Felicia grew frustrated. ‘But even in the Criminal Harassment report, they didn’t mention Koda was a former member.’

Striker shrugged. ‘That’s just cops covering for cops. The author purposely omitted that detail . . . We’ll have to interview Koda tomorrow morning. When we’re fresh.’

Felicia agreed. ‘No one gets blown up in their own house for no reason.’

Striker thought it over, then frowned. Feelings of anger, helplessness and urgency intermingled inside his chest. ‘There’s a connection here somewhere, between all the parties involved, and we’ll find it,’ he said. ‘But that’s not what worries me.’ He looked up and met Felicia’s stare. ‘We’ve got a serial killer on our hands here, Feleesh.’

‘A true classification requires three or more homicides,’ she started.

But Striker waved her off. ‘Don’t go all psychology on me. We’ve had three victims blown sky-high, and it’s a miracle one of them even survived. This bomber, he’s always using the same MO. He knows the victims’ routines – that much is evident by the times and places he’s set the bombs. So he’s doing recon first. He does surveillance, he sets the bomb, and then he waits for the show to begin.’

Felicia nodded as she thought it over. ‘There’s got to be a reason for the murders, some motivation beyond the violence – otherwise, this guy could have gone after anybody. But we know these parties are connected in different ways.’

Striker let out a heavy breath and stood up. ‘We’ll learn the motivation as the body count rises.’

‘Rises?’

‘Make no mistake about it, Feleesh. More bombs are coming. Those numbers on the dolls all but prove it.’

He returned to the kitchen and brought back two more beers. He put Felicia’s on the table, then gave her a hard look. ‘If there are any more bomb calls tomorrow, remember – no going in till the fire’s been put out and the structure’s been deemed safe. We could have had a nasty accident there today.’

‘I understand that, Jacob. Stop treating me like a rookie.’

Then stop acting like one, he felt like saying. But he knew it would only start a fight. So he opted to go with, ‘I’m just looking out for you.’

‘It’s a fine line between covering your partner and being overprotective.’

‘Overprotective?’

‘You’ve been overprotective of me ever since the Billy Mercury shooting six months ago. Okay? Well, it’s over. I survived. Move on.’

Striker let out a humourless laugh. ‘And you derived all this because I stopped you from walking into a burning building today – one which, I might remind you, exploded in the end.’

A cross look spread out on Felicia’s face. ‘It’s more than that, and you know it. You kept me out of the barn this morning too. You went in there and did the whole thing yourself. Yet again. Jacob Striker – Solo Act.’

‘Oh come on.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘First off, you had to stay with the girl. We couldn’t leave her alone.’

‘Sure, but I could have cleared the place.’

Striker splayed his hands. ‘The girl was afraid of me; you saw that. But she liked you. She had a rapport with you. And for all we knew at the time, she might have been raped. I thought it better to leave her with a female member.’

Felicia just shook her head and put down her beer, half finished. ‘You always have an excuse, don’t you?’

‘Not an excuse, it’s the truth. Besides, what’s wrong with me looking out for you? I care about you.’

‘Nothing’s wrong with that. But looking out for me and controlling me are two entirely different things. When we’re at work, I’m a homicide cop – not your girlfriend. You can’t lock me away in a box forever.’

‘I know that . . . I was thinking more of a wooden crate.’

When Felicia didn’t laugh, Striker realized that somewhere along the line, the conversation had turned from relaxed and easygoing to tense and bothersome.

Felicia stood up. ‘Look, it’s late. I’d better be going.’

‘Going? You’re not going to stay?’

‘I have some things I need to get done at home.’

‘At midnight?’

She said nothing.

Striker shook his head. ‘This is crazy. You know, if you just moved in—’

‘We’ve been over this before, Jacob. A million times.’ Felicia let out an exasperated sound. ‘We move in together and one of us will be on the first transfer out of Homicide – and it sure as hell won’t be you. Not Jacob Striker, the ten-year vet. Not the man. It’ll be me – the woman who everyone treats like a rookie.’

Striker watched her expression as she spoke. Her eyes were underscored with lines and her face was tight. The more he looked at her, and the more he listened, the more he realized there wasn’t really a problem here.

They were both plain exhausted.

When Felicia put on her coat to go, Striker helped pull it around her shoulders. When she turned for the door, he grabbed her arm.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She turned to face him. ‘What?’

‘Happy birthday, beautiful.’

A small smile spread her lips. She laughed softly. ‘I’d forgotten.’

Striker pulled her close. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Held her tight. Breathed in her wonderful smell. Gave her a soft kiss on the lips and tasted light beer.

‘Goodnight,’ he said.

‘Goodnight, Jacob.’

He walked her out and stood on the porch, with the old planks groaning under his weight. He watched her go. Sometimes, he wondered if working together was such a good idea. He always enjoyed it, but Felicia sometimes seemed at odds with his ways. Maybe they were seeing too much of each other now. Always at work, always at home. He didn’t know.

When the taillights of Felicia’s Prius turned the corner and were gone from sight, Striker remained on the porch, looking out over the park beyond. Everything was dark, and although the night was as hot as a sweatbox, it looked cold and deep.

For a long time afterwards, Striker did not move. He just stood on the porch and thought everything through. So much for the getaway he’d planned for Felicia’s birthday. It was just another letdown in a long day, it seemed. He killed the thought and looked on. Far to the north, on the other side of the park, the lights of the downtown core shone brightly.

Bright whites in a pitch-blackness.

Somewhere in that sprawling metropolis was their madman. An unknown suspect with an unknown motive. And there was only one thing Striker knew about the man with absolute certainty.

He wasn’t done yet.

Part 2:

Spark

Thursday

Forty-Two

It was early when Striker woke up, barely halfway through till morning. The room was hot and his skin felt sweaty. Sometime during the night, he’d kicked off the bed sheets, and now they covered the floor like another body tarp. The thought was depressing. On autopilot, he reached over to wrap his arm around Felicia, felt nothing there but space, and remembered she hadn’t stayed the night.

Felicia at her own home. Courtney in Ireland. Amanda passed away.

Lately, it felt like he was always losing someone.

It wasn’t right. A home was supposed to be the one place where a person felt happy and secure, but lately, all he felt was a strange tightness in his chest. An indescribable anxiety tightening and tightening and tightening down on him. He wondered if the time for a move had come. Maybe Rothschild had it right.

New move, new start, new life.