Striker asked him, ‘So what are you doing here? Security?’

‘No, I design jewellery.’

‘You mean, you’re Campetti?’

The big jeweller laughed softly. ‘I get that a lot. People expect some old Italian dude with tiny hands and thick glasses. Not these meat hooks.’

Striker gri

The three of them talked openly for a few minutes, then Striker got down to business. ‘I need you to look at something and tell me if you recognize it.’ He pulled the bracelet from his jacket pocket.

Campetti sat down on a stool and examined the piece for less than five seconds before speaking. ‘Of course I recognize this. It’s one of a kind. I made it.’

‘You remember for who?’

‘It was a gift. For Sharise Owens – the trauma surgeon who worked on my boy after he got jumped by a gang of pricks at the fireworks two years ago.’ His face darkened. ‘Cops had to carry him into St Paul’s Hospital. He was barely hanging on.’

‘Is he okay?’ Felicia asked.

‘He is . . . now.’ Campetti stared at the bracelet and his eyes took on a faraway look. ‘It’s made from gold and sterling silver. A Celtic Knot. The Triquetra. It symbolizes life, death, and rebirth – which is exactly what Dr Owens did for my boy.’

‘Dr Sharise Owens.’ Striker wrote the name in his notebook ‘This might sound fu

‘Well, yes . . .’ Campetti’s face suddenly took on a concerned expression and he stared at the bracelet. ‘How did you get this? Is everything all right?’

Felicia interjected. ‘We’re not sure what’s going on yet. This bracelet might not even be related. It’s just something we’re checking into right now.’

The words didn’t appear to offer Campetti any comfort.

Striker took the bracelet back and placed it in the evidence bag. He then gave Felicia the nod to leave.

‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said to Campetti. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

A nervous expression still covered the jeweller’s face. He stood up as they opened the door. ‘If you need anything, just call.’

Striker said he would, then closed the door behind them. Once in the hall, Felicia cocked an eyebrow at him.

‘St Paul’s Hospital?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. ‘Time for a doctor’s appointment.’

Fourteen

‘Run her,’ was the first thing Striker said when they got back to the car.

Know who you’re dealing with: it was a standard rule he always went by – one learned from his first sergeant, once mentor, and now best friend Mike Rothschild.

Information was the key; it opened new doors.

Felicia ran the name Sharise Owens through the database. A few seconds later, the laptop beeped and the feed came back. On the screen was a list of names. There were three entities for Sharise Owens. Two of them lived in the City of Vancouver, and one resided in Squamish.

Felicia clicked on the first entity, saw a date of birth that equalled eighty-six years of age, and ruled the woman out. She then clicked on the second name – age forty-two – and the entity popped up on the screen. Felicia pointed at the information in the Particulars section. ‘Look what it says right there. Trauma Surgeon. St Paul’s Hospital.’

‘Check if there are any tattoos listed.’

Felicia did. Frowned.

‘None,’ she said.

Striker wrote down all the listed telephone numbers. While Felicia read through the rest of the documented history, Striker began calling.

The first number, listed as Cell, was no longer in use. The second number, listed as Home, rang three times and went straight to voicemail. Striker left a long message. The third number, labelled Work, was the number for St Paul’s Hospital. Striker called it, and was soon transferred to the nurses’ station.

‘It’s Detective Striker,’ he explained, ‘with the Vancouver Police Department’s Homicide Unit. I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens. She’s a trauma surgeon there.’

The nurse’s tone gave away her weariness. ‘One second, Detective.’

For a moment, the line clicked and Striker was stuck listening to pop music. John Secada or Marc Antony – he wasn’t sure. Then the line clicked again and the nurse returned. ‘I’m sorry. But Dr Owens isn’t in just yet.’

‘When does she get in?’

‘Her shift starts at eleven.’

Striker looked at his watch. An hour and a half. ‘Do you have another number I can reach her at?’ When the nurse made an uncomfortable sound, Striker read off the numbers he already had. ‘Are there any others?’

‘No, those are the same ones we have here.’

‘Does she hang out with any of the other doctors or nurses?’

The woman made a doubtful sound. ‘Dr Owens doesn’t really socialize with anyone – she’s a very private person . . . but I’ll ask around for you.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘Just give me a minute, Detective.’ After another long moment, the nurse came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, but no one has seen her. And the only emergency contact we have is her cell phone number.’

Striker found that odd. ‘No family or friends?’

‘None.’

He let out a long breath, debated in his mind. ‘I need her to call me the moment she arrives. The moment. Understand?’

‘Yes, yes of course.’

He gave the nurse his cell number, hung up, and then turned to Felicia.

‘I’m shooting zeroes here. Anything on your end?’

She looked up from the laptop. ‘No. Same here, I’m afraid. The woman has no known associates. Not even one family member. From what I can tell, she’s the only daughter of deceased parents . . . I say we flag her.’

Striker agreed. Flagging was the equivalent of an All Points Bulletin. If any emergency response worker came into contact with Dr Sharise Owens, Striker and Felicia would be notified immediately.