‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Anything on the tattoo?’

‘Nothing I can directly connect to a black female.’ She spoke the words almost begrudgingly. She struggled to secure the laptop back into the mount; the brackets were notoriously fickle. ‘This friggin’ laptop keeps crashing. How the hell are we supposed to do our job when the department can’t even fix their own software?’

Striker felt her tension like a hot breeze.

As the engine warmed up, he filled Felicia in on everything that had happened in her absence: his alerting the border and the hospitals; Noodles now processing the crime scenes; and how the police chopper was sweeping the shores of Mitchell Island. So far, nothing positive had come back – not from Noodles and not from the helicopter.

It was all one big zero.

‘So what do we have?’ Felicia asked.

‘A bracelet and one hell of a strange torture weapon.’

Felicia nodded as she thought back to the scene. ‘What a weird torture device . . . and yet I think I’ve seen something like that before . . .’

Striker grinned. ‘You’re thinking of a curling iron.’

She gave him a hard look.

‘Or maybe a hair straightener,’ he added.

‘Don’t patronize me, Jacob. Not today.’

When his smile only widened, and she realized he was playing with her, Felicia laughed softly. She shook her head and ordered him to go south. ‘Starbucks on Granville – if I’m going to be able to put up with you all day, I’m gonna need some caffeine and carbs in me. Fast.’

Striker nodded; he felt like some java himself.

Five minutes later, they’d exited the drive-thru with a pair of coffees – a standard black for Striker, and a vanilla latte for Felicia. The brew smelled wonderful, enticing. Yet when Striker raised the paper cup to his lips, his hand trembled. Thoughts of the bullets tearing through the window, back in the steel barn, hit him hard again, and he took in a slow deep breath in an effort to stabilize himself.

Adrenalin, he justified. The jitters.

Hoping Felicia hadn’t noticed, he gulped down some coffee, then dropped the cup into the holder. He handed Felicia the raspberry-lemon scone she had requested and smiled.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said.

She took it. ‘No candles?’

‘I’d need a whole cake for that.’

Felicia gave him a deadpan stare. ‘Are you trying to incur my wrath?’ When Striker didn’t answer, she tore off a chunk, and stuffed it in her mouth. After a few chews, she let his comments go and returned to going over the file.

Striker did the same. He wondered: had they prevented what was to be a gangland execution here? The fact that the victim was a woman made it seem less likely – unless, of course, their witness had been mistaken. Given the girl’s drug-fed mental state, her anxiety, and the dimness of the barn loft, the victim could even have been a man with long hair. To tell now was impossible; they didn’t have enough information, and Striker wasn’t into making assumptions.

‘We need to talk to a weapons expert. And the sooner, the better.’

Felicia agreed.

Only one person came to mind – fellow cop, Jay Kolt. He was the only expert the Vancouver Police Department had on these matters. Kolt spent the bulk of his time teaching Use of Force tactics to cops on training days, and also to recruits at the Justice Institute. And with a name like Kolt, he was damn well born for the part.

Striker telephoned the man on speed-dial. When the call went straight to voicemail, he left a message, asking for a return call ASAP. Then he turned back to Felicia. ‘Weapons expert will have to wait for now.’

Felicia remained undeterred. ‘The bracelet then.’

Striker reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out the brown paper evidence bag. He handed it over to Felicia. She removed the bracelet and studied it for less than a second before her left eyebrow raised in admiration of the piece.

‘This is a Campetti,’ she said.

‘A what?’

‘A Campetti. He’s a well-known designer here in Vancouver.’

‘How do you know that?’

Felicia grinned. ‘Anyone who loves jewellery and lives in Vancouver knows of Campetti. The man’s an artist. He has a shop in the gold building – for those who can afford to go there.’

‘The gold building . . . you mean the Granville high-rise?’

‘That’s the one.’ Felicia used her iPhone app to look up the phone number. She found it, called, then hung up. ‘They don’t open till eight-thirty.’

Striker looked at his watch. It was eight-fifteen now. He put the car into gear and drove north through the rush-hour grind. They headed for District 1, the downtown core.

Destination: Campetti Jewellers.

Thirteen

What would normally have taken fifteen minutes for Striker and Felicia turned into a half-hour commute. The rush-hour jam was thicker than usual and every traffic light was red. When they reached yet another backlog on the Granville Street Bridge, Striker grew frustrated. He pulled out his cell phone and called his voicemail. It was the third time he had done so in two miles.

Felicia gave him a sideways glance. ‘Doesn’t your phone alert you when you get a message?’ When Striker pretended not to hear her and pressed the cell tighter to his ear, she smirked. ‘Oh, I get it.’

‘Get what?’ he asked.

‘You’re worried about Courtney.’

Striker said nothing at first. Courtney, his sixteen-year-old daughter, had left for Ireland with her boyfriend, Tate, over fourteen hours ago now. Striker had driven them to the airport himself, and he couldn’t help thinking of her.

‘She’s fine, Daddy,’ Felicia added. ‘God, you’re such a worrywart.’

Striker had no messages, so he put the phone away. ‘She was supposed to call the moment the plane landed. She promised.’

‘And she will. God, give her a break, Jacob. It’s not like she’s gone to some Third World country. It’s Ireland. And she’s with Tate.’

He grunted. ‘Tate. That’s what bothers me.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s not just the two of them – his whole family went. Besides, you should be happy she has Tate. He’s a good kid. And he treats her well. After all Courtney’s gone through the last year – getting shot and all – she’s lucky to have someone who supports her and cares for her.’

‘She’s got me.’

Felicia laughed softly. ‘Oh joy.’

‘She hasn’t even finished her therapy yet.’

‘So what? What the girl really needs is some time away. Besides, this has nothing to do with therapy, or Tate, or her trip to Ireland, and you know it . . . Courtney’s growing up, is all. And you don’t like it.’

‘She’s only sixteen, Feleesh.’

‘So what? I had two kids by the time I was sixteen.’

Striker turned to look at her. ‘What?’

‘Gotcha.’

She laughed out loud and Striker said nothing. He just let out a long breath, steered into the fast lane, and drove across the Granville Street Bridge.

They couldn’t get there quick enough for his liking.

The Gold Building – a 27-storey high-rise, located in the very centre of the downtown core – was not the actual building name, but a nickname cops had given it due to the high amount of gold vendors it housed.

Striker had been by the place a thousand times in his career – mainly because the Granville strip was a magnet for problems – but had never once set foot inside the building. Now, as they rode the elevator up to the top floor, he took the bracelet from the bag, turned it over in his hands, and looked for a signature or a serial number. When he found none, he looked back at Felicia.

‘How’d you know this was a Campetti?’