A chill washed through him.
The civilian bystander who’d been rendered a paraplegic by the .22 bullet from Zagorsky’s gun was Stirling Harrison. He had perished just three nights ago in a gas line explosion that resulted in a house fire in Squamish, a town along the highway heading north out of Vancouver into the mountains. His wife, Elaine, also died in the fire. Both Elaine and Stirling Harrison—parents of toddlers at the time of Stirling’s injury—had delivered powerful victim impact statements at Zagorsky’s sentencing. And they’d appeared at each and every one of Zagorsky’s parole board hearings since, delivering similar impact statements.
Until now.
Now they would not be giving victim impact statements at Zagorsky’s parole hearing in two days because they were dead.
Which meant that this time Zagorsky might actually prove eligible, since he appeared to be a model prisoner in every respect and had been moved into the general population section a few years back.
Maddocks reached for his can of pop and tilted it to his mouth before realizing it was empty. He set it down absently, scrolled farther. The house fire “accident” was classic mob MO. According to the intel on the screen, similar gas explosions had destroyed rival mob businesses in Montreal for years. The Stirling blaze was currently being investigated for proof of mob connections. This fact was marked as classified.
The mob had killed a paraplegic and his wife in order to help Zagorsky gain parole? Payment for his silence?
Maddocks sat back, rubbed his jaw.
What in the hell had Angie gotten into? These guys were lethal. Her questioning Belkin would only threaten him. Or already had. An inmate hitting his WED date was not going to welcome fresh allegations. And if she let on that she’d begun remembering things from the past . . . the Stirling house fire demonstrated the lengths the Russians might go to shut her up.
Maddocks came abruptly to his feet. He stared out of a narrow window overlooking a street, his brain racing. This was top security intel. The only reason he had access was because of his clearance for Aegis. Belkin and Zagorsky had been incarcerated for years—they were likely in no way directly connected to the barcode trafficking case, but they were connected to the mob. And leaking information from the Aegis intel files would be a serious breach of protocol. It could cost Maddocks his career. He could face criminal charges if it was discovered that he’d done it.
He couldn’t tell her.
He also couldn’t not warn her. He had to find a way to get Angie to stand down, but he knew Angie—she wouldn’t heed some unsubstantiated warning. She’d want facts, proof.
Conflict torqued through him. He glanced at his watch, tension heating his body.
Her life could be at risk—these guys meant business.
CHAPTER 40
It was late afternoon Saturday at the Vancouver city library. Angie had returned from the Hansen Correctional Centre and was combing through the microfilm copies of newspaper archives from 1993. Her brain was hopping. There was not a doubt in her mind that Milo Belkin had known who she was the instant he’d laid eyes on her. Which had to mean that he’d known Angie’s mother—that she bore a striking genetic resemblance to her biological parent. She could not even begin to articulate how this had rocked her. It was like she belonged. To someone. Was truly genetically connected to some family tree out there. She’d had a sister, who now needed justice. It altered every perception Angie had ever held about her own self-identity.
Her goal now was to find any and every old newspaper article associated with Milo Belkin’s drug bust in 1993, his criminal associates, the deceased VPD officer, the injured bystander, and the ensuing court case. She would then search for more on the burned-out van with the Colt .45 found in 1998.
When Angie returned to her hotel tonight, she’d work through the evidence on the memory stick that Jacob Anders had given her, but this had to be done first, in part because of the library hours, and also because she had to be back in Victoria before Monday morning to endure another week of her discipline. She glanced at her watch, antsy for Anders to call with DNA results—anything extra that she could use to pressure Belkin in addition to the fingerprint evidence. But it was way too early. Those results could be several days out yet. She was now in a race against time with Pietrikowski, because he’d be getting the same DNA results from his lab soon, too. And when he found that she’d already hit up Belkin, he would take action. And that action could involve Vedder, because Angie had used her police ID to interrogate an inmate while confined to an office job on probation. She’d be in big shit, but having looked into Belkin’s black eyes and seen his shock . . . it was worth it.
Her cell rang on the table beside her, and she lunged for it, hoping it might be Anders, but an unidentified number displayed. Angie frowned and connected the call.
“Pallorino.”
“It’s me.”
“Maddocks?” A punch of warmth went through Angie. She’d called him earlier to let him know how it had gone with Belkin but had once again been kicked to voicemail. “What’s with the different number?”
“Burner. Personal call.” His voice was clipped, terse.
A whisper of warning slid through Angie. “I tried to call—”
“Was in a meeting. Been tasked to an interagency force based out of Surrey.”
“Surrey? What? Which force? Why?”
“It’s something that grew out of the Victoria investigation. Look, I can’t talk about it, Ange—not on the phone. I—”
“It grew out of the barcode girls? The Amanda Rose investigation?”
He cleared his throat. She could hear what sounded like a television set murmuring in the background.
“Where are you, Maddocks? What’s going on?”
“I’m in a hotel. In Surrey. I don’t know how long I’ll be stationed out here. Tell me how it went with Belkin.” His tone brooked no argument, and there was an edge in his voice she hadn’t heard before.
Surrey. Where Sabrina lives. His old neighborhood—he is stationed out there while I’m heading back to the island to drive a desk. That initial punch of warmth turned cool. “Where’s Jack-O?”
“With Holgersen. For a while, at least until I know how long I might be out here. Angie—”
“You trust Holgersen with your dog? Why not me?”
“’Cause you’re not there, Angie. And Holgersen probably likes Jack-O more than you do.”
Irritable now, she said, “What about Ginny? I thought you didn’t want to leave her alone?” She cursed to herself even as the words came out of her mouth. This was not like her, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. It struck her hard and sudden: I’ve already allowed myself to fall too deep for this guy. I’m feeling bitter, jealous, possessive. That’s not cool, and it makes no sense.