The seawall below Pacific Avenue ran all the way to Stanley Park. Felicia looked at the bay, at the sun shimmering off the waters, at the people windsurfing, and sighed. ‘I wish I could own a place down here. But I’d have to sell my soul to afford one.’

‘That wouldn’t get you the down-payment.’

She let out a bemused laugh. ‘You’re probably right. I’ve probably lowered its value over the years – I’ve been known to be a bad girl from time to time.’

Striker grinned. ‘Not often enough.’

They exited the bridge.

On the southwest side of Pacific Avenue, apartment complexes rose up twenty storeys high. They blocked the view of the bay that the northeast houses had once boasted so many decades ago. Not that people living there could complain. The view may have been blocked, but those houses were still within throwing distance of Sunset Beach.

Striker drove past the row of homes, each one in its own Victorian style, and took note of the surroundings. The house Chad Koda owned was a single detached residence, three levels high, with a steep wooden stairway. The exterior wood sported a brand new burgundy paint job with clean white trim. Out front was a wall of recently trimmed hedges and a red brick patio with garden.

Everything looked professionally maintained.

Felicia whistled. ‘Something tells me he’s not operating on a policeman’s salary.’

‘A cop couldn’t afford the gardener. You do a history check on this place yet?’

‘Yeah, but there’s nothing relevant. Only call ever made here was a noise complaint, and that was six years ago.’

The information was disappointing; Striker had hoped for something more.

They parked away from the traffic flow, on Thurlow, and walked down the sidewalk with the hot sun pressing down on them. By the time they reached the front walkway, Striker felt stuffy in his suit. It was only ten-thirty in the morning, but already the day was beginning to swelter. And being next to a row of cars spewing out exhaust fumes didn’t help.

At the front door, Striker went to knock, then hesitated. There was no known history of dangers connected to this address, but he never took chances. He leaned over the railing and tried to peer through the window, but it was too dark to see.

‘The window’s got some kind of tint on it,’ he said.

‘Wards off the sun.’

‘Sure. And it stops people from seeing inside.’

Striker approached the door and rapped hard, three solid knocks. Less than thirty seconds later, footsteps could be heard inside. A latch rattled. The front door creaked open. And Striker got his first real-life look at the man from the billboard ads.

Chad Koda.

Realtor extraordinaire.

Striker was somewhat surprised. The man was not what he had expected. Chad Koda was a bit shorter than average height, a bit stockier than his billboard photo suggested, and he looked every bit his fifty years of age. His silvering hair was almost gone on top, and kept short on the sides. His goatee was darker than the hair on his head – Felicia mouthed the word dyed once more – and it stuck out against his deeply bronzed skin. He wore a wine-coloured kimono that hung half open and matching slippers.

Koda gave them both an impatient look. ‘Well, what is it?’

Striker badged the man. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos. We’d like a few minutes of your time, if you don’t mind.’

The man rubbed his eyes. ‘This really isn’t the best time.’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘I’ve heard that one before.’

Striker made no move to leave. ‘You are Chad Koda, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you once used to date Dr Sharise Owens?’

Koda’s face tightened at the mention of the name, and he let out a long weary breath. ‘Now what has she done?’

Striker took out his notebook. ‘Dr Owens hasn’t done anything, as far as I know. But there’s a lot of convoluted things going on right now, and I’m trying to find the woman. I was wondering if, perhaps, you had seen her.’

‘Only in my nightmares.’

‘Not a fan, I take it.’

‘I like my women warm-blooded.’

Striker just nodded. ‘Have you been home all night, Mr Koda?’

‘Yes, I have been – look, is there a reason you’re asking me all this?’

‘It’s coming.’

‘Well, make it come quicker – or I’m closing the door and going back inside.’

Striker gave Felicia a sideways glance to see if she wanted to give it a try. She caught it and spoke. ‘Is there anyone who can corroborate your being home last night, Mr Koda?’

‘Yeah, the Kardashian sisters. Kim’s in there cleaning up right now.’

Her eyes hardened on the man. ‘Look, Mr Koda—’

‘No, you look, Detective. Sharise was my common-law wife – no doubt you got records on that. And you know what? It was a goddam nightmare. Every fucking minute of it.’

‘We understand there were problems.’

‘Problems?’ The tanned flesh of Koda’s face reddened. ‘Problems? Is that what you call it – a fucking problem? That bitch aborted my son! That was more than a problem to me, okay?’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Then you need to become a better investigator.’

Felicia’s face coloured at the comment, but she continued questioning the man.

Striker, meanwhile, said nothing. He just wrote this information down in his notebook, not only to record the detail, but as a way of giving Koda a second to either calm down or say more – hopefully, something that might incriminate himself. After another long bout of hostile responses to Felicia’s questions, Striker put the notebook away.

‘Mr Koda,’ he began, ‘my partner here has asked you some pretty serious questions about Sharise Owens. And yet, there’s something here I find off – you haven’t even asked if she’s okay.’

The man’s face darkened even more. ‘That’s because I don’t give a rat’s ass. The moment that bitch aborted my son, she ceased to exist. I planned on keeping it that way for the rest of my life – until you two clowns showed up. As far as I’m concerned, it’s ancient fucking history.’

Striker studied the man. Saw him red-faced and sweating. ‘Your emotions would suggest otherwise.’

Koda’s jaw tightened. ‘Are you legally detaining me, Detective?’

‘No.’

‘Then fuck off – you want to speak to me again, you go through my lawyer. He’s at KDM. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. All cops have.’

Koda stepped back. Slammed the door. And Striker and Felicia were left standing there in silence.

‘Well, that was pleasant,’ Felicia said.

Striker said nothing. He was preoccupied with analysing Koda’s reaction. Deep in thought, he walked back down the steps and headed for the car. When they reached the cruiser, they climbed inside and shut the doors.

Felicia asked, ‘What the hell is the KDM firm? I’ve heard that name somewhere before.’

‘You should have. KDM sues cops under the Police Act.’

‘Great.’

Striker was about to say more on the matter when his cell went off. He looked at the screen, saw the name Rothschild, and stuck the phone to his ear. ‘Gimme some good news, Mike.’

‘Okay – you’re looking more and more like me every day.’

‘I said good news.’

‘Then how’s this for you? The dogman just found a pair of flippers and some scuba gear on the northwest shore of Mitchell Island. Can you fucking believe it? You were right. Our gunman actually swam across the divide.’

Striker closed his eyes as he took in the information. Some of the oddities fell into place for him. ‘The cut twine – it wasn’t there for tethering a boat, it was used to hold the scuba gear.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘I want that gear processed. Swabbed, traced, everything.’

‘Noodles is already on it. I’ll make some phone calls to the rental companies. See if any of them dealt with some strange customers lately. Who knows, maybe one of them even has some gear missing.’