‘I told you, Sandra, it’s just precautionary.’

She said nothing; she just nodded, then walked over and gave her brother-in-law a hug. ‘It’s good to see you, Trevor.’

‘Likewise, as always.’

Sandra grabbed one of the smaller suitcases and took it up the stairs. Trevor carried the larger one and went with her.

With his wife and brother gone from the room, Harry took the time to assess the place. Everything was bright and clean and smelled like lemon Pledge. Not bad for a safe house. He studied all the exits – one front door, one kitchen door, a sliding glass door to the patio. Then he realized that Ethan was looking at him. Intently.

‘I don’t want to be away from you,’ the boy said.

For a moment, Harry could see Joshua in him. And as much as it saddened him, it also made him love the boy even more, were that possible. He knelt down, gave his son a hard hug, and didn’t want to let go. Once again, he touched his son’s chest. Right over the heart.

‘No matter where you go, no matter where I am, I will always be right here, Ethan. Never forget that.’

The boy looked back through large wide eyes and smiled.

‘I love you more than anything, son.’

‘I love you more.’

Harry smiled at the boy’s words and felt tears come to his eyes.

‘That’s just not possible, son.’

One Hundred and Four

It was well after eight a.m. by the time Striker turned onto Zero Avenue and paralleled the Canada–US border. He glanced at the stereo clock twice, disbelieving the display. ‘Day already feels long – just like yesterday and the day before.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Well, that’s what happens when you start around five in the morning.’

Striker drove on.

The GPS coordinates from Osaka’s cruiser translated to the 17000 block of Zero Avenue. It was an odd area. Half the land was made up of large patches of wilderness, and the other half was a mix of ten-acre lots. Paralleling the area were even larger squares of farmland. Flats and rolling hills. Everywhere Striker looked, zoning permits had been put up.

Condo developments were in the works.

Striker turned into a narrow cement driveway that opened up on a wider roundabout. Standing at the mouth of the oval was a large wooden sign that said: ‘Sunset Grove Care Centre’. Behind the sign was a rectangular, one-level structure, made up entirely of brown stucco and brown brick.

‘This is it?’ Felicia asked.

Striker nodded. ‘According to the GPS unit we’ve arrived. Osaka came here early in the morning, each of the last two days.’

‘Well, let’s go find out why.’

They parked the car and got out.

The doors to the main foyer were electronic, and they swished open as Striker and Felicia approached. Inside, a cooler air hit them, and the soft sound of Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ played over the speakers. The facility smelled of green pea soup.

Felicia read a plaque on the wall. ‘Hmm. This is a long-term care facility.’

Her words struck a chord with Striker, and the name started to sound familiar. ‘Sunset Grove . . . I think the Police Mutual Benevolent Association contributes to this place. For cops who get sick.’

He approached the reception desk. The nurse working there was early thirties, black, and had her curly hair tied back in a bun. Striker flashed her the badge, explained that they were here on some follow-up matters for their boss, and the woman smiled.

‘For Inspector Osaka?’ she asked.

Striker forced a smile and said yes. ‘You know him?’

‘Oh yes, he’s a very nice man – he’s been here two days in a row now.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ Striker said. ‘Do you know why he was here?’

‘Well, visiting, of course.’

When Striker said nothing else, the nurse reached across the desk and grabbed the sign-in book. She turned it slightly so he could read the writing, then flipped the pages back a day.

‘There’s his signature. Room 17. Mr Hurst.’

It took Striker a moment to recognize the name. Hurst was a man he’d known years ago and had long since forgotten. He looked down at the line, spotted Osaka’s signature, then pushed the book back to the nurse. ‘Can we visit him?’

‘Of course you can. I’m sure he’d love the company.’ She pointed down the hall. ‘East Corridor, just that way there. But be warned . . . he’s not doing all that well today.’

Striker nodded but asked nothing more. He turned around and spotted Felicia, who was still reading the information on the welcome plaque. He gave her a nod, muttered, ‘We got someone to talk to,’ and the two of them headed down the long corridor.

As they went, the lighting grew dimmer. The walls were brown, just like the floor – just like the entire exterior of the building. The drab colour made everything appear darker, especially the sections where the natural light of the front windows couldn’t reach. Striker wondered why they’d used it.

They passed a few lifting cranes and a series of walkers and motorized wheelchairs, then reached Room 17. The name plate on the wall was Salvador Hurst.

‘Salvador?’ Felicia asked. ‘Sal?’

Striker nodded. ‘Used to be a detective with the Drug Unit. Long time ago, though. He got seconded to the Feds for about eight years and I never saw him again. Had no idea he was even in here.’

He gave a rap on the door and went inside.

At first Striker thought they had entered the wrong room, or maybe that the nameplate was wrong. Yes, it had been eight years since he had seen Sal Hurst, but the man he remembered was a strong, solid cop with South American good looks.

The man on the bed did not even resemble that man.

This man was thin – so awfully thin. The skin hung off his body like drapes. Underneath his flesh, there was no fat, and even less muscle. His eyes were just sockets now, his cheeks all bone, and his hair was not only white and thin, but missing in patches. His breaths came in slow, erratic wheezes.

‘Sal?’ Striker asked.

The man on the bed did not move.

‘Sal,’ he said again, a little louder.

The man’s eyes opened part way, and then narrowed. ‘I . . . know you,’ he said. The words were weak, and they seemed to take everything out of the man.

Striker stepped forward and introduced himself. ‘And this is Detective Felicia Santos. She’s with the VPD too.’

Hurst just blinked.

‘We’re here because of Terry Osaka,’ Striker said.

A flicker of happiness filled the man’s eyes. ‘Terry . . . he was . . . just here . . . some day.’ He looked at the box of chocolates on the side table, all of which remained. ‘Take some.’

Striker did not. Instead, he pulled over a chair and sat closer to the bed. ‘I haven’t seen you in years, Sal. Not since you left for the secondment.’

Hurst’s eyelids closed for a moment, then opened again. ‘. . . didn’t last long . . . got sick.’

Felicia sat down next to them. ‘Is that why Terry was here, Sal? Just to visit you? Or was there another reason?’

Hurst took a few laborious breaths before responding. ‘Old friends . . . squadmates.’

Striker nodded. ‘We know that, Sal. But did he come here for any other reason, other than to say hi?’

Hurst just rolled his head lazily back and forth, as if shaking his head no. As he did this, Striker saw the sweat marks on the pillow. ‘Just . . . saying hi,’ Hurst got out. ‘Terry was always . . . a good guy.’

Striker nodded slowly, then cast a glance over at Felicia, who merely shrugged. She took a moment to ask Sal a few questions. But the answers she received were inevitably more of the same, and she didn’t want to tire the poor man. One thing here was clear. Hurst was ill. Probably dying. And he looked like he had little time left. It seemed that Osaka had been merely paying his final respects.