Dunsmuir said nothing. She just stared back through icy-blue contacts – ones that matched the blue shade of her smock and surgical cap. ‘Come inside, Detectives.’ She wheeled about and walked deeper into the room, expecting them to follow.

Once inside, Felicia placed the laptop on the nearest counter and brought up all the information they had on the toy shop address. As she read, Striker approached the examination table, where the body of their victim lay.

Against the dull metallic glimmer of steel, the blackened tissues stood out and appeared terribly fragile. The face and head regions had been completely obliterated by the blast, and the rest of the remains looked somewhat inhuman.

‘God in heaven,’ he said.

‘God has no part in this.’ Dunsmuir smiled bleakly. ‘This is my domain.’

Striker offered no response. The more he looked at the body, the more disconcerting it became – had these remains really been a living, breathing person just a few hours ago? It didn’t seem possible.

He worried about the woman’s family.

‘I want this one done right away, Kirstin.’

The medical examiner’s lips parted enough to suggest a weak grin. ‘You obviously haven’t heard about the shootings this morning.’

‘What shootings?’

‘Just the latest round of gang warfare.’ Dunsmuir spoke the words without emotion. ‘I have two dead from the Sharma gang in Rooms 5 and 6, and one unknown in Room 1. And with both my assistants away at the body farm, we’ve got no one extra for coverage.’

‘Meaning?’

She met his stare. ‘If I get to your body at all today, consider it divine intervention.’

‘Fuck the gangster. This woman comes first.’

‘That’s not how it works down here, Detective, and you know it. We’re looking at tomorrow morning – at best.’

Striker cursed under his breath. He was about to further debate the issue when the door to the examination room opened and Detective Harry Eckhart walked through.

‘Harry,’ Striker said, somewhat surprised to see the man. ‘What are you doing here?’

The detective shrugged. ‘Was picking up some medical release forms at the pick counter when I saw you two come down. After this afternoon’s chase I thought I’d pop in and see what was what.’

Striker said nothing. With the exception of the chase this morning, he hadn’t seen Harry in a long time – not since Harry had transferred to the General Investigation Unit at Cambie Street Headquarters, away from Main Street’s Major Crimes Section.

Despite the time that had passed, not much had changed in the man. Harry was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and the silvering lines on his light-brown hair were a testament to his years on the job. The red rash of broken blood vessels that coloured his cheeks made his blue eyes look cold and were framed by a jowly chin and padded cheekbones. He always looked worn thin, and today he looked especially beaten down.

Harry looked at the examination table. Moved forward. Stared down at the body.

‘Jesus mercy,’ he said.

Striker nodded. ‘You got some information on her?’

Harry said nothing for a moment, then blinked. He looked away from the body on the table. Splayed his hands in frustration. ‘I lost sight of the suspect behind the Starbucks building. With all the traffic jammed up on the bridge, I just couldn’t get around, Shipwreck. I’m sorry.’

Striker nodded. ‘It was chaos.’

‘Yeah, chaos . . .’ Harry let out a long breath. ‘Listen, I’ll send you my notes through the internal mail. Need a police statement?’

Striker nodded. ‘Mandatory.’

‘Okay.’

The room went quiet; Harry said nothing else. His face took on a deep, despondent look as he stared at the body on the table. ‘Jesus mercy,’ he said one last time. Then he gave Striker a nod and left the room without so much as another word. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Felicia finally looked up from her laptop.

‘That was weird,’ she said.

‘Harry is weird,’ Striker replied. ‘But a good man – he’s been through an awful lot. How’s it coming over there?’

Felicia just shrugged and looked back at the laptop. ‘Things are slowly coming together. We got some history on the toy shop.’

‘Do tell.’

‘Six months ago, Patrol was called to deal with a stubborn panhandler who kept harassing all the customers. The complainant’s name was Keisha Williams, and at the time, she was the store owner. So that matches what the other business owners were telling me. She’s the one.’

‘You run her name through the other databases?’

Felicia nodded. ‘Yeah. She comes up as a black woman, one hundred and eighty centimetres tall and a hundred kilos. Big woman.’

‘Any tattoos?’

‘None listed.’ Felicia kept reading down the page. After a moment, her face tightened. ‘Oh boy. She’s a single mother of five.’

Striker felt like he’d been sucker-punched.

‘And look at this,’ Felicia continued. ‘Guess who’s listed under her Associates tab? Dr Sharise Owens. They’re cousins.’

Striker beelined to her side and stared at the screen.

‘This is too much to be a coincidence.’ He looked back at the medical examiner, who was now in the process of detailing a body chart. ‘This changes everything, Kirstin. I want the works done on this one. Full swabs, tox tests, X-rays – you name it.’

Dunsmuir gave him a cool look, as if warning him not to tell her how to do her job. But, eventually, she nodded silently.

‘Is there any way you can move this examination up?’ Striker pleaded. ‘I’m desperate here.’

The medical examiner said nothing in reply. She just completed the chart she was holding, then snapped closed the metal binder. When she looked up and met Striker’s stare, her eyes remained uncommunicative and cold.

‘No promises,’ she finally said. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’

Twenty-Seven

Once in the parking lot outside the morgue, where they could finally get a cell signal, Striker got on his phone and once again tried Dr Sharise Owens’ cell number. Like before, it rang several times, then went straight to voicemail. He left yet another message, then called her apartment and did the same. Last of all, he tried her workplace.

The nurse who answered the call this time was not the original one he had spoken to before. This girl sounded very young and very tired. After Striker explained the situation, her reply caught him off guard. ‘Dr Owens? Oh yes, she’s in.’

‘She’s in? Why the hell did no one call me?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I told that last nurse that this was a police emergency and to get Dr Owens to call me the moment she walked in – she’s flagged on CPIC, for Christ’s sake.’

The girl flustered. ‘I-I . . . don’t know who you dealt with, Detective. But Dr Owens probably didn’t call you back right away because of the sick baby that got rushed through.’

Striker closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you telling me Dr Owens is there now?’

‘Yes. She’s in the trauma room. With the baby.’

That was all Striker needed to hear. ‘Don’t let her go anywhere. I’m heading up.’

Not ten minutes later they arrived on scene.

The moment Striker walked into the admitting ward of St Paul’s Hospital, he found himself swallowed up in the crowd. A bad smell filled the stuffy air, one of sweat and cleaners and sickness. Murmurs and sniffs and sneezes played louder than the Muzak filling the waiting room, and in the corner, a drunk was crying openly.

Striker swept his eyes around the room. A lot of memories of this place bombarded him – all of them bad. This was where he had come so many times before. With his wife, Amanda, during her depressions. With Courtney after the school shootings. And most recently, with Mike Rothschild, following the death of his wife, Rosalyn.