Especially not Laroche.

‘Gear up,’ Striker warned.

He gave Felicia a quick look, saw the uncomfortable expression masking her tired face, and barged out the exit door, into the brisk night air. The hospital door had barely shut behind him when Laroche exited the vehicle, followed by his lackey, Inspector Beasley.

‘Well, he’s got Curly with him now. All he needs is to find a Moe.’

‘Jacob, please,’ Felicia started.

He ignored her. Stopped walking. Crossed his arms. Stood rooted to the spot.

The Deputy Chief closed the car door then looked at his reflection in the side mirror. He adjusted his belt, fidgeted with his tie, then patted and combed his thick black hair back over his head while Inspector Beasley waited for him on the sidewalk. When he finally stopped fussing and stood up straight, his eyes landed on the two detectives. And his face darkened.

‘Striker!’

‘Laroche.’

‘Jesus Christ, everywhere you go I have to set up a new crime scene.’

Striker blinked, couldn’t believe his ears. Not, ‘Good job at the Kwan house,’ or, ‘You were right, Leung wasn’t Red Mask,’ or even, ‘I’m glad to see you’re alive.’ No, he got none of those, and there would certainly be no commendation to follow. Just more bullshit. He cleared his throat and said politely, ‘Just bringing you more zebras, sir.’

Laroche said nothing. His white face turned pink. Striker expected a rebuttal of some sort, but none came. Instead the Deputy Chief swivelled his hips, found Inspector Beasley, and the two of them exchanged a nasty smirk. One that made Striker pause.

Just what the hell are they up to now?

The Deputy Chief gave Beasley a nod, and without a word Beasley returned to the White Whale, popped open the trunk, rummaged around for a second, then returned with a gun case. He handed it to the Deputy Chief, who then turned to Striker with a wide smile stretching his lips.

‘The order no longer comes from me,’ Deputy Chief Laroche said. ‘It comes from the top, this one – right from Chief Chambers himself. And he’s made his decision clear. You have to turn in your gun. Now. It’s evidence.’

Striker shrugged. ‘I never said it wasn’t.’

‘You refused to relinquish it.’

‘I did nothing of the sort; I promised to relinquish my gun once it was safe to do so, when the incident was over, and technically the incident was not over. Like I said before, it was a safety issue, pure and simple.’

Laroche’s smile didn’t falter.

‘Well, there’s no safety issue any more, Detective Striker. The Department will issue you a new gun, now that your old one is being seized.’

Striker dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun and ran his fingers along the grip. It was rubberised – one of the many adjustments he’d made to the Sig – and it had the flashlight attachment on the muzzle, one that needed to be made by special order.

‘I’ve qualified on this one,’ he noted.

‘Chief Chambers understands your concern, so he’s given you an option. If you’re that concerned about being issued the new gun, then you have the right to take yourself off the road and remove yourself from the case, effective immediately, until you’ve requalified. So what’s it going to be, Striker? Relinquishment, or Leave?’

Striker let out a heavy breath. As much as he hated to admit it, the Deputy Chief was right on this one. The exigent circumstances of the incident had long since passed, and for him to argue that the incident was ongoing because the gunman was still out there somewhere was nothing more than a technicality – especially when he was being given a new Sig as a replacement. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was piss off the Chief. Chambers was a good man; Striker respected him.

‘Well?’ Laroche asked again.

Striker said nothing. He ejected the loaded magazine, withdrew his pistol, racked the slide and popped out the final round. He safed the pistol, locked the slide back, then placed it down on the hood of the Deputy Chief’s car.

Laroche seized the gun.

Striker said nothing. He took the new gun case, turned, and walked away. He reached the undercover cruiser, unlocked the driver’s side door and was about to climb inside when Laroche called out to him a final time.

‘And Detective?’

Striker turned, waited.

‘Just so we’re clear, you’re still in breach, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll be submitting my report to Internal before the day’s end.’

‘Good idea, sir,’ Striker said. ‘Do me a favour though. On your way there, keep an eye out for a guy wearing a red hockey mask – you may not have heard this yet, but he shot up a high school yesterday morning.’

Laroche’s face twisted into an angry expression, and he looked ready to say more, but Striker never gave him the chance. He hopped inside the cruiser, slammed the door, and started the engine. Once Felicia closed her own door, he tore off down Burrard Street.

The coroner was waiting.

Fifty-Four

The morgue, located at Vancouver General, is accessible only through the emergency parking on the north side. In the eight o’clock darkness, the doorway looked sinister and dangerous.

Striker parked the cruiser in Police Parking and took the cargo elevator down to the lower levels. As the booth descended, it jarred several times, causing Felicia’s claustrophobia to kick in. She let out a strangled sound.

Striker gave her a smile. ‘Hope it doesn’t get stuck.’

‘You’re such a shit.’

‘I got stuck in an elevator one time. Took over two hours before—’

‘Jacob.’

He let it go. The elevator continued down, stopped hard, and the doors clanked opened. Felicia sighed with relief and bolted out like she’d been shot from a cannon. Striker followed, and they walked into the morgue antechamber.

The first thing Striker noticed was the caustic stink of body cleansers. The scent was unmistakable – almost flowery, in a sick sort of way. Then he saw the three rows of refrigerated storage chambers. Each one was devoid of nameplates – except for the final three, which read Sherman Chan, John Doe 1 and John Doe 2.

John Doe 1, the headless gunman, had originally been labelled Que Wong, but that name had been crossed out with thick black felt after the discovery of the real Que Wong down by the docks.

Striker had no idea who John Doe 2 was.

He stared at the chambers, losing himself, and his thoughts fell back to the past. The last time he’d been here, standing within these dreary grey walls, under the fake illumination of the humming fluorescent lights, was two years ago – just a few days after Amanda had finally succumbed to her injuries. He’d come here to identify the body – a legal necessity – and hopefully find some peace with all that had gone on.

He had found none, and to this day nothing had changed.

Felicia caught his expression, or maybe it was his posture, or maybe she just knew – she was a woman after all; they were good at that – and she gently touched his arm.

‘You okay?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Hasn’t been that long since you’ve been here. And after all you went through, well . . .’ Her lower lip hung open as if she’d lost the words, and she gave him a distant look before speaking again. ‘You really need to tell Courtney about Amanda, Jacob.’

‘Jesus Christ, you’re bringing that up now? Here?’

‘She needs to know.’

‘Look, Felicia,’ he started, but a voice interrupted him.

‘Detectives?’

Striker turned and found the coroner standing in the doorway that led to the autopsy room. She was a tall woman, almost six foot, and thin – supermodel, finger-down-your-throat thin. Her long auburn hair was rolled up into a bun and tucked under a blue hairnet. The glasses she wore were large and only magnified her deep blue eyes. Morgue apparel aside, she was a Death Goddess. A knockout, but in a superficial way. Everything about her looked fake, cosmetic, manufactured. All plastic and paint.