‘They’re nice kids,’ Felicia said.

He nodded.

While waiting for Rothschild’s return, Striker looked around the room at all the moving boxes, then at the fireplace mantel where a picture of Rosalyn had already been placed. The image reminded him of Keisha Williams, and all the hell her children were going through right now. Suddenly the joy of the moment was gone, replaced by a deep melancholy.

‘They all deserved better,’ he said.

Felicia gave him a tender look, and before too long Rothschild returned. He sat down with them, spooned up the last of his blue bubble gum ice cream, and then sat back with an almost wary look on his face.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do I want to know?’

‘Know what?’ Striker asked.

‘Where’s the investigation at now?’

Striker really didn’t want to get into it any more this night, but the man was owed a full debrief. Together, he and Felicia spent a good half-hour filling Rothschild in on all that had transpired during the day’s events. With each word, Rothschild’s face took on an even deeper expression of disbelief.

‘This is a friggin’ nightmare,’ he finally said.

Striker let out a humourless chuckle. ‘You think?’

‘Nothing seems to fit,’ Felicia said.

Striker agreed. There were not only pieces of the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit, but pieces seemed to be missing as well. It almost felt like two entirely different puzzles had been dumped together, making one big jumbled mess for them to sort through.

It was maddening.

Together, the three of them discussed many of the aspects of the case, and tried to sort things out. But the more they talked, the deeper their sense of frustration grew. When it was finally time to head home, Striker couldn’t wait to go.

The tank was empty now. He was running on fumes.

Ninety-Two

When Striker and Felicia finally got home to Striker’s place and closed the door behind them, the clock on the living room wall read 10:17.

It felt hours later.

Striker dropped his coat on the floor beside the coat rack, stacked the Chipotle folders on the coffee table in the den, and then grabbed a couple of ice-cold beers from the fridge. Felicia took her beer and pressed the bottle against her cheek. ‘God, that feels good.’ She rolled it against the side of her neck and shivered. ‘I need a shower.’

She wandered down the hall and disappeared into the bedroom.

Striker took a long swig of his beer and grabbed the first stack of papers. He read. In a few of the files, Chipotle had been charged. In a few more, he had been listed as a suspect. But in most of them, he was simply labelled as a Known Associate.

Striker read the vast array of offences – Living off the Avails, Running a Common Bawdy House, Theft Over, Robbery, Trafficking, Murder.

The list went on and on.

It was almost fifteen minutes later when the bedroom door opened and Felicia returned. Striker looked up at her and suppressed a chuckle. She was wearing a pair of red socks, black Lululemon yoga tights, a yellow T-shirt, and had her hair pulled back with a purple scrunchie.

She caught his smirk and crossed her arms.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘You look like a rainbow exploded.’

She raised an eyebrow and walked into the room. ‘Might I remind you that I’m the one living out of a suitcase here – everything else I have is dirty.’

‘Which is why you should just move in.’

Felicia stared at him with a mischievous look on her face, but said nothing. She came over to the couch, shoved him hard against the backing, and straddled his hips. ‘If you hate the colours so much, why don’t you take them off me?’

Striker wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close enough to kiss her.

‘Taste the rainbow?’ he asked.

She laughed. ‘Now that’s just plain dirty.’

She kissed him gently at first, then harder and with an open mouth, her tongue sliding against his lips, tickling his tongue. Striker reached up, removed the scrunchie from her ponytail, and her long dark hair spilled around her shoulders. Striker wrapped his fingers in it, pulled her close, breathed her in.

‘I love you,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he replied.

She smirked as she pushed herself down against his hardness.

Striker held her there. Reached up and pulled the yellow T-shirt from her caramel skin and threw it on the floor. With both his hands, he grabbed her breasts, and felt her breathing quicken.

She pulled slightly back from him.

‘Bed?’ she asked.

He just nodded and smiled and felt good. For a small brief moment, his worries and concerns all melted away, and it was no longer a world of bombs or bullets or dirty cops. There was just him and Felicia and their cosy private bedroom.

Nothing else really mattered.

Striker had no idea what time it was when he woke up, but he came to with a jolt. His pulse was racing, friggin’ skyrocketing, and all he could see was the fiery image of Chad Koda in the police cruiser, Harry sprawled out helplessly on the ground, and the two shooters encroaching on them.

Closer, closer, closer . . .

He blinked away the lingering nightmare. Told himself it was just a dream, a mishmash of bad memories.

But it did little good.

Covered in a thin film of sweat, and with his mouth dust-dry, Striker climbed out of bed – gently so as to not wake Felicia – and walked down the hall to the washroom. He poured himself a glass of tap water, then hopped in the shower for a cool rinse. When he got out, it was obvious that sleep would not come. So he wrapped a robe around himself and returned to the living room to go over the Chipotle files.

To his surprise, Felicia was already going through them.

‘You’re up,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘No, you’re still dreaming, I’m afraid.’

‘I tried not to wake you.’

‘You’re like a baby elephant rampaging through the house.’ He sat down beside her, and she handed him a file. ‘Get reading.’

Striker did. Twenty minutes later, when he had found nothing relevant, and was considering going back to bed, Felicia made an excited sound. She held up a thin folder for him to see. On the tab was an old file number, and beside it someone had written: Lottery Ticket Thefts – 7-Eleven.

‘Look what momma found,’ she said.

Striker saw it. ‘I read that file already; Chipotle’s listed as a suspect. So what? It’s a minor theft.’

‘You read it, did you? Well, you obviously read the electronic file on the computer and didn’t look in the folder.’

Striker gave her a curious look. ‘What you find?’

She pulled out the paperwork from inside. It was about an inch thick, and divided into two sections by a pair of paper clips. She handed Striker the first section, which had a front page detailing the address of the 7-Eleven store where the lottery tickets had been stolen during a standard smash-and-grab.

Striker shrugged. It was just a printout of the exact same report he’d read on the computer.

But when Felicia showed him the second section of the report, something clicked. For one, the address was different. For two, the role code was wrong. The numbers there were 4169. Not a theft, but . . .

‘A homicide?’

Felicia nodded. ‘It’s the police shooting of Chipotle. Someone put it in the wrong folder – one file number away.’

Striker smiled. ‘You’re a god.’

‘Goddess, darling. Goddess.’

Felicia spread the pages out on the coffee table.

The first thing Striker noticed was that the report was oddly basic. The synopsis told the elementary details of what had occurred: Chipotle had been killed in a shootout with integrated forces. The shooting had happened on the Vancouver-Burnaby border, just up from the Fraser River. And Chipotle had ended up dying on the same day as his wife and daughters, who had been blown up only a few hours earlier by the bomb Sleeves had set.