‘If they already think he’s dead,’ Felicia said, ‘then let’s keep it that way.’

Striker nodded. ‘It makes sense. We already have to give a press release for Koda’s death, why not just add in Harry’s name while we’re at it?’

‘We can retract it later,’ Felicia said.

‘And it will keep him safe, at least for a while, until we can figure this whole mess out.’

‘There’s just one problem,’ Felicia said. ‘He’ll have to agree with it.’

Striker thought that over and nodded. ‘That won’t be a problem,’ he finally said.

‘You don’t think?’

Striker shook his head. ‘No. Because he’s not doing it for himself. He’s doing it for his son. He’s doing it for Ethan.’ He looked at Felicia and his grin widened. ‘You set up what you need to with Laroche and Media Liaison. Leave Harry to me.’

Ninety

Following a lengthy discussion with Harry, Striker got the man to agree with the plan. He would allow them to release his name as one of the officers killed in the line of duty; what he would not allow is police protection. No guard. No safe house. No nothing.

‘You’re being foolish,’ Striker said.

‘We can protect you,’ he said.

‘We can even relocate you,’ he said.

But Harry knew the routine well. And the man was adamant.

‘I’ll make my own way,’ he said.

It left Striker with no other recourse. He returned to the undercover cruiser and informed Felicia of Harry’s response. Upon hearing it, she shook her head and her eyes flared with anger.

‘It makes him look guilty, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘He wants to be out here. In the field. So he can see what’s going on.’

Striker did not disagree. But this was the best they could do in an imperfect situation. He said nothing more; he just leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, and went over the file in his head. Nothing seemed to fit. And his mind felt overworked now.

He was tired.

Felicia spoke up. ‘I checked the lane, by the way. Where Sleeves was killed.’ She closed the laptop, clearly frustrated. ‘There’s nothing – we got no video surveillance and no witnesses. It’s an investigative dead end.’

Striker opened his eyes. ‘Let’s switch gears for a bit. Focus on Chipotle. He’s the other end to this equation.’

Felicia agreed wholeheartedly.

‘Head to Source Handling?’ she asked.

Striker nodded. ‘It’s time to see if this guy was coded.’

Without full authorization, Striker and Felicia couldn’t access the coded files of the Source Handling Unit. This was standard and a necessary safety measure. Regardless, it left them with only two options – contacting Trevor Eckhart, or contacting Clara Sykes.

Due to Trevor’s obvious conflict of interest with having Harry for a brother, Striker chose to contact Detective Sykes. She lived in the fisherman’s village of Richmond known as Steveston – a twenty-minute drive to Cambie Street Headquarters – and she took every one of those minutes getting down there.

Not that it mattered much. Clara Sykes spent less than two minutes searching through the database before saying the one word Striker had been fearing all along:

‘Purged.’

The coded information was gone.

Striker swore out loud and felt himself deflate. It was disappointing, though not exactly surprising – the information on Chipotle was a decade old. Striker thanked the detective for coming in after hours and trying to help them, then he and Felicia left the Source Handling Unit and returned to Homicide.

There they printed up every file ever created for Carlos Chipotle. There were many. They also attended Archives in an effort to locate the Vancouver Police file for Chipotle’s homicide. When Striker found the folder, a jolt of excitement hit him – one that quickly turned to frustration when he found the folder to be empty. He threw it on the shelf and cursed.

‘Missing,’ he said. ‘Gone – just like the coded information.’

Felicia didn’t give up. ‘I’ll check the fiche.’

She left the room and Striker continued searching through the files. When Felicia returned ten minutes later, an equally dejected look smeared her features.

‘Nothing?’ Striker asked.

‘Zilch.’

Striker laughed out of scorn. Missing source papers, missing homicide reports – it was beyond coincidental. Someone had taken them. He knew it. There was simply no other logical explanation.

He grabbed all the folders he could find that were Chipotle-related and realized with all certainty that their day was done. He gave Felicia a weary stare.

‘Let’s get the hell outta here,’ he said. ‘Read this stuff at home – over an ice-cold beer.’

For the first time in hours, a smile found Felicia’s face.

‘You had me at ice cold,’ she said.

Ninety-One

On the way home, Striker drove in a circuitous route and cut through the Kerrisdale area. He stopped in at the Stone Cold Creamery and bought a two-litre carton of ice cream for Cody and Shana – blue bubble gum, their favourite.

Once back in the car, Felicia stared at the odd blue colour of the dessert and made a wary sound. ‘This stuff looks like it was made in Chernobyl.’

Striker grinned. ‘Looks like your attempt at risotto last week.’

‘Hey, at least I try – what have you ever tried to make for us?’

‘I do all my cooking in the bedroom.’

‘Yeah? Well next time you need to preheat the oven a little more.’

Striker laughed; the banter felt good. Getting away from the work for a bit felt good. He could suddenly breathe again.

They drove to Rothschild’s new residence and parked out front. The engine died with a rattle. Carton in hand, Striker climbed out and approached the front door. Rothschild opened it before he could so much as knock, and in behind him, two tiny faces peered out.

Cody and Shana.

Striker held up the ice cream container. ‘Hey, little ones. Who wants a sugar high?’

Shana’s tight expression vanished and was replaced by one of glee, while Cody let out a scream of delight and began chanting the words ‘ice cream’ over and over again, and marching in a circle around the boxes in the living room.

‘Oh man, you’re gonna get them all hyper,’ Rothschild said.

‘Who cares?’ Felicia said with a grin. ‘Jacob and I can always leave.’

Rothschild just laughed softly. ‘You’re an evil woman.’

Striker ignored the banter and walked into the kitchen. He pulled extra-large bowls from one of the opened packing boxes, gave them a quick rinse under the taps, and then began doling out the cold blue concoction in huge overflowing spoonfuls. Once the treats were served, they all retreated to the living room and found a place to sit down – Striker and Felicia on the couch with the two children nestled between them, and Rothschild perched down on a green plastic moving crate.

The blue bubble gum flavour turned out to be a hit, even for the adults. They ate well. Striker chatted about SpongeBob with Cody, and Felicia talked about Selena Gomez with Shana.

A half-hour later, bedtime came.

Shana was the first to get up.

‘Thanks, Uncle Jacob,’ she said. She gave him a quick hug, then looked uncertainly at Felicia but gave her one too.

‘Thanks, sweetie,’ Felicia told her.

Cody did the same, then followed his sister down the hall, whining the whole way about having to go to bed so early.

Striker watched them go and felt a strange mix of emotions. Amusement and yet anxiety, love and yet worry.