‘Don’t worry, I got it covered.’

‘You got it covered? Like, personally?’ When he didn’t answer right away, her eyes narrowed. ‘What are you up to now? How are we going to pay for this?’

‘Contingency fund.’

She gave him one of her probing looks, and Striker felt her hot black eyes bore into him. He ignored the feeling and pretended to be oblivious – like he always did when trying to avoid a discussion with Felicia.

They continued on to their destination, swerving in and out of the seven o’clock lingering rush-hour grind. When they reached the fifteen hundred block of West Broadway Avenue, Striker pulled over to the north side of the road and stopped in a No Parking Zone. He threw a Vancouver Police placard on the dashboard.

Above the Chapters book store, GeneTrace Laboratories occupied the top two floors of the Bosner Tower, a ten-storey, glass-and-steel monstrosity that took up the entire southwest corner of the Granville–Broadway intersection. The windows were all tinted black, and the moon and car lights reflected off the glass panes in a display that looked eerily festive.

Striker had been here before.

Many times.

Obtaining DNA results was an arduous and painful process if you went through the proper channels. The police lab was a nightmare – great technicians with no support. Wait times could be as long as two years, sometimes even three, if the crime was only a property-related offence.

With the private labs, a complete test with 16-loci quality could be attained in as little as seven days. Less, if the customer was willing to buck up. Private was always the best way to go. And as far as Striker was concerned, GeneTrace was the cream of the crop; they had state-of-the-art facilities and the latest, ground-breaking technology. All of which the customer paid for – and paid dearly.

‘What contingency fund?’ Felicia asked.

Striker just gave her one of his trademark smiles and opened the car door.

‘Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to.’

He grabbed the paper bag with the glove in it from the trunk, turned around, and marched across the street to the Bosner Tower.

Being just after seven, they had plenty of time. GeneTrace Laboratories was open until ten, though Striker often made arrangements for after-hours drops. The owners of GeneTrace were good businessmen.

And cops got preferential treatment.

Inside, the waiting area looked more like a trendy cappuccino shop than a science laboratory. Black leather Casa Nova sofas, white marble floors, and stone-and-glass coffee tables were the norm. Standing tall in the centre of the foyer was a hand-etched sculpture of a pair of chromosomes, made from transparent glass. Behind that was a thick granite countertop, on which stood several black leather folders, which looked more like fancy menus at a five-star restaurant than catalogues for DNA testing.

Felicia walked ahead and picked one up.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘They do everything here from paternity tests to mitochondrial DNA.’ Her eyes turned to the price list and her brow lifted. ‘For this kind of dough, they should at least offer us a martini while we wait.’

Striker grinned. ‘Martini? Hell, they should offer us lines.’

He’d barely finished speaking when the front-desk clerk returned. He walked, almost stork-like, in huge awkward strides with his head bobbing forward with each step; Striker half expected the man to preen himself. His face was thin, and it looked disarmingly young behind the glasses he wore. When he spoke, his voice was high. Fluttery.

‘Good evening. Welcome to GeneTrace. How can I help you?’

Striker approached the counter and badged the young man – an action which seemed to leave no impression on the young clerk – then dropped the brown paper bag with the glove in it and the brown paper bag with the glass shard in it on the granite countertop and met the man’s stare.

‘Vancouver Police,’ he said. ‘We need DNA on this glove. And anything you can do with this glass shard – there’s a leather strip on it we think is from the glove. We’ll need it matched.’

‘That’s not a problem.’

‘We need it done fast.’

‘That is also not a problem.’ He spoke with an air of arrogance.

Without another word, the clerk pulled a form and a pen from beneath the counter and handed it to them. When Striker accepted the form and began filling out the necessary details – type of test required; suspected location of DNA on the item procured; and all the necessary contact numbers – the clerk cleared his throat.

‘And do you have a suspect comparison sample?’ he asked.

Striker shook his head. ‘We want the results run through the DNA Databank. See if there’s any Known Offender hits.’ He met the man’s stare. ‘And we want the results in less than forty-eight hours.’

The clerk frowned. ‘I said fast was not a problem, not light speed.’

‘This is important.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ the man said, and that arrogance was back. ‘Unfortunately, the lab is extremely backed up right now – we’ve been tasked with assisting the Pickton investigation. So even with a rush, it’s going to take some time.’

‘Like I said, we need them fast.’

The clerk’s face took on a distant, detached look, as if this was a line of questioning he was all too used to. When he spoke again, his speech sounded prepared and overused. ‘This is DNA we’re talking about, Detectives, not fingerprints. The culture has to be grown.’

Striker put on his best smile. ‘So it’s not like CSI ?’

The clerk’s face tightened for a moment, then lost the frown. A grin spread his lips and he let out a small laugh.

‘Expect four days,’ he said. ‘Three at the minimum. But leave the sample with me and I’ll see what I can work out with the lab people. Forty-eight hours seems quite unlikely at this point in time, but you never know.’

Striker cast Felicia a glance. After she nodded, Striker turned back to face the clerk. ‘Thanks. We really appreciate your assistance with this.’ He shook the clerk’s hand, then handed him a business card and wrote his personal cell number on it. ‘Call me the moment you know. Night or day.’

‘Of course.’

The clerk rubbed his nose and read through the DNA form, making sure all the boxes were properly filled out and checked. When he reached the bottom of the page, he looked up and met Striker’s stare.

‘And what authorization number should I use?’ he asked.

Striker didn’t hesitate. ‘Eleven thirteen.’

He saw Felicia flinch at the mention of the badge number, but he paid her no heed. Seconds later, when the clerk excused himself to print up the proper labels for the sample and grab one of the Time Continuity forms the police required, Felicia rushed up to the counter and elbowed Striker.

‘What the hell is wrong with you? That’s Laroche’s number.’

Striker shrugged. ‘Has to be. With a bill this big, only an inspector can sign off on it.’

‘But he didn’t sign off on it – we haven’t even spoken to him yet.’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? I must’ve been mistaken then, because I could’ve sworn you told me he’d given us authorization.’

Her reply was cold. ‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Hmm. Must’ve misheard you then.’

‘Jacob—’

‘We really need to communicate better in the future.’ When her cold look remained fixed on him, he added, ‘Just be happy he took the badge number. Otherwise we would’ve had to use Plan B.’

‘Plan B?’

‘You would’ve had to sleep with him.’ When she didn’t laugh and her glare remained the same, Striker splayed his hands in surrender. ‘Come on, Feleesh. It’ll be fine. Trust me.’

She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve heard that one before, Jacob. You’re going to get us suspended.’

He stopped leaning on the counter and turned to face her. ‘That won’t happen. And besides, you know how it works around here – you honestly think Laroche is going to authorize private funding when all we got right now is circumstantial evidence? Lots of luck.’