Striker wrote them all down. Once done, he opened the woman’s email and scanned through it. He saw nothing of note.

Disappointed, Striker called up one of the computer techs he knew well, a man everyone called Ich. After filling Ich in on all that had happened, Striker ordered him to attend the office, seize the hard drives, and start processing the data immediately.

‘Call me if you find anything unusual,’ Striker stressed.

‘Even porn?’

Striker grinned. ‘Just call me, Ich.’

He hung up the phone, gave Felicia a nod, and they left the hospital.

Once inside the police cruiser, with the doors closed, Striker checked to be sure that Sharise Owens was still flagged on CPIC as a Missing Person and a Person in Danger. He had already requested the addition, but mistakes were often made.

Double-checks were good practice.

Once done, he got on the phone with Dispatch and, for the third time that day, had Sue Rhaemer notify all the neighbouring police, ambulance, and fire departments of the updated events. She followed up by once again alerting the hospitals, ferries, buses, and the US border. He even had her call the cab companies.

Nothing could be overlooked.

Last of all, Striker sent out his own personal computer message to all the mobile Patrol units: If anyone comes across Dr Sharise Chandelle Owens, detain her and contact Detectives Striker and Santos immediately. 24/7. He then added both their cell numbers to the message.

He let out a sigh and almost felt relieved. ‘Done.’

He turned to Felicia to discuss their next course of action, and saw that she was on the phone. Her face was tight. ‘We’ll come down right away,’ she said.

Striker gave her a wary look as she hung up. ‘What’s going on?’

‘That was Victim Services. The kids are home at the Williams residence and it’s not going well.’

Striker felt his jaw tighten. He blipped the siren three times to clear the traffic congestion, then hit the gas and U-turned on the busy strip of Burrard. They drove over the bridge into the False Creek area and headed for Creekside Drive.

It was the last place Striker wanted to go, but as always . . .

Duty calls.

Twenty-Nine

They reached Creekside Drive.

Striker got out of the car and looked at the building before them. It was eight storeys high and old – looked like one of the first subsidized family dwelling units in the area. Behind them was the harbour, and less than a quarter-mile east of their position was what remained of the toy shop. Police cars and fire engines still blocked the streets down there, and crowds of onlookers still gathered like prairie dogs, popping their heads up to see the smouldering wreckage.

The proximity of where they were was not lost on Striker. ‘I chased our suspect right up that trail,’ he said, and pointed.

‘One more tiny coincidence?’

‘There are no coincidences.’ Striker was about to say more when the high-pitched wail of a young girl’s voice filled the night:

‘Momma . . . oh, MOMMA!’

The cry came from the building in front of them, high above on the fifth floor. One of the Williams children, no doubt. And it broke Striker’s heart to hear it. Head down, feet feeling heavy, he walked up the sidewalk, entered the apartment building, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

Once they entered the suite, the sound of crying grew louder.

In one of the bedrooms, a civilian support worker from the Victim Services Unit was huddled in a small circle with the children. They ranged from nine years of age and up. The youngest – a small boy – was hard-faced and looked to be in shock; the rest were all sobbing uncontrollably.

The moment made Striker feel like he’d slipped back in time. Memories of Rothschild’s children sobbing for their mother returned to him, as did the recollections of his own daughter, Courtney, after she’d learned of Amanda’s death. As always, the memories manifested physically.

His stomach felt like it had stones in it.

He studied the children before him. The oldest of the kids, a teenage girl of maybe eighteen, stood in the far corner of the room, separate from the rest. Her eyes stared at nothing, her face was as hard as rock. She looked up as Striker and Felicia entered the room, saw them, and then walked out.

Striker gave Felicia a nod. ‘She shouldn’t be alone.’

‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘Keep her away from the windows.’

‘I know the routine, Jacob.’

‘And the knives.’

‘I know.’

When Felicia was gone, Striker paused for a moment and closed his eyes. He wished he could close off his ears too, because the sound of the children’s weeping was gut-wrenching. Instead, he steeled himself and got to work. He scanned the rest of the apartment and had a hard time believing that six people actually lived there. The place was small – tiny. Certainly not much to look at. Just a narrow strip of kitchen, where a half-eaten sandwich remained on the counter; another two bedrooms at the end of the hall; and a small living room that consisted of nothing but an outdated TV set, a threadbare chesterfield, and some old beanbag chairs thrown in the corner.

The TV was on. The local news.

Striker crossed the room and turned it off for fear of what footage might be displayed. As he did this, the sound of weeping caught his ears. It was coming from the opposite side of the apartment.

One of the bedrooms.

Striker walked down the hall. When he opened the first door and saw nothing but a pair of empty bunk beds and one single bed, he moved on to the next bedroom. When he opened that door, he expected to see one of the children crying, but instead there was a small black man sitting on the bed.

He was older, mid-forties, and balding in a horseshoe pattern of curly hair that was greying at the sides. He was holding a family picture, weeping openly, and looked up at Striker with lifeless eyes. ‘Why?’ he asked between sobs. ‘Keisha was good, she was so good. Always so good.’

Striker stepped into the room and left the door open behind him. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he offered. ‘I’m Detective Striker with the Vancouver Police Department. And you are?’

‘Gerome,’ the man said between sobs. ‘Her brother.’ His face took on a desperate, wild look. ‘Are they sure it’s her? I mean, do they really know for certain? One hundred per cent?’

Striker said nothing at first. His mind flashed through the facts of the case: Keisha Williams was the shop owner. She was black like the victim. She had left for work fifteen minutes before the explosion had gone off. She hadn’t returned home. And wasn’t answering her cell phone.

‘DNA tests will need to be done,’ he finally said. ‘But with the information we have at this point, I believe it’s her. I’m sorry.’

The man on the bed looked like he’d been stabbed in the heart. For a moment, he looked ready to cry again, but then he gathered himself. Stiffened. Set his jaw. When he stood up from the bed, Striker saw that he was short – barely 165 centimetres – and he looked even more weak and fragile in his broken-down state. He gently placed the picture of Keisha and the children back on the dresser, then angled it to face the room.

Striker spent fifteen minutes discussing with the man everything from the woman’s job, her relationship with her cousin, and her past personal relationships. The answers were all straightforward. As far as her brother knew, Keisha Williams had loved her job as a toymaker, and she had gone into work seven days a week. Yes, Sharise Owens was her cousin. And yes, the two women were close.