Striker watched her expression as she spoke. Her eyes were underscored with lines and her face was tight. The more he looked at her, and the more he listened, the more he realized there
wasn’t really a problem here.
They were both plain exhausted.
When Felicia put on her coat to go, Striker helped pull it around her shoulders. When she turned for the door, he grabbed her arm.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She turned to face him. ‘What?’
‘Happy birthday, beautiful.’
A small smile spread her lips. She laughed softly. ‘I’d forgotten.’
Striker pulled her close. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Held her tight. Breathed in her wonderful smell. Gave her a soft kiss on the lips and tasted light beer.
‘Goodnight,’ he said.
‘Goodnight, Jacob.’
He walked her out and stood on the porch, with the old planks groaning under his weight. He watched her go. Sometimes, he wondered if working together was such a good idea. He always enjoyed it,
but Felicia sometimes seemed at odds with his ways. Maybe they were seeing too much of each other now. Always at work, always at home. He didn’t know.
When the taillights of Felicia’s Prius turned the corner and were gone from sight, Striker remained on the porch, looking out over the park beyond. Everything was dark, and although the
night was as hot as a sweatbox, it looked cold and deep.
For a long time afterwards, Striker did not move. He just stood on the porch and thought everything through. So much for the getaway he’d planned for Felicia’s birthday. It was just
another letdown in a long day, it seemed. He killed the thought and looked on. Far to the north, on the other side of the park, the lights of the downtown core shone brightly.
Bright whites in a pitch-blackness.
Somewhere in that sprawling metropolis was their madman. An unknown suspect with an unknown motive. And there was only one thing Striker knew about the man with absolute certainty.
He wasn’t done yet.
It was early when Striker woke up, barely halfway through till morning. The room was hot and his skin felt sweaty. Sometime during the night, he’d kicked off the bed
sheets, and now they covered the floor like another body tarp. The thought was depressing. On autopilot, he reached over to wrap his arm around Felicia, felt nothing there but space, and remembered
she hadn’t stayed the night.
Felicia at her own home. Courtney in Ireland. Amanda passed away.
Lately, it felt like he was always losing someone.
It wasn’t right. A home was supposed to be the one place where a person felt happy and secure, but lately, all he felt was a strange tightness in his chest. An indescribable anxiety
tightening and tightening and tightening down on him. He wondered if the time for a move had come. Maybe Rothschild had it right.
New move, new start, new life.
Striker let the thought simmer for a few minutes. When he realized sleep would no longer be possible, he climbed out of bed and started his morning routine – cold shower, hot coffee.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the brooding darkness of the porch, drinking java and waiting for the newspaper boy. Had Felicia been there, he could have read it on her Kindle. But she
wasn’t. So he waited for the newspaper and thought of the case and Courtney.
He grabbed his cell and tried to call his daughter. The line clicked and he heard her digitized voice:
Sorry I can’t take your call – I’m busy kissing the Blarney Stone.
Please leave your name and number after the banshee wail.
Striker smiled at her silliness. She was always that way. A lot like her mother, really – at least before the depression had hit her.
He left a simple message:
It’s Dad. I hope you’re having a good time. I love you.
Then he turned on his portable police radio and switched the setting to Scan. It allowed him to hear all the feeds from each of the four districts. Some of the speciality channels too. But the
radio chatter this morning was almost nil: a drunk driver being pulled over on Lakewood; a mental health apprehension by Oppenheimer Park; and a domestic going down on Fraser Street.
All in all, it seemed an ordinary night shift.
Then the prowler call came in from District 4.
Striker turned up the volume. At first, the broadcast brought him no concern. Prowler calls were a dime a dozen. Most often, they ended up being some drunk guy, looking for his house on the
wrong block. Once in a while you got lucky though, and it ended up being some toad doing a Break and Enter.
He listened to the call:
An unknown male.
Seen lurking between the houses.
In the Dunbar area.
It was all pretty routine – until Striker heard the address. He blinked, grabbed the radio, and hit the mike. ‘This is Detective Striker,’ he said. ‘Dispatch, can you go
again with that address?’
‘1757 West 29th Avenue.’
Striker jumped to his feet and hit the plunger again.
‘That address is Sergeant Mike Rothschild’s house,’ he said. ‘The man just moved from there two days ago. I’m heading up.’
Rothschild’s last house was less than a mile from Striker’s home. It was in the same district, even the same neighbourhood. And because of this, Striker was on
scene in less than five minutes.
He parked his car, an old model Saab, two blocks out so that he wouldn’t alert the prowler, then made his way in on foot. He hiked along the edge of the park, under the cover of those
trees, until he caught sight of the house.
The house was one of the older homes in the area, built on the east side of West 29th Avenue. It sat opposite the Pacific Spirit Regional Park, a 700-acre forest that ran from Dunbar all the way
to the university grounds out west.
It was a Vancouver special – one large rectangle, without character or design, built in the early 1980s. The darkness hid the fact that the roof was missing shingles and the white stucco
was marred with splotches of grey patchwork, but Striker knew the place well. It was in desperate need of repair, and that was just one of the factors that had prompted Rothschild to put the place
up for sale.
Of course, Rosalyn dying had been the real crux.
From the cover of the trees, Striker studied the lot. The house and yard were saturated in darkness. No lights were on inside the house or outside in the yard. The nearest street lamp was two
lots down, and the bulb was gone.
Striker watched and waited. He hoped that Patrol would be there soon.
