But no sign of their man.

Parked in the lane was a white van, and behind it was a small woman with sandy-brown hair. She had wide sturdy hips, and beneath her blue bandana was a pale and pudgy face. Other than the bandana, she was dressed in a pair of blue jeans with a beige work shirt. She was carrying a cardboard box.

‘You see a guy run this way?’ Striker asked her.

She put down the box and took a moment to wipe her brow. ‘You mean that tourist?’

‘What tourist?’

‘Guy with the binoculars round his neck.’

‘That’s him.’

She nodded and pointed. ‘He ran that way. Up the alley. He was really motoring though – what he do, steal somethin’?’

‘Stay here,’ Striker said, and raced on.

When he reached the end of the lane, he found himself standing at the mouth of West 4th Avenue. All his hopes faltered. Cars were backed up all along the drive, running from east to west, and the backlog extended all the way up the off-ramp onto the bridge where Harry was stuck.

The explosion had turned the area into a congested nightmare.

Striker looked left, looked right, looked straight ahead. There was no sign of the man. And when he approached many of the drivers who were stuck in the backlog, none of them recalled a man in a utility uniform.

He was gone.

‘Goddammit.’

Striker grabbed the radio from his belt and broadcast the man’s full description and last known direction of travel. Then he headed back. Halfway down the lane, he looked for the woman he’d seen loading the van, but she was already gone. And there was no surveillance video he could see. Not a single camera adorned the lane.

Frustrated, cursing this entire day, Striker headed back down the walkway. The explosion scene was waiting for him.

Twenty-Three

As Striker made his way back towards the scene of the explosion, his iPhone went off. He looked down at the display and saw the word ‘JaKo’. Short for Jay Kolt. He picked up. ‘Jay – thank God. Where the hell you been?’

‘Testifying.’ The man let out a weary sound. ‘I’m down at Georgia right now. Been here all damn day.’

‘You almost done? I need to talk to you about a case we got going on here. A real weird one. Involves electrical torture. A wand of some kind.’

‘Hmm. Not exactly a layman’s tool.’

‘It’s not a layman’s file,’ Striker replied. He took a short cut between the condominiums and started walking back around the seawall. ‘Torture session down by the river.’

‘Sounds nasty all right.’ Kolt broke from the phone to talk to someone, then returned. ‘Listen, Striker, I’m back on the stand any second. It’s gonna be a full day here, but I’ll call you once I’m done.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

Striker stuffed the cell back into his jacket pocket and continued walking around the inlet’s bend. When he reached Anderson Street he stepped off the kerb, and almost slipped on the fragmented remains of one of the toy shop’s wooden toys. Cursing, Striker started to walk past it, then stopped.

Something about it intrigued him.

A second, closer look told him why. The toy appeared to be a doll of some kind, though it was difficult to tell for sure, because the head and feet had been blown right off in the explosion. The remaining torso – the back half of which was also missing – was covered in grime and garbed in a blue uniform of some type.

A policeman’s uniform.

Striker gloved up and picked up the toy. He brushed away some of the grime with his thumb. With the dirt and plastery powder removed, the uniform was much more distinct – as was the strange number painted amateurishly onto the front chest of the doll.

A large, red number 5.

Striker stared at the number for a long moment, wondering if there was some significance. When nothing came to him, he looked around the road at the array of broken-up toys and figured it was just another part of the debris. He bagged the broken remains for evidence and headed back to the primary crime scene.

There was still much to do.

It was going on three by the time the primary explosion scene was under control. There was less chaos now, but sprawling examples of the destruction everywhere Striker looked. The whitish smoke had now all but dissipated into the harbour, and the only hints of the pre-existing fire were the clusters of HAZMAT members still hosing down the rubble.

Striker leaned under a slash of yellow police tape at the south end of the block and looked at the gallons of water going down the drain. With it went so much evidence. Screens should have been set up.

Someone had really dropped the ball.

The thought angered him, and it took some determination to tear his eyes away from the drains. He found Felicia. Even though she was busy talking to Inspector Osaka – and a tall Native woman Striker did not recognize – she gave him a nod to let him know she’d seen him. After a few more seconds, she broke from the group and met him halfway.

‘EDT’s in full effect,’ she said wryly.

Striker grinned at the comment: EDT was cop slang for the Evidence-Destroying Team – a nickname police often used for the fire crews.

‘We should have screened the drains before they got here,’ he said.

‘We don’t have any screens. Osaka’s already called for some, but they haven’t arrived yet.’ Felicia reached up and brushed some cherry blossoms and ash out of his hair. ‘I’m just glad you’re okay. Last thing we need is you getting hurt in some useless chase.’

‘It was far from useless—’

‘That came out wrong.’ Felicia pointed up the road. ‘I ran south on Anderson in case he doubled back. But he was long gone by the time I got there. And then you came over the radio and killed the search.’

Striker listened to her words and came to the realization that the man must have escaped south or west. ‘He ran for a reason, Feleesh. They always do. The question is why? Was he involved in this explosion? Or was it something else?’

‘It could have been something simple. For all we know, he had a warrant – they always run when they have a warrant.’

‘Maybe so, but I don’t like the coincidence.’

Striker let the issue die, and Felicia filled him in on the scene details. ‘Fire crews have all but gotten the flames out now. Everything’s just smouldering. I called up the gas company and had the line shut down. Also, the City’s sending down an engineer right now to condemn the place.’

Striker nodded. ‘We’re going to need some help on this one.’

‘We already got it.’ Felicia jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Corporal Summer’s on scene.’

Striker paused. ‘Corporal?’

‘You heard right.’

Striker immediately didn’t like it. The Vancouver Police Department didn’t utilize the rank of corporal; instead, they employed different classes of constables, ranging from 5th all the way up to 1st. After that, the rank jumped straight to sergeant. So if this Summer person was a corporal, that meant only one thing:

The brass had brought in the Feds.

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Why’d Osaka bring in the RCMP? What’s wrong with our guy – Christiansen?’

‘He’s back east at a funeral.’

‘What about Truc Tai then?’

‘She’s on annual leave.’

‘Then call her in.’

‘Hey, it’s not like they haven’t tried. She’s not answering her cell.’ Felicia glanced back at the tall Native woman who was walking around the crime scene with Inspector Osaka by her side. ‘Like it or not, the RCMP is all we got – and she’s it.’

Striker rubbed his hands over his face. It was frustrating. Not that the members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police weren’t of the highest calibre; they were. But they brought with them a lot of red tape. And a lot of different rules and regulations, most of which led to infighting between the integrated units. Whenever possible, Striker always tried to keep Vancouver files in-house.