She read the badge number. ‘Detective 1160.’

Striker frowned at the words. ‘That’s Harry.’

He leaned against the counter and rubbed his face as a mixture of excitement and disappointment spilled through him.

‘You okay?’ Felicia asked.

Striker just shook his head. ‘So that’s what this has all been about then – drugs. Harry and Koda were selling the seized drugs back to the Prowlers and using Sleeves as their conduit.’

Felicia nodded, but the confused look remained on her face. ‘This was a long time ago, Jacob.’

‘So?’

‘So why is all this violence happening now? The barn down by the river, the bomb at the toy store, the explosion at Koda’s house – why now and not a decade ago? Could it really all be just Sleeves?’

Striker shrugged. He had no idea.

‘There’s only one thing we really know for certain,’ he said. ‘Somewhere along the line, something went wrong. And now it’s all come back to haunt them.’

Seventy-Four

Tommy Atkins went to war

and he came back a man no more.

The bomber chanted the rhyme under his breath as he stood in front of the makeshift lab he and Molly had set up in the command room.

It was a very basic lab: kerosene-fuelled cooking stoves with charcoal filtration to prevent toxicity; coffee filters in lieu of a filtration kit; a glass carafe instead of an Erlenmeyer flask; and pads of standard triple-ply paper towels used for a drying rack. All in all, it was poor apparatus for the job, but what did that matter?

The HME was near completion.

Looking at it now, the soft, yellow-grey, putty-like material resembled a wad of bread dough, waiting to rise. Like the sourdough Mother had often made for him whenever he was sad. The thought of that light fluffy bread smothered in melting butter filled him with a warm, safe feeling. The dough Mother had made was wonderful. But his was better.

His dough would rise like no other.

Behind him, Molly sat on the steel table, busy sewing the latest uniform – the one that mattered most, the one that had to be precise. She put on a good show, but her normally stable hands trembled with every stitch.

He pretended not to notice and finished chanting his rhyme.

Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.

He died, that man who looked like me.

Molly stopped sewing. Looked up. A sense of loss filled her eyes.

‘Did you tell him I loved him?’ she finally asked.

He did not bother to turn around. ‘Loved him? He’s still alive, Molly. You’d know that if you went to see him.’

‘I . . . love . . . yes, yes. Did you tell him I love him?’

‘No.’

A heavy silence enveloped the small room, and moments later, Molly returned to her sewing as if nothing was wrong. She was whispering to herself now. Praying, he knew. To a God who did not care for them now – just as He had not cared for them before.

It angered him to hear it. And he glared at her as she kept praying, praying, praying. He felt like screaming. Raging. Losing control. He closed his eyes. Fought for that elusive calm.

And then the GPS tracker beeped.

He picked it up and stared at the screen. The unit was working well. Everything was going to plan once again. Target 3 was on the move. And the explosives were ready. Had the sight given the bomber even a modicum of happiness, he would have smiled. But it did not bring him joy. So he just put on his workman’s overalls. Grabbed the cell, the radio, and the handheld lasers. And packaged up the HME.

‘It’s time,’ he said.

Seventy-Five

It was going on for four o’clock, and they hadn’t eaten since morning. When Felicia complained about light-headedness, Striker made a quick pit stop at the local Safeway and grabbed them some grub.

Back in the car, Striker took a few bites of a Soprano sandwich that was stuffed with capicola and hot bell peppers, then downed some Coke. He leaned back against the seat, going over what they had learned, and realized he felt quite a bit better after getting some food in his stomach.

Beside him, Felicia tore a chunk out of her pesto chicken and spoke between bites. ‘I’m really getting sick of this game with Harry and Koda. I say we just haul their asses in now, and be done with it.’

Striker swallowed before speaking. ‘We’ve been through this, Feleesh – what actual hard evidence do we have against them?’

‘We got a dead woman in Koda’s house – the same woman who was victimized down by the river.’

‘That doesn’t mean he took her there.’

‘A polygraph—’

‘We can’t force them to take a lie detector, and we both know they never will. Harry’s no dummy. And Koda’s a retired cop, for Christ’s sake. He knows everything we got is circumstantial. He’ll lawyer up and walk, and we’ll have blown our one good chance at charging them with anything criminal. Hell, forget the Criminal Code; if we screw this up, we won’t even get a breach of the Police Act.’

Felicia looked down at her sandwich like she had lost her appetite. ‘What about the shipping weights to Montreaux?’

‘What about them? Harry may have authored the report, but the actual shipment transfers are all unsigned. All we have are some really old records from a private burn facility – nothing that actually ties Harry or Koda directly to trafficking. Hell, we can’t even prove that’s what really happened. All we have are some consistently wrong shipment weights. If it was me under suspicion for it, I’d argue that the scale was improperly calibrated. There’s no way to prove it now.’

Felicia nodded as she reconsidered. ‘The difference in the shipment weights was almost always exactly thirty kilos – that constant difference would actually support their claim. They could argue that the scale was out that exact amount.’

Striker agreed. ‘Knowing Harry, it wouldn’t surprise me if that was done on purpose for just such a defence. He’s always been extremely smart.’

Felicia swore. She crinkled the cellophane wrap around her sandwich and shoved it back into the bag. She looked out the window. Turned silent.

Striker could tell she was getting rapidly frustrated, and he didn’t blame her. He felt it too. He got on the phone and called the plainclothes unit for a status check. Quaid answered on the first ring.

‘What’s up with the target?’ Striker asked.

‘Nothing,’ Quaid replied. ‘Sleeves went back inside his suite and hasn’t come out since. Some girl came by and went into the suite with him. I saw her looking out the window a couple of times, almost like she was doing her own recon on us. She’s a short thing. Kind of plump.’

‘What about Sleeves?’

Quaid made a weary sound. ‘Nothing yet. The little prick just – oh wait, hold on a minute.’ The line went silent for a moment, then Quaid returned. ‘Gotta go. Target’s moving. And fast.’

The line went dead.

Striker hung up. He turned in his seat to face Felicia.

‘Sleeves on the move?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Maybe it’ll lead us somewhere.’

‘I won’t hold my breath.’

Striker frowned. ‘It still feels like we’re missing a part of the puzzle here. We need more information. On Sleeves. On Harry. On Koda. Even on Williams and Owens.’

Felicia looked back from the window and fixed Striker with a detached look. ‘And what about Rothschild?’