Three solid knocks. Rap-rap-rap.

At first, he did nothing. He only waited patiently to see what would happen next. After a second series of knocks, he left his position and approached the tinted bay window. He remained there, veiled behind the thick bulk of the drapes, and slowly, deftly, parted the sheers. What he saw surprised him. The man standing in the front alcove was a white male with thinning hair. Blue eyes. And puffy, ruddy cheeks.

‘Harry Eckhart,’ he whispered.

It was an unexpected sighting, and the words felt strange on his tongue.

He said nothing else. Did nothing else. He just stood there behind the veil of tinted glass and curtain, and watched the middle-aged cop knock a few more times, curse, then wheel about and hurry down the stairs.

When Harry Eckhart turned the corner of the walkway and disappeared from sight, Molly came back across the radio:

‘White male away. South.’

The bomber nodded as if she could see him. ‘Copy. White male away. South.’

After a short moment of silence, the radio crackled to life again, and Molly’s tight voice occupied the air. ‘Request a question,’ she said.

‘Go with the question.’

‘Did you see his face? Did you recognize him?’

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I recognized him. The man was Harry Eckhart – Target Number Three.’

Thirty-Three

The complex called Portside Court – Solomon Bay’s last known address – was a series of two-level duplexes, built on a steep hillside that dropped rapidly down to the banks of the Fraser River.

As Striker and Felicia turned down Duff Street, Striker glanced out at the view below. Directly ahead was the Fraser River. A kilometre out was Mitchell Island. And to the far west, not more than two kilometres away, was the concrete plant and steel barn where they’d found the frantic rave girl.

Everything felt full circle.

Felicia realized this too. ‘Look how close we are to the original crime scene.’

‘I don’t like it.’

Striker parked the car and got out.

Before heading into the complex, he pulled back the side of his coat and adjusted his holster. Felicia did the same. All geared up, they made their way down a narrow set of stairs that were barely visible under the burned-out street lamp.

Striker scanned the addresses for Unit 17. Within a few hundred feet it became obvious to him that the complex was one giant square. In the centre of it was a darkened playground area that had a teeter totter with no seats and a swing set with no swings. From the unit behind the playground, a couple was arguing – a woman’s high-pitched rant and a man’s slurred responses:

Bitch!

Fucking failure!

. . . like your goddam mother!

‘East Vancouver love,’ Striker said.

Felicia didn’t laugh. Instead, her face tightened. ‘A little too familiar for me.’

She increased her pace, and Striker went with her silently.

Unit 17 was on the east side of the complex. A loose plank raked loudly against the sidewalk as Striker opened the gate. He made sure the gate was left all the way open, in case they needed to perform a tactical retreat. Then he moved down the unlit walkway to the front door.

Inside, a TV was blaring, and the smell of pot smoke was strong in the air. Striker gave Felicia a look to be ready, then knocked five times, hard. Almost immediately, the sound of the TV died. Then a lock clicked and the door opened.

Standing in the doorway was a white man, rake thin, with a complexion as pale as sun-bleached bone. His eyelids were heavy, his face unshaven, and a series of long dirty-blond dreadlocks snaked off his head in uneven clumps.

Striker recognized the man from the Commercial Drive area. The guy went by the nickname Dreadlocks, and had a ton of possession charges in his past.

Dreadlocks nodded at them, then brought a marijuana cigarette to his lips. Took a long drag. ‘Yeah?’

Felicia didn’t mince words: ‘We’re looking for Solomon Bay.’

‘Solomon?’ Dreadlocks spoke the name like it was an absurd request. ‘Shit, he ain’t here no more.’

‘So you know him.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s askin’?’

Striker held up his badge. ‘I am.’

Dreadlocks’ face tightened. ‘I ain’t talking ’bout this.’

Striker glanced over the man’s shoulder. On the table behind him was a litter of drug paraphernalia, a stack of video games, and an even larger stack of porn DVDs and Blu-rays. Striker made out one of the titles, where a busty blonde was scantily clad and holding a bullwhip.

Cindyana Jones.

He turned his eyes from the table back to Dreadlocks and smiled. ‘Don’t want to talk? That’s entirely your prerogative. Of course, it’s my prerogative to arrest on plain view evidence – and right now I can see grounds for six or seven charges.’

Dreadlocks crossed his arms, almost effeminately, and glanced back at the table. ‘I don’t see how—’

‘What’s your full name?’ Striker ordered.

Dreadlocks hesitated for a moment, then gave it. Striker wrote down all the details, including date of birth. When he looked up again, he offered the man a wide smile. ‘Well, sir, today is your lucky day. Isn’t it, Feleesh?’

‘Totally lucky,’ she said.

‘Because we’re not here for you. We’re here for Solomon Bay. But of course, that could change – especially after what I just saw on your table. So if I were you, I would get talking, and fast.’

The cocky look on Dreadlocks’ scruffy face vanished, and a nervous expression replaced it. With a trembling hand, he raised his marijuana cigarette to take another puff, then stopped midway as if he had only just realized he was standing in front of two police detectives.

‘Go ahead,’ Striker said. ‘Have a good long drag – if it will refresh your memory.’

Dreadlocks did. When he breathed out in slow, uneven gasps, his entire body seemed to deflate. His eyes turned down and he spoke softly. ‘Look, officers, I know him, okay? Shit, he was my roommate for a couple of years there.’

Striker nodded. ‘Until . . .’

‘Man, of all people, you two should know.’

Striker and Felicia exchanged a glance.

‘We should know?’ Striker asked.

‘Yeah, you. The cops. The state.’ Dreadlocks suddenly became more animated, waving his arm around as if giving a lecture. ‘Came in here like gangbusters, man. Martial fuckin’ law or something. You’re the ones who got rid of him in the first place. And real quick like. Cost me a few hundred bucks in rent before I could find another roommate.’

Striker let the man finish before speaking. ‘We didn’t cost you anything. If Solomon owes you money, go get it from him.’

Dreadlocks made a tight face, then let loose a wild laugh – as if this was the funniest damn thing he had ever heard. ‘Go get it? From Sunny? Yeah, right. I’ll do that – like, never.’

Striker found the conversation amusing. ‘You find Solomon intimidating?’

Dreadlocks stopped laughing. ‘Course I do. Everyone does. Sunny’s one of those guys you don’t wanna cross, right? He can lose it at times. Scares the shit out of people, you know?’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Cuz he’s crazy. One time, my friend asked him if he was Serbian, you know. Like, from Yugoslavia. And it pissed Sunny off like nothing. He grabbed a butcher knife and threatened to slit the guy’s throat. And he was serious, man. Sweating, shaking, spit flying from his fuckin’ lips – I thought he was gonna do it. Damn near pissed myself.’

‘So Solomon can snap.’

Dreadlocks snorted, then wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Shit, he’s from Croatia, man. Saw the rest of his family killed over there. That guy’s seen and done it all. Serious shit over there. Serious shit. He’s not a guy . . . not a guy you wanna mess with, right?’