‘What can you tell me about Chad Koda?’ he asked.

‘Chad? I dunno. He was a good guy. Good boss. And he was smart. Jaded, sure, but who the hell isn’t after all that time?’ Rothschild smiled grimly. ‘I remember him bitching about the courts a million times a day. He really hated them. “It’s a legal system,” he used to say. “Not a justice system.” How’s that for truth?’

‘And?’

Rothschild shrugged. ‘And what? Koda reached the mandatory minimum and took his leave. Got out of the VPD years ago. Went into real estate. And from what I hear, he does pretty good . . . How is he connected in all this?’

Striker hedged the issue. ‘All I know is I got Koda in the hospital, and Keisha Williams and Sharise Owens are dead from two separate bomb blasts. And now, with the suspect being found at your house, Koda is the only real connection I can see here. He knows all three of you.’

Rothschild looked like his mind was a million miles away. ‘I just can’t see why.’

‘He’s left a couple of dolls at the scene,’ Striker said. ‘They’ve obviously been broken up from the blast, but they might be policemen the way they were dressed. And each one of them has had a number drawn on the chest. That mean anything to you?’

Rothschild just shook his head again. Looked lost.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

Striker was about to say more when the door to the basement opened and Shana walked into the room. She was dressed in a pair of long-sleeved pyjamas, pink in colour, with princesses and unicorns on them – the perfect motif for any six-year-old girl. Upon seeing Striker, she smiled wide.

‘Uncle Jacob!’ she said.

She stumbled sleepily across the room and gave him a long, hard hug.

Striker squeezed her back. ‘How’s my little cupcake?’

‘You didn’t come over last night.’

‘I know. I tried to, but—’

‘You had to work.’

Striker smiled grimly. Pretty sad when even a six-year-old knows the same old song and dance.

‘Next time,’ he said.

‘You promise?’

‘How ’bout I don’t promise, but I bring you some ice cream later?’

The little girl smiled. ‘Okay.’

Seconds later, Shana’s brother shambled through the doorway. Though Cody was only twenty minutes younger, he had not yet shed some of his childhood insecurities. He clutched his light-blue blankie and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the uniformed patrol cop who had been standing there completely silent the whole time, then at Striker.

‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked.

Striker tussled his hair. ‘Police Parade.’ When Cody just looked at him through sleepy eyes, Striker told him, ‘It’s still awfully early, my little man.’

‘And the adults are talking,’ Rothschild said.

‘About what?’ the boy asked.

‘You two need to go back to bed, son.’

‘But Dad—’

‘No buts from either one of you.’

Rothschild took both children by the hand and guided them back to the stairwell, where the second member of Echo15 – a short, plump policewoman – was standing. Once the children were being ushered down the stairs, Shana glanced back at Striker and waved.

‘Goodnight, Uncle Jacob.’

‘Pleasant dreams,’ he whispered.

Then they were gone – in presence but not in mind. The image of the little girl remained in Striker’s head. Shana was so much like her mother, in personality and appearance. And Striker wondered how hard that was on Rothschild. When Striker’s own wife, Amanda, had died several years earlier, he had seen her every day in his own daughter – every time Courtney smiled, or laughed, and even when she cried.

It had been emotionally exhausting.

It was something he loved and hated all at once, a reflection that constantly filled him with life and yet killed him at the same time. He wondered at what point he had finally got over that. Time seemed a blur.

When Rothschild returned, Striker threw back the rest of his coffee.

‘I gotta go,’ he said.

‘What – where?’

‘Koda is the hub in all this. I need to talk to the man.’

‘I thought you said he was unconscious.’

‘He is.’ Striker dropped his cup in the sink and headed for the door. ‘Sleeping Beauty’s about to get a wake-up call.’

Forty-Seven

Striker drove to the police fleet lot.

He grabbed an undercover cruiser – one of the new Ford Fusions with the reinforced bumper – and made sure the laptop was working and fully charged. He then checked to be sure the trunk was filled with paper evidence bags and latex gloves. Satisfied, he picked up Felicia from the front steps of Cambie Street Headquarters.

‘You should have called me,’ she said as she climbed in.

‘There wasn’t time.’

‘For a phone call?’

‘Hey, I wouldn’t have had to call you at all if you’d just stayed the night like I asked.’

Felicia gave him a cool glance. ‘Are you really going to use that against me?’

He sighed. ‘Look, I’m tired and it’s already been a hell of a morning. Nothing but bad news, bad news, and more bad news.’

‘Well here’s some good. While I was waiting for you, I did some more searching, and guess who I located? Solomon Bay.’

Striker felt a smile return to his lips. ‘Where?’

‘Oakville Hospital, Toronto.’

‘Toronto?’

‘He’s sick, Jacob.’

‘How sick?’

‘Sick enough that he’s no longer considered a suspect in this file. He’s got some strange degenerative disease. An immune disorder. He’s been bedridden for over three years now, which is why we couldn’t locate any more history on the guy.’

‘This all documented?’

Felicia nodded. ‘He’s not our guy.’

Striker said nothing at first, he just let the information sink in. Ruling Solomon out was necessary, but it left him with an empty feeling. Like someone had stolen something from him.

One more lead destroyed.

He hit the gas and headed for St Paul’s Hospital so that they could speak to Chad Koda. Along the way, he gave Felicia a rundown on all that had happened this morning. By the time they arrived some ten minutes later, she was as befuddled as he was about the file.

They headed inside the hospital.

Admitting was unusually calm, even for a Thursday morning. No patients lined up at the front desk. No paramedics or cops gathered in the lobby. No drunks or mental health apprehensions screamed in the waiting area.

Sitting behind the counter was the same girl who had helped them yesterday. When she saw Striker, a nervous look flittered in her eyes, as if she was thinking Oh God, what now?

Striker and Felicia passed her by. They took the elevator to the third floor, where the Critical Care Unit was located. As always, the doors were electronically locked. A small round nurse of black ancestry scanned them inside.

‘Dis way,’ she said softly.

Striker followed her down to Koda’s room.

Standing on duty outside the door was a Caucasian cop. Big, bald, and fat with lots of padded muscle bulk. A long vertical scar made his already-hard face appear even more fierce, and Striker was glad they had posted this guy at the door. He looked like a mixture of an Ultimate Fighter and a Hollywood soldier.

The cop craned his neck at the sight of them and demanded to see their badges. After a quick show of credentials, they went inside.

The recovery room was private, holding only one bed and a chair. Everywhere Striker looked, there were degrees of white – from the faded ivory bed sheets to the cream-coloured curtains to the sterile eggshell of the walls. The only object that held any true colour was the quilt that ran across the lower half of the bed. It was pale blue.

Like Cody’s security blankie.