The Guilty by Sean Slater Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    He called up CPIC, the Canadian Police Information Centre, and got Dr Sharise Owens flagged on the system as a Missing Person and a Person in Danger. While he did this, Felicia called Sue
Rhaemer at Dispatch and got her to notify the hospitals, ferries, airports and borders once more.
    After a long moment, she hung up.
    ‘Done,’ she said.
    Striker said nothing. He just put the car into Drive and got going.
    Sharise Owens’ home address was just two miles away.

Fifteen
    Striker and Felicia headed just around the bend for Beach Avenue, where Sharise Owens lived in an apartment overlooking the sandy stretch of English Bay.
    They made it there in five minutes and took the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. The doors opened into the hallway, directly across from the suite, and Striker wasted no time. He took up
his position at the side of the apartment door, waited for Felicia to parallel him, and then knocked three times. When no one answered, he looked down the hallway at the neighbouring suite.
    ‘Maybe there’s an onsite manager,’ he said.
    Felicia shook her head. ‘I already checked. These are privately owned suites, and the concierge is offsite. We’ll have to call him.’
    Striker frowned at that. They had reason to believe the woman was in danger. She wasn’t at work. She wasn’t answering her cell. She wasn’t answering her home phone.
    ‘I’m kicking it in.’
    ‘We should at least
try
to get the concierge.’
    ‘Just be ready.’
    ‘Jacob—’
    Striker leaned forward and gave the door a solid kick. The entire structure bowed inwards, but held. A good lock, a better frame. Seeing that, he turned around and gave the door three solid
donkey kicks, landing the heel of his shoe between the door handle and frame. On his third attempt, the entire structure burst inwards and the shrill cry of an alarm filled the air.
    ‘Security system works fine,’ he said, and drew his pistol.
    Felicia swore in frustration but did the same.
    They made entry and began clearing the suite. As they worked from room to room, two things became immediately obvious. One, Sharise Owens was a wealthy woman. Everything was top end, from the
imported Kuppersbusch appliances to the genuine Persian carpets and teak floors.
    The second obvious detail was that, if Sharise had been kidnapped, no struggle had taken place here. The woman clearly took pride in her home, keeping everything in its place, from the
fanned-out
Oprah
magazines on the coffee table to the folded laundry in her closets.
    Everything was immaculate.
    By the time they finished clearing the residence, the alarm had stopped blasting. Felicia holstered her piece. ‘This is a dead end.’
    ‘So far it is,’ Striker responded, his ears still ringing. ‘Let’s do a detailed search – see if we can find anything relevant.’
    ‘Fine. I’ll start with the kitchen.’
    Striker nodded. That left him with the bedroom and the office area. He got right to work, searching through drawers and scavenging through the closets. But in the end, the bedroom yielded
nothing. He grabbed the phone and hit the callback feature to see what number had last called the Owens residence. It was him. He hit redial to see the last number dialled. It was St Paul’s
Hospital.
    The time of the call was late last night.
    No leads there.
    Felicia called out from the other room. ‘No evidence in the kitchen or living room. I’ll search through the den.’
    Striker yelled back okay and went into the office. On the shelf, in two long rows, were a series of micro-tapes and compact discs. Striker examined them. Each tape and disc said
‘copy’ on the cover, and was followed by a description:
    Arlington, Jonas – fractured pelvis, Motor Vehicle Accident.
    Booth, Amy – punctured lung, Workplace Accident.
    Chavez, Ricardo