Felicia shook her head. ‘No, I don’t see. It all looks like rubble to me.’

Striker tried to explain it better. ‘This could be another case of copper thieves. They turn off the valves, steal the lines, then recycle them for cash. Problem is, they don’t always shut off the valve when they’re done. Then you get a pooling effect of the gas. One spark is all it takes.’ He looked at the gas lines one more time and then shook his head. ‘Either way, gas or bomb, we need to call the City.’

‘Already done. An engineer’s en route.’ Felicia gloved up and took one of the cubes from Striker. She studied it for a moment, then spoke again. ‘You’re assuming, of course, that this glass was a result of the first explosion and not the second.’

‘It had to be. There was no window left when the second explosion occurred.’

‘No window maybe, but there could have been fragments stuck in the frame. Bits that were blown out when the second explosion went off.’

Striker thought this over; she was right about that, and it frustrated him.

‘We’re gonna need a tech here,’ he said.

Felicia handed Striker back the glass, and he dropped it into a brown paper evidence bag. He marked the front with black felt and was in the process of stuffing it into his pocket when something caught his eye – a gleam of sun on something metal.

It was coming from across the harbour.

Striker turned westward for a better look. There, on the small section of grass that fronted the Granville Island condos, was a man. He was standing under the foliage of a cluster of maple trees, a foot or two back from the seawall. His attire – dark orange vest; tool belt; a baseball cap with sunglasses on the rim – suggested he was a utility worker. But something about him didn’t fit.

‘He’s watching us through binoculars,’ Striker said.

Felicia saw him too. ‘Maybe he’s with the gas company.’

‘Then why doesn’t he come down and help?’ He turned to Felicia. ‘You got your monocular on you?’

‘Always.’

‘Give it.’

She took it from her inner jacket pocket and handed it over.

Striker peered through the mini-telescope. As he focused in on the man across the way, two things became apparent. One, the man was Caucasian. Two, he was bleeding from the left side of his cheek.

From exploding glass?

Striker tried to zoom in for a better look, but the man suddenly let the binoculars fall to his chest. Slipped the sunglasses down over his eyes. Spun away and began walking.

Striker lowered the monocular.

‘Something’s wrong with that guy,’ he said. ‘I want him checked. Now.’

Twenty-One

Harry Eckhart heard the check request come over the radio as he drove his unmarked patrol car across the Granville Street Bridge. Part of him wanted to ignore the call. Ignore everything about this whole rotten day, and just go back home, get into bed, and pull the comforters over his head. Maybe drink some rum. Some vodka. Do whatever it took to get him through another 21 July.

It was always a hard date. Today was the twelfth anniversary of Joshua’s death, and he missed the boy as much now as he ever did. Maybe more.

The hurt never went away.

Normally, on every 21 July, Harry wouldn’t even manage to drag himself from bed. But today Ethan had roused him.

Little Ethan. The boy born six years after Joshua’s death.

Little Ethan. The boy who had brought Harry back to the world of the living.

Little Ethan. The only thing that mattered any more.

The boy was a six-year-old little saviour with foppish blond hair and chocolate-brown eyes. And the boy had not only roused him, but somehow managed to lighten him. To bring him back from that dark and hollow place, just as he had so many times before. Even now, the thought of the little boy brought a weak smile to Harry’s face.

The child was innocence and joy.

Over the radio came several responses to the check request. Bravo 11 said they could do it, but they were coming from the downtown core. And Fox 13 said they could also take the call, but they were just as far. Even Car 10 – the current Road Boss, Inspector Osaka – offered to perform the check, but he was currently out on foot.

Too far from the scene to be of any use.

Harry cursed under his breath. He was the closest unit, and his conscience wouldn’t let him ignore the plea from another officer. He reached the turn-off onto West 2nd Avenue, glanced west, and spotted the exact man Homicide Detective Striker had been describing on the radio:

A utility worker.

Orange vest with tool belt.

A baseball cap and sunglasses.

And binocs.

The man was limping a little as he hustled along, his right leg kicking back on him but moving well enough. He was heading south towards West 4th Avenue, cutting into the laneway behind the Starbucks.

Escaping.

Harry grabbed the mike and pressed the plunger.

‘I’ll take that check,’ he said.

He turned down the off-ramp, ready to perform another one of the millions of checks he’d done in his 25-year career. But within ten feet, the traffic came to an abrupt stop. Swearing, Harry tried to steer around the gridlock, but there was nowhere to go. And far below the man in the utility vest was running now – fleeing in long, awkward strides.

Harry pressed the plunger on the mike one more time.

‘We got us a runner.’

Twenty-Two

Striker was already racing around the seawall when he heard Harry come over the radio. The suspect was running. Goddammit, he was running! And with most of Patrol already dealing with the explosion scene, and only him and Harry in pursuit, the odds were against them.

Striker grabbed his radio and hit the plunger: ‘I’m coming north from the harbour. Can you take him from the south, Harry? Trap him in?’

‘Negative. I’m boxed in on the bridge.’

‘Okay then, just hold your position.’

Striker raced on.

Outlining the harbour, the swerving red-brick path of Island Marina Trail slowly angled southward around a man-made lagoon. It was the centrepiece for the Granville Island condo development. Striker raced around the path into the complex. He knew the area well from previous Patrol calls. Up ahead, Marina Trail bifurcated, with one path leading west along the inlet to Kitsilano Beach, and the other cutting south through the condo complex.

When Striker reached the mouth of the divide, he stopped. Glanced west. Saw nothing but dock workers. Glanced south. Saw a winding brick pathway leading between two Japanese plum trees.

In front of them, an elderly woman was walking two Yorkie terriers.

‘Did you see a man run through there?’ Striker asked her.

She glanced back the way she had come. ‘You mean that construction worker? Yes, he went that way.’

Striker bolted on.

The trail cut deeper into the condo development, then ended on West 2nd Avenue. To the west sat an empty stretch of road with no one on it. To the east was a Starbucks coffee shop. And three storeys above it, on the off-ramp, was Detective Harry Eckhart, yelling and pointing.

‘Through the lane! The lane!’

Striker raced in behind the Starbucks. Within a half-block, all visual contact with Harry was cut off by the Honda dealership. Littering the lane were bald tyres, rusted oil drums, and bags of recyclable oil containers. Trash.