Inside the foyer, Striker donned a pair of blue forensic booties to be sure he didn’t track any trace evidence from one location to the next. In the living room, den and kitchen areas, yellow markers had been set up – cones with numbers on them – and all along the wall and counter surfaces, the black powder traces of the fingerprinting process could be seen. Noodles was still there, standing in the kitchen with his camera. He took a photo, looked at the camera display, and cursed.

‘Not working?’ Striker asked.

Noodles frowned. ‘Damn thing keeps losing focus – must be one of them female models.’ He let out a dark chuckle.

‘Felicia would have your balls for breakfast if she heard that.’

‘She must be a big eater then.’

Striker ignored the comment and shook his head. He stepped into the kitchen and examined the scene. ‘You run that white powder from the dock yet?’

Noodles lowered the camera. His expression was one of exhaustion, and his thick white eyebrows drooped. ‘Yeah. Turns out it was fairy dust. Got a lead too. First name: Tinker. Last name: Bell.’

‘I need those results, Noodles.’

The Ident tech splayed his hands. ‘Everyone needs everything. I got five crime scenes on the go – the torture room, the dock, the toy shop, the Break and Enter at Rothschild’s old house, and this explosion here. It’s a forensic fucking nightmare, and my assistant’s at home with the shits.’ He raised the camera and took another picture before wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Fucking hot as hell this morning.’

Striker looked at the mess all around them – the cones, the fingerprinting powders, the discarded pile of booties in the garbage can. ‘I can’t tell what does more damage – the bomb, or you guys.’

Noodles grumbled something incoherent, and Striker left to investigate the other rooms.

Due to the high price of downtown real estate, the house had been designed tall and narrow – three storeys, each floor consisting of nine-foot-high ceilings. Striker climbed to the uppermost floor, which owned nothing but a large bedroom with en suite, a small office, and an outdoor patio area. Outside, red brick was the decor. Inside it was cherry wood and teak.

Even the quickest glance was telling. Koda had amassed a wealth that was well beyond what any cop could dream of. Striker wasn’t sure of the house’s city-assessed value, but there was little doubt it would be several million.

Six would be his guess.

He searched it all, room by room, and took his time going through the drawers and any papers he found. In the end, the result was the same. There was nothing of evidentiary value to be seized. And, equally surprisingly, he found nothing that connected Koda to his previous life as a cop. No squad plaques. No framed commendations. No retirement badge. Just . . . nothing.

It was as if the man had wiped his previous life clean.

Disappointed, Striker returned downstairs just in time to see Felicia walk through the front door.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘You get anything?’

She gave him a queer look. ‘Something odd.’

‘What?’

‘I got video of Harry . . . coming by the house here yesterday.’

‘Yeah, we saw him.’

‘Not after the explosion – before.’

Striker frowned. ‘You check the tape time? Make sure it matched your watch?’

She gave him a look that said I’m-not-an-idiot. ‘Yes, it’s correct. Pacific Standard Time. There’s no denying it. Harry came by here not a half-hour before the bomb went off. It makes me wonder why.’

Striker nodded. ‘It makes me wonder why he never told us – he said he hadn’t talked to Koda in years.’

The questions hung there for a long moment. Then Striker’s cell went off, breaking the silence. He looked down and saw the words ‘St Paul’s Hospital’ on the display screen. He picked up the call and heard a thick, Eastern European accent:

‘Detective Striker, if you will please.’

‘This is him.’

‘It’s Dr Varga. Mr Koda is awake now.’

Striker felt his fingers tighten on the phone.

‘Do not let him go back to sleep. We’re heading right up.’

Fifty

A young redheaded nurse who looked no more than twenty swiped Striker and Felicia into the Critical Care Unit. The halls were busier than the last time they’d been there, with pods of nurses and doctors in the middle of their morning rounds. The scene appeared ordinary, routine . . . but something about it felt wrong. When Striker neared the halfway point of the corridor and spotted the door to room 315, he understood why.

No patrolman stood in the hall.

‘Where’s the guard?’ Felicia asked.

Striker hurried down to the room. Dropped his hand near his pistol. Pushed open the door.

Inside, the room was empty. On the bed, the steel rail guard had been lowered and the comforters were folded back. Next to the bed, the blood pressure and heart rate monitors stood unattached. The bathroom door was closed. Striker knocked on it. When no one answered, he opened it up and looked inside.

Empty.

He got on his cell and called Dispatch. Sue Rhaemer answered with a ‘What-up, Rockstar?’

‘Save it, Sue. I’m in no mood.’

‘Pissy.’

‘You got no idea. I’m standing here at St Paul’s Hospital and Chad Koda is gone. I need you to raise the guard for me.’

‘Okay, one sec.’ The soft clicks of a keyboard filled the phone, then Sue Rhaemer made a confused sound. ‘Weak. Says here that the unit cleared, like, ten minutes ago.’

‘Cleared?’

Striker frowned; ten minutes ago was the same time Dr Varga had called to tell them Chad Koda was awake. It made no sense. He was about to get Sue to raise that unit when the door to the recovery room swung open and the doctor walked inside.

‘I’ll call you back, Sue.’ Striker hung up and turned to the doctor. ‘Where is Chad Koda?’

Dr Varga frowned. ‘Mr Koda is released.’

‘Released?’ Felicia said. ‘In his condition? The man was half killed.’

The frown on Varga’s face turned into an expression of concern. ‘I tried to make him stay. But the man would not listen to reason.’

Striker stepped into the doctor’s personal space. ‘He’s supposed to be under police guard.’

Dr Varga looked confused. ‘But . . . he was under police guard. The officer released him.’

Striker felt his jaw tightening. ‘What officer? Who released him?’

Dr Varga looked down at the pad in his hand and searched for the name of the releasing officer. After a long moment, he found it.

‘Detective Harry Eckhart,’ he said.

Fifty-One

Striker was seething.

The moment he and Felicia exited the hospital, he whipped out his cell phone and dialled Harry’s number. It rang three times, then went straight to voicemail. He hung up, dialled again, and got the same response. This time he left a message telling Harry to call him – immediately.

‘This is giving me a headache,’ Felicia said.

‘Nothing like the one Harry’s going to have after I throttle him.’

Striker called Dispatch back and got Sue Rhaemer to raise Harry over the air. She said it was no problem and put him on hold while she did this. Almost five minutes later, the line clicked and Rhaemer returned.

‘Well?’ Striker demanded.

‘Okay, don’t spaz on me this time, but this guy is weak, man. Weak.’

‘Weak? What the hell you talking about, Sue?’