‘We need to learn more about this doctor,’ he said. ‘So we got two options here – we can either wait at St Paul’s until she shows up for work, or we can hightail it back to HQ and start searching the databases.’

The choice for Felicia was simple. ‘I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.’

‘Good. Because there’s no guarantee she’ll show up there at all.’

The moment Striker spoke the words, he regretted them. It was as if they were taboo. The fact that Sharise Owens might already be dead was a sobering thought. But there it was – the cold hard reality of it all.

Welcome to Homicide.

Sixteen

The clock read 09:45 when Striker logged onto his work computer at Homicide headquarters and waited for the Versadex program to initiate. It was a standard Wednesday, midweek hustle, and the office was half-filled with weary investigators. As always, the building echoed with a mechanical thunder from the prehistoric air conditioner that rattled sometimes, clanked others, but almost always blew out warm air – especially on hot summer days.

While Striker waited for the program to load, he walked to the kitchen area and poured himself a cup of the sludge the office brass called coffee. Normally he drank it black, but this brew required chemical creamer and sugar to smooth out the burned taste.

For the next five minutes, he sipped his coffee, checked his voicemail for messages from Courtney, and found that there were still none. He tried calling her twice himself, but to no avail. In the end, he called up the airlines and was told that the plane had landed without problem.

The information soothed and angered him all at once.

‘Damn kid,’ he said.

He scanned the office. All around him, rows and rows of makeshift cubicles were set up, each one a carbon copy of his own work station – a desk, a chair, a pin-up board, and an archaic crappy computer that was one generation away from being a Commodore 64. Hell, the monitors weren’t even widescreen.

On Striker’s pin-up board were two pictures. One of his daughter Courtney standing with her friend, Raine; and the other of his parents, who had died two decades ago in a motor vehicle accident, leaving him as the sole provider for his three younger siblings. He stared at the photos for a long time. When the program finally started, it was an emotional relief.

Immediately, he sat down and typed:

Surname: Owens. Given 1: Sharise. Given 2: Chandelle.

Then he entered her date of birth.

Before hitting send, he added in a request for information from LEIP – the Law Enforcement Information Portal – and also from PIRS – the Police Information Retrieval System. Both were older databases, used by municipalities that had not yet transferred over to PRIME.

The results came back almost instantly.

‘Desktop system’s fast today,’ he said. ‘Look at this.’

Felicia was seated in her own cubicle behind him, trying to get a hold of weapons expert Jay Kolt. Having no luck, she hung up, swivelled about and looked over his shoulder at the screen. ‘What you got?’

‘Same pro-choice arrest you had for Sharise Owens. But look at this – there was also a death threat made against Sharise. And it’s a Vancouver file.’

‘Vancouver? That’s strange . . . I never saw it in PRIME.’

Striker nodded. ‘Of course you didn’t. This file is eight years old. PRIME didn’t exist back then. We’re not reading the actual report – this is an electronic summary.’

Felicia cursed, and Striker echoed it. Retrieving information could be extremely frustrating in the world of policing. Older cases often existed only on paper. Some were reintroduced to the system as electronic summaries, but they were few, and they almost always lacked vital information.

Striker let out a heavy breath. ‘We’re lucky this call even had an electronic summary; otherwise we wouldn’t have known it existed at all. The original report should be filed away somewhere.’

‘In Archives?’

‘It’s a Vancouver file. So, yeah, hopefully.’

Striker read the summary. It was about as bare bones as it gets – critically lacking for something as serious as a death threat. The suspect in the file was a male named Chad Koda. In the remarks column was one word:

Unfounded.

Felicia pointed at the entity. ‘Chad Koda . . . is he a pro-lifer?’

‘Apparently.’ Striker looked at the last line of the summary. ‘Says Koda had a “relationship” with Owens, but it doesn’t specify what kind of relationship. Looks more and more like this was a domestic someone didn’t feel like writing up properly, so they changed it to an Unfounded Threat call.’

Striker ran the name Koda, but nothing else came up. He looked at the name for a long moment, knowing he had heard it somewhere before. Then he made the connection. ‘Wait a second . . . Chad Koda . . . isn’t he that high-end realtor you see on all the billboard ads? The self-proclaimed multimillionaire?’

‘Oh yeah. That’s right. The guy who colours his beard.’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Colours his beard? If you say so.’

‘It’s obvious, Jacob – to a woman.’

‘Remind me of that when I go grey.’

‘So, tomorrow then?’

Striker just shot her a wry look.

He picked up the desk phone and called Archives. The woman who answered had a smoker-rough voice and Striker was familiar with her. He gave her the file number and year, then waited when she put him on hold. When she finally picked up again, almost ten minutes later, her one-word answer bothered him.

‘Purged.’

‘Purged?’ It was all Striker could do not to swear. ‘But this was a violent call.’

The clerk made a weary sound – like she’d given this explanation one too many times and was growing tired of it. ‘I wish I could say it was unusual, Detective, but the department purged a lot of stuff back then. Especially the year the basement flooded and all the records had to be moved.’

Striker felt his blood pressure rising. ‘Try one more for me. See what you got on a guy named Chad Koda.’

‘Hold on.’ After a few seconds, she came back to the phone and her response was the same. ‘You’re batting zero today, Detective. I wouldn’t bother buying any lottery tickets if I were you.’

Striker sighed. ‘I’ll cancel my prostate exam too.’

The woman gave a soft chuckle before Striker finished the conversation and hung up.

‘Well?’ Felicia said.

‘Purged. All of it.’

‘But that call was a death threat.’

Striker shook his head. ‘Why does this feel like Groundhog Day?’

He scratched his chin as he thought. With no known victim, their weapons expert still unreachable, and Noodles needing another four hours to process the crime scenes, they were quickly running out of leads.

Felicia said, ‘We’re at a standstill.’

Striker agreed. He stood up. Put on his coat. Adjusted his holster. And made sure that the magazine was seated securely. ‘Come on.’

Felicia stood up as well. ‘Chad Koda’s place?’

‘You got it.’ Striker grinned. ‘Time to see how a multimillionaire lives.’

Seventeen

Striker stared at the inlet and faraway border of Stanley Park as they drove across the Burrard Street Bridge, his mind not able to enjoy the glorious view and instead focused on the details of the case.

Where they were headed – the 1300 block of Pacific Avenue – was the lateral edge of the downtown core, an area nestled in between the sprawling urban jungle of city life and the tranquil walkways of the sandy-beached Burrard Inlet.