But after a good five minutes, when no signs of movement occurred, his patience ran out. He drew his pistol and made his way across the street. When he reached the driveway, he spotted a broken
window.
He pressed the mike. ‘We have entry. Ground floor, north corner. I’m going in for a closer look.’
The Dispatcher came across the air: ‘Backup is almost there, Detective. Car Echo 21 is en route.’
‘Tell them to take the rear lane.’
He headed for the house.
As Striker crossed the yard, he turned the radio volume down to zero. The last thing he needed was radio chatter alerting the suspect. Once closer, he could see that the pane was not actually
broken, but the entire window had been removed and placed to the side. He aimed his pistol into the darkness of the basement, then turned on his flashlight and lit up the interior.
Saw nothing.
With Rothschild having just moved to the Kerrisdale area, the house appeared to be empty now. Everything inside was quiet and still, and other than the window being removed, there were no signs
of damage. Thoughts of a squatter sneaking inside the house fluttered through Striker’s mind – they were always looking for recently vacated buildings – and he was about to ask
Dispatch if there had been any similar calls in the area when he stopped hard.
Something stole his attention.
On the window frame were a few small specks. Like tiny patches of dirt that had been raked off the bottom of someone’s shoe as they climbed inside.
Striker took a closer look at it, shone the flashlight down. Within the muck were smaller patches of a whitish-grey powder – similar to what he’d seen down by the docks the previous
morning. The sight turned his stomach hard.
Why would the bomber be at Rothschild’s place?
Were he and the kids in danger?
Striker got on the air, and his voice was tight and low: ‘I want a patrol unit sent to Sergeant Mike Rothschild’s new home in Kerrisdale immediately. A two-man car. Station one cop
out front and one out back. Tell them to stay with the family until I get there, and to be on their guard.’
The Dispatcher’s tone was one of confusion. ‘In
Kerrisdale
?’ she asked.
‘Just do it,’ Striker ordered.
‘Yes, Detective,’ the Dispatcher replied. ‘You want a canine unit started up?’
Striker stared at the whitish power on the windowsill. ‘Immediately,’ he said. ‘And make sure he’s a bomb dog.’
The canine handler dispatched to the scene was Frank Faust. He came with his police dog, Nitro.
Striker was happy to hear it. Faust was a twenty-year veteran who’d done ten of those years in his hometown of Berlin, when he’d worked for the bomb squad in the Berlin Police
Department.
The man knew his stuff.
Faust was on scene in minutes. His German accent was still strong as he asked for the scene details, and by the time Striker had explained them all, a one-man patrol unit had arrived to assist.
The kid who got out was tall and gangly, with a dirty-blond fohawk hairstyle.
Striker motioned him over. ‘You got a name?’
He nodded like a bobble-head doll. ‘Kevin.’
‘Okay, Kevin, listen up. I’ll cover right and front; you cover left and rear. Got it?’
The young cop looked exceedingly nervous. ‘Is this . . . is this really the bomber?’
‘It ain’t Martha Stewart.’ Striker put on a smile in his best attempt to calm the rookie down. ‘Look, just cover your points. Don’t let anyone sneak up on us. And
be wary of tripwires or IEDs.’
‘IE
what
?’
‘Bombs. Don’t touch anything on the ground, no matter what it looks like. Boxes, cans, toys – not even a shoe, if you see one.’
The young cop said nothing; he just nodded and stared back through large, wide eyes. The quick debrief was over. With the dog leading the way, the three of them made entry through the basement
window.
Immediately, the darkness deepened, and Striker shone his flashlight around the room, lighting up all four corners. When everything was clear, he nodded, and they progressed, searching through
the basement, and then the upstairs level – living room, dining room, and kitchen. They cleared the bedrooms and bathrooms last of all, and found them to be empty.
Not even a few packing boxes were left.
Faust fed the dog more leash. ‘So far so good.’
Striker said nothing back; he just kept scanning the way ahead as Nitro steered them to the garage entrance. Once there, the dog let out a whine. Striker reached out and touched the door. Leaned
close to it.
Listened.
‘Hear anything?’ the rookie asked.
Striker held up a hand demanding silence.
He gently wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and slowly turned it. Once it clicked, he gently, slowly, edged the door open. Just a quarter-inch. Then he shone his flashlight through the
space between the door and frame, looking for the existence of any pull-wires and switches.
He found none.
‘Garage looks clear from this angle,’ he said. ‘But be ready.’
He opened the door the rest of the way, and Nitro went inside. Panting hard, the German Shepherd walked less than ten steps, then came to a hard stop. He raised his tail high in the air.
‘We got a positive,’ Faust said.
The rookie stepped back. ‘
Positive?
What does that mean? A bomb? Is there a bomb in here?’
‘Be quiet and cover us,’ Striker told him.
‘I need some light,’ Faust said.
The young constable reached out to hit the light switch, but Striker snatched his hand away. ‘If that switch is rigged to a detonator, it’ll be the last one you ever throw,
kid.’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘Just watch our backs and
don’t touch anything.
’
Striker shone his flashlight across the room – first hitting each of the four corners, then doing a thorough sweep of the floor, and last of all, highlighting the beams of the garage.
He saw nothing, so he turned to Faust. ‘The dog is sure?’
Faust looked insulted. ‘There’s no room for error in this business.’
‘So there’s definitely a bomb in here?’
Faust shook his head. ‘The dog detects
explosives,
not bombs.’
Striker considered this. ‘Can he pick