Striker let the thought simmer for a few minutes. When he realized sleep would no longer be possible, he climbed out of bed and started his morning routine – cold shower, hot coffee.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the brooding darkness of the porch, drinking java and waiting for the newspaper boy. Had Felicia been there, he could have read it on her Kindle. But she wasn’t. So he waited for the newspaper and thought of the case and Courtney.

He grabbed his cell and tried to call his daughter. The line clicked and he heard her digitized voice: Sorry I can’t take your call – I’m busy kissing the Blarney Stone. Please leave your name and number after the banshee wail.

Striker smiled at her silliness. She was always that way. A lot like her mother, really – at least before the depression had hit her.

He left a simple message:

It’s Dad. I hope you’re having a good time. I love you.

Then he turned on his portable police radio and switched the setting to Scan. It allowed him to hear all the feeds from each of the four districts. Some of the speciality channels too. But the radio chatter this morning was almost nil: a drunk driver being pulled over on Lakewood; a mental health apprehension by Oppenheimer Park; and a domestic going down on Fraser Street.

All in all, it seemed an ordinary night shift.

Then the prowler call came in from District 4.

Striker turned up the volume. At first, the broadcast brought him no concern. Prowler calls were a dime a dozen. Most often, they ended up being some drunk guy, looking for his house on the wrong block. Once in a while you got lucky though, and it ended up being some toad doing a Break and Enter.

He listened to the call:

An unknown male.

Seen lurking between the houses.

In the Dunbar area.

It was all pretty routine – until Striker heard the address. He blinked, grabbed the radio, and hit the mike. ‘This is Detective Striker,’ he said. ‘Dispatch, can you go again with that address?’

‘1757 West 29th Avenue.’

Striker jumped to his feet and hit the plunger again.

‘That address is Sergeant Mike Rothschild’s house,’ he said. ‘The man just moved from there two days ago. I’m heading up.’

Forty-Three

Rothschild’s last house was less than a mile from Striker’s home. It was in the same district, even the same neighbourhood. And because of this, Striker was on scene in less than five minutes.

He parked his car, an old model Saab, two blocks out so that he wouldn’t alert the prowler, then made his way in on foot. He hiked along the edge of the park, under the cover of those trees, until he caught sight of the house.

The house was one of the older homes in the area, built on the east side of West 29th Avenue. It sat opposite the Pacific Spirit Regional Park, a 700-acre forest that ran from Dunbar all the way to the university grounds out west.

It was a Vancouver special – one large rectangle, without character or design, built in the early 1980s. The darkness hid the fact that the roof was missing shingles and the white stucco was marred with splotches of grey patchwork, but Striker knew the place well. It was in desperate need of repair, and that was just one of the factors that had prompted Rothschild to put the place up for sale.

Of course, Rosalyn dying had been the real crux.

From the cover of the trees, Striker studied the lot. The house and yard were saturated in darkness. No lights were on inside the house or outside in the yard. The nearest street lamp was two lots down, and the bulb was gone.

Striker watched and waited. He hoped that Patrol would be there soon.

But after a good five minutes, when no signs of movement occurred, his patience ran out. He drew his pistol and made his way across the street. When he reached the driveway, he spotted a broken window.

He pressed the mike. ‘We have entry. Ground floor, north corner. I’m going in for a closer look.’

The Dispatcher came across the air: ‘Backup is almost there, Detective. Car Echo 21 is en route.’

‘Tell them to take the rear lane.’

He headed for the house.

As Striker crossed the yard, he turned the radio volume down to zero. The last thing he needed was radio chatter alerting the suspect. Once closer, he could see that the pane was not actually broken, but the entire window had been removed and placed to the side. He aimed his pistol into the darkness of the basement, then turned on his flashlight and lit up the interior.

Saw nothing.

With Rothschild having just moved to the Kerrisdale area, the house appeared to be empty now. Everything inside was quiet and still, and other than the window being removed, there were no signs of damage. Thoughts of a squatter sneaking inside the house fluttered through Striker’s mind – they were always looking for recently vacated buildings – and he was about to ask Dispatch if there had been any similar calls in the area when he stopped hard.

Something stole his attention.

On the window frame were a few small specks. Like tiny patches of dirt that had been raked off the bottom of someone’s shoe as they climbed inside.

Striker took a closer look at it, shone the flashlight down. Within the muck were smaller patches of a whitish-grey powder – similar to what he’d seen down by the docks the previous morning. The sight turned his stomach hard.

Why would the bomber be at Rothschild’s place?

Were he and the kids in danger?

Striker got on the air, and his voice was tight and low: ‘I want a patrol unit sent to Sergeant Mike Rothschild’s new home in Kerrisdale immediately. A two-man car. Station one cop out front and one out back. Tell them to stay with the family until I get there, and to be on their guard.’

The Dispatcher’s tone was one of confusion. ‘In Kerrisdale?’ she asked.

‘Just do it,’ Striker ordered.

‘Yes, Detective,’ the Dispatcher replied. ‘You want a canine unit started up?’

Striker stared at the whitish power on the windowsill. ‘Immediately,’ he said. ‘And make sure he’s a bomb dog.’

Forty-Four

The canine handler dispatched to the scene was Frank Faust. He came with his police dog, Nitro.

Striker was happy to hear it. Faust was a twenty-year veteran who’d done ten of those years in his hometown of Berlin, when he’d worked for the bomb squad in the Berlin Police Department.

The man knew his stuff.

Faust was on scene in minutes. His German accent was still strong as he asked for the scene details, and by the time Striker had explained them all, a one-man patrol unit had arrived to assist. The kid who got out was tall and gangly, with a dirty-blond fohawk hairstyle.

Striker motioned him over. ‘You got a name?’

He nodded like a bobble-head doll. ‘Kevin.’

‘Okay, Kevin, listen up. I’ll cover right and front; you cover left and rear. Got it?’

The young cop looked exceedingly nervous. ‘Is this . . . is this really the bomber?’

‘It ain’t Martha Stewart.’ Striker put on a smile in his best attempt to calm the rookie down. ‘Look, just cover your points. Don’t let anyone sneak up on us. And be wary of tripwires or IEDs.’

‘IE what?’

‘Bombs. Don’t touch anything on the ground, no matter what it looks like. Boxes, cans, toys – not even a shoe, if you see one.’