Always had been.

As for more intimate relationships, Keisha Williams’ deceased husband, Chester, had been the only man for her. The two had met at a toymakers’ convention in Seattle two decades ago, and had been married happily ever since – until a drunk driver had ended their hopes and dreams.

‘Any other men since then?’ Striker asked. ‘Any at all?’

A dark look distorted the man’s features. ‘There was one.’ He spat the words with venom. ‘Solomon . . . But she got away from him.’

Striker took notice of the wording.

‘What do you mean, got away?’

The man wiped away a tear. ‘He beat her. In front of the children. I don’t know all the details – Keisha wouldn’t talk about it. And every time I tried to get her to open up, well, it just created a distance between us. So I stopped.’

Striker nodded. Looked around the room. ‘Was this her bedroom?’

‘It is.’

‘I have to search it.’

Gerome looked like he resented it, but made no objection. He just nodded in a resigned sort of way, as if he understood that this had to be done. ‘I’ll check on the children,’ he said, and left the room.

The moment he was gone, Striker got to work. He approached the dresser and looked at the picture of the once-happy family. In it, five children – all of them younger – smiled wide. They were half giggling, as if sharing some kind of joke. Three girls and two boys. A big family. In behind the children stood a tall bald man with a full beard and a great, wide, captivating smile.

Chester, Striker figured.

The father.

Wrapped in Chester’s left arm stood Keisha Williams. Big golden hoops hung from her earlobes and a red floral shawl draped across her shoulders. She looked wonderfully alive. Happy. The sight of them was difficult to see. A once-perfect family destroyed by a drunk driver in the past and now by a highly suspicious explosion today.

Life could be cruel.

Striker put down the picture and started going through the drawers, one by one. They were sparse, filled with few clothes. And the apparel that was there was clearly old, but clean and folded neatly. Keisha Williams may not have had a lot of money to spend on herself, but she clearly respected what she had.

Striker finished searching the drawers. He found nothing but clothes, a few cheap necklaces, and some pill bottles with Zestorol on the label. He used his iPhone to Google the medication name, and learned it was a blood pressure drug.

He moved on.

In the closet, he found much of the same. Old shoes that had been recently polished, faded jeans ironed and draped over hangers, and two women’s suits, one of which still had a Value Village tag on it. On the top of the shelf was an organizer. Striker pulled it down.

As he fanned it open, several of the tabs caught his eye: Gas Bill, Phone Bill, and Rent Receipts made up the first partition. Taxes, Child Credits, and Family Allowance Receipts made up the last half. At the very back of the organizer was a letter-size envelope.

Striker took it out and looked at it.

On the front was the name ‘Solomon’ in thick black felt, and right beside it someone had written ‘VPD 105419 – CHRO’. Striker immediately made the connection: Vancouver Police Department. File number 105419.

A Criminal Harassment Restraining Order.

He removed the paperwork and read it through. Within two pages he saw an image that gave him a bad feeling. The photograph was a booking shot of a short-haired Caucasian male with narrow eyes, a square prominent jaw, and a wide thick forehead. He looked very Eastern Bloc.

Solomon Bay.

Striker was surprised to see the man was white; he’d assumed he’d be black.

As he studied the photo, Felicia entered the room. ‘These poor kids,’ she said softly. Her voice struggled for emotional neutrality.

Striker offered no response. He just stared at the photograph in the file. At the man’s hard face. At his distant stare. At his dark eyes – glazed and lifeless and hollow.

Felicia saw the file. Then the photo. ‘Who is that?’

‘Solomon Bay,’ Striker said. ‘Our next lead.’

Thirty

‘Run him,’ Striker said the moment they climbed back into the undercover cruiser. ‘Solomon Bay. Put him at age forty.’

Felicia nodded and typed the name into the system, then hit Enter. After a short moment, the computer beeped and the feed came back. She read it out loud: ‘Solomon Elijah Bay . . . Oh man, this guy has a ton of history in PRIME.’

‘What kind of history?’

She clucked her tongue a few times as she scanned the page. ‘Most of the files are disturbance calls and assaults. Some consensual fights too. Looks like he spent a few nights in the drunk tank . . . Likes to drink and fight, this guy.’

Striker thought of the man beating Keisha Williams in front of her children and his fingers curled into fists. ‘Let’s hope he feels like fighting when I find him.’

Felicia patted his arm. ‘Calm down there, Iron Mike.’

She compared the Criminal Harassment papers they’d found in Keisha Williams’ bedroom with the files on the laptop. ‘Says here, Williams met Solomon at the Ministry of Child and Family Services. Who knows what the hell he was doing there. Soon afterwards, the two of them started dating . . . He’s thirty-six years old now, and by the look of things, a real prick. Goes by the nickname Sunny.’

Striker stared at her, deadpan. ‘You gotta be kidding me. Sunny Bay? Sounds like a goddam timeshare.’

Felicia raised an eyebrow like she couldn’t believe it either, then she returned to reading the information. ‘Look here. Keisha Williams has Sharise Owens listed as her cousin in this report too . . . And here she is again in this one – hell, Owens is the one who called 911 for police assistance.’

‘Thus the restraining order,’ Striker said.

Felicia nodded. ‘Both women have a connection to this man.’

‘They also have a connection to Chad Koda,’ Striker reminded. ‘We can’t forget our realtor friend either. There’s something off about that guy . . . Any connection between Chad Koda and Solomon Bay?’

Felicia shook her head. ‘None I can find.’

Striker thought back to the scene at the steel barn by the cement plant. He turned to face Felicia. ‘This Solomon guy . . . does he have any ties to organized crime? Or anything like that?’

Felicia scanned the numerous pieces of information they had acquired. ‘Not that I can see. He looks like your stereotypical abusive prick. Oh wait – he did work for BC Gas for a while. As a gas fitter. So he has some training in related matters.’ She looked up at Striker. ‘A guy with that kind of training could easily rig an explosion.’

‘How many times did Sharise Owens report Solomon?’ he asked.

‘Three. But there are a lot of other calls with him listed as the Subject of Complaint and the Suspect Chargeable. Odd though, they just suddenly stop after a while.’

Striker looked at the screen. It showed three domestic assault charges and six harassment files in a span of six weeks, and then nothing. ‘Maybe he’s in jail.’

‘I’ll see if they locked him up,’ Felicia said.

As she called Corrections, Striker read through the restraining order. Moments later, Felicia got off the phone. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Solomon’s not in any of the pens – federal or provincial.’

‘Well, something happened to the guy. Pricks like him don’t just stop.’

‘I know. I’ll keep searching.’

Striker pointed to the man’s last known address. ‘Portside Court. That’s out east. By the Burnaby border.’ He turned the wheel and hit the gas. ‘I hate wife-beaters. This prick’s gonna regret it when he gets out of line.’