Striker grinned darkly. ‘The world is full of sickos, Feleesh. Again, what does it prove? That someone who filmed Mandy was in the next-door apartment. He was also in the house across the way. Could’ve been a squatter, for all we know.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘I doubt it, too. But that’s what we got right now. We need more.’ He turned silent as he thought things over, and he revved the engine a few times to warm it up faster. After a long moment, something occurred to him and he turned to face Felicia once more. ‘If Mandy was forced to eat those pills, then they were already ground up into powder when she took them – I saw the paste in her mouth.’

‘Saliva over time can do that,’ Felicia said wryly.

Striker gave her one of his I’m not a moron looks. ‘There was pill dust around her lips as well, and she also had bits of it on the corners of her mouth. The pills were crushed, Feleesh; she didn’t chew them. So either she hated taking medicine in pill form and always ingested them as powder – or someone made her take them. It’s one or the other.’

Felicia crossed her arms to keep warm. ‘If there was a struggle, you’d think she’d have fought back.’

‘There are no defensive wounds.’

‘Could she have been bound?’

Striker bit his lip as he thought that over. ‘I looked for that, and I didn’t see any ligature marks. But if something happened to her first – if she were held down, or bound, or drugged – then that would explain it. My bet would be drugs.’ He flipped through the pages of his notebook, then wrote down a few theories. ‘You can damn well zombify a person with a lot of over-the-counter meds – sleeping pills, Valium, anything they can crush up and slip into someone’s drink.’

‘GHB,’ Felicia noted.

Gamma Hydroxybutyric Acid was the most common daterape drug on the market.

‘That shit renders victims damn near immobile,’ she added.

‘And it can kill in larger doses,’ Striker said. ‘That might end up being another avenue we need to pursue. For all we know, this could end up being a case of a date rape gone wrong.’ He wrote this down in his notebook. ‘Tox tests will help.’

Striker was about to say more when his cell phone buzzed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his iPhone. Across the screen were two words: Larisa Logan. He saw the name, then shook his head and swore under his breath. He hit the Ignore button and stuffed the cell back into his pocket.

Felicia took note. ‘Who was that?’

Striker gave her a glance like he didn’t want to get into it. When Felicia didn’t look away and just kept staring, waiting for an answer, he relented.

‘Larisa Logan,’ he explained. ‘Works for the Victim Services Unit. Third time she’s called me in two days.’

Felicia shook her head. ‘Well, here’s a novel idea – why don’t you actually answer the phone? Or at least call the woman back?’

Striker said nothing for a moment. He used the sleeve of his coat to wipe away some of the remaining moisture on the driver’s side window. Then he fiddled with the defrost controls.

‘Jacob?’ Felicia persisted.

He sighed and met her stare. ‘Look, Larisa’s the counsellor who put me through the department-ordered sessions after Amanda’s death, okay? That’s her fifth call this week.’

‘Then why don’t you just call her back?’

‘Because I know what she wants.’

‘Which is?’

‘To do her yearly follow-up sessions, I’m sure – the woman is relentless.’

‘So then do them.’

Striker said nothing, he just exhaled. The sessions with Larisa were difficult; they brought back too many painful memories. And there was enough on his plate right now with work and home life. Already, he couldn’t sleep at night. And on top of all this, there was his relationship with Felicia: off again, on again, somewhere in between – he never knew which way they were headed.

Off again right now, and he wasn’t happy with it. Whenever he asked her what the problem was she said: ‘There’s just too many issues to deal with.’

It was her standard response.

Lately, everywhere he turned there were problems. Even the good things felt hard. And he was tired of it. He didn’t need any more stress put on his shoulders. And dredging up the memories of Amanda’s depression and suicide would only make matters worse.

He was avoiding all that. Purposefully.

Felicia suddenly made an Ohhh sound and seemed to catch on. ‘My God, Jacob, I’m sorry – I never even realized.’

He looked at her, confused. ‘Realized what?’

‘This. I mean, here we are at a suicide, and the woman has almost the same name as your wife. Mandy. Kinda like Amanda. I’m sorry, I should have known. I never even thought—’

‘You’re reaching here, Feleesh. And for the record, Amanda died a long time ago.’

‘What does that matter? My God, if I’d realized—’

‘A long time ago, Feleesh.’

She gave him an uncertain look, like she wasn’t sure which way to take the conversation. In the end, she kept quiet. The passenger window was still fogged up, so she took a moment to power the window down and up. When it remained fogged, she wiped away the condensation with her hand. Afterwards, she turned in her seat and met his stare once more. She spoke softly.

‘Maybe you should see Larisa one more time.’

Striker groaned. ‘Oh Jesus, not you, too. Leave it be, Feleesh.’

‘I’m just saying—’

‘You’re always just saying something. Serious. Just let it go for once, will ya? Let this one ride.’

Felicia’s eyes narrowed at the comment, and for a moment she looked ready for a fight. She tucked her long dark hair back over her ear and her mouth opened like she was ready to say more.

Striker looked away from her. He was in no mood for small talk or bullshit. And in even less of a mood for arguing.

DNA tests needed to be done.

Eleven

Before Striker could put the car into gear, the bright glare of headlights caught his eye. When he looked over into the centre of the street, he saw two men with video cameras and one woman with long blonde hair holding a microphone in front of a white media van.

The evening news.

‘Jesus, they’re here already?’ he griped.

Felicia sighed. ‘They must’ve seen the police lights and the dog track.’

‘Just say nothing and get in the car.’

Striker powered down the driver’s side window. The blonde woman took notice and hurried over, almost slipping in her high heels.

‘Detective Striker. Detective Striker!’ she called.

‘No comment,’ he said politely.

He tried to show no emotion. But it was hard. There was no doubt in his mind that he and Felicia would now be on the local news tonight, and that irritated him.

Felicia shook her head as she looked at the news crew. ‘Must be a slow night,’ she noted.

‘For them,’ Striker replied. ‘For us, it’s about to get busy.’

He put the car into Drive and pulled out on to the road. The lab was waiting.

For the first few minutes of the drive, silence filled the car. Felicia was reading through Mandy Gill’s long and troubled history, and Striker had taken a handful of aspirin to get rid of the headache that was growing behind his eyes. When they reached the corner of Clark and Broadway, Felicia looked up, confused.

‘Why are we going this way?’ she asked. ‘The lab is south.’

Striker said nothing as he navigated around a parked bus and continued west.

‘Jacob?’ she persisted.

He glanced over at her. ‘Using the police lab will take months,’ he explained. ‘Weeks, in fact, even if we could put a rush order on it. No, we’re going private on this one.’

‘Private? You know how much that costs.’