The camera was gone.

Four

The Lucky Lodge was small for a rooming house. Each floor had only three units per side, and each unit was an SRO – Single Room Occupancy. Because of this, there were only six rooms on the third floor, and only three of them faced west – one on either side of Mandy Gill’s unit.

The window ledge where the camera had been set lay closer to the south neighbour than the north, so Striker headed for unit 305. He kept his pistol drawn and made his way towards the hall.

Without the ambience of Constable Wong’s flashlight, the darkness of the complex seemed thicker than before. Deeper. And as if to make the situation even harder for him, the blazing orange light of dusk faded completely as the sun slipped in behind the blackish western cloud banks.

Striker stood behind the cover of the door frame and angled his flashlight. It was a mini Maglite. It didn’t hold a candle to the full-sized ones patrol members used, but it was all he had. He rotated the lens to turn the narrow beam brighter and shone it down the hall.

Everything was still. All the doors were closed.

‘Vancouver Police!’ he yelled. ‘Make yourself known!’

No reply came back, only silence.

For a moment, Striker considered waiting for Constable Wong. Rookie or not, two cops always gave better odds – and that was on the assumption that there would be only one threat awaiting him in the other room.

But thoughts of a suspect escaping ate away at him. He readied his pistol and slowly moved down the hall. When he reached the door to unit 305, he stopped. Listened.

Nothing but silence.

He reached out and grabbed the doorknob. The steel was cold to the touch. When he turned it, the knob refused to move. It was locked from the inside.

‘Vancouver Police!’ Striker said again. ‘I know you’re in there. I need to talk to you about the tenant in the next suite. Open the door.’

Again there was only silence. And then . . . .

A sound.

It took Striker less than a second to identify it – the soft, scraping noise of a window being raised.

He took a quick step back, then jumped forward and kicked the heel of his foot between the doorknob and frame. Entry took only two kicks. The steel lock remained intact, but the rotting wood of the frame let loose a loud snaaaap! and broke inwards. The door flew back, slammed into the wall, and Striker aimed his gun and flashlight all around the room, hitting each of the four corners.

No one was there.

He quickly surveyed the room. The layout was a mirror image of Mandy Gill’s unit. Kitchenette, cot, washroom and main sitting area, all in one. The kitchen was vacant. The underside of the cot was visible with no one beneath it. And the bathroom had no one inside.

The window was wide open.

‘Fuck,’ Striker growled.

He hurried across the room to the window and looked down at the vacant lot below. With the sun all but gone, the shadows were wider and deeper. Everything was grey and black now. Impossible to distinguish.

There were many places to hide.

Striker assessed it all – from the huge commercial garbage bins of the back lane, to the underground parking lot on Gore Avenue, to the heavy row of bushes that flanked the communal area of the Prior Street Park.

Everywhere he looked there were escape routes.

He spotted Constable Wong returning from his patrol car.

‘Cover the southwest corner!’ Striker ordered. ‘Someone just took off from this room! Call for more units and a dog. I’ll take northwest!’

The young constable froze, though for only an instant, before nodding and racing south. When he disappeared behind the curve of the next building, Striker turned back and ran for the doorway. He was barely halfway across the kitchenette when his shoes caught on something. He stopped running, looked down. In the dimness of the room, the objects he had stepped on were not easy to define, so he shone his flashlight on them.

Not plastic, but wire. Trays of some kind.

Refrigerator trays.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when the fridge door came flying open. It hit Striker with enough force to send him reeling backwards. He landed hard on the floor, and rolled. He raised the gun, shoved his back tight against the far wall, and readied himself for an attack.

But none came.

He looked across the room. Racing for the window was a figure – average height. Lean build. Dark clothes.

‘Stop! Police!’ Striker ordered.

But the suspect ignored him.

Striker scrambled to his feet and dived towards the window – but the man was fast. He was already three-quarters of the way out by the time Striker reached him. He grabbed on to the suspect’s hand and yank him back. But it was too late. The suspect slipped out of reach, and Striker was left standing there, clutching one of the man’s black leather gloves.

The man plummeted three storeys down. No scream, just silence. He hit the crabgrass, rolled down the small slope of hill, then got back to his feet.

Striker tried to flood the man with light from his flashlight, but from three storeys up the beam was too weak. All he saw was black clothing. A dark hoodie. And beneath that, what appeared to be a black leather mask. The suspect leaned down and picked up his camera. Then, for a brief moment, he looked back up at the window.

‘Don’t move!’ Striker ordered.

But the man ignored him again; he turned and raced into the shadows of the south lane. And then he was gone.

Five

Five minutes later, Striker looked up and down Union Street for the red and blue glow of the Canine Unit’s lights. When he didn’t see them, he got on his phone and called the Central Dispatcher, Sue Rhaemer.

‘Where the hell’s the dog?’ he demanded.

Rhaemer paused for barely a moment, and Striker knew she was checking the GPS. ‘He’s just a few blocks out.’

‘Well, tell him to get his ass here now.’

Striker had barely ended the conversation when the dogman’s emergency lights tinted the air and a white Chevy Tahoe came racing around the bend of Gore Avenue. The man behind the wheel was Harry Hooch, one of the department’s best dogmen.

The Tahoe came to a sliding stop on the icy road surface and stopped right in front of the Lucky Lodge. Hooch climbed out. He was shorter than most cops, maybe five foot seven, and he was rail-thin, weighing less than a hundred and sixty pounds. But what Harry Hooch lacked in height and weight he made up for with his steel determination. He yanked open the rear door and Sable jumped out. The Shepherd’s colouring was completely black. Even in the grey light of the coming night, her coat glistened.

‘Where’s the scent?’ Hooch asked.

Striker pointed to the area where the suspect had fled. ‘Landed there. On the slope beneath the window.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘None. The area’s clean.’

Hooch said nothing. He got the Shepherd to sniff the glove, then led the dog across the lot and got to work.

Striker watched eagerly as the Shepherd scoured back and forth in search of the trail. When the dog finally picked up the scent, she beelined down the south lane of Union.

Hooch went with her, and so did Striker. The dogman didn’t want the extra protection, and the scowl on his face showed that; like most dogmen, Hooch liked to play the game solo. But Striker wasn’t about to leave him without proper cover. Especially when they had no idea what they were dealing with here.

He ran with the man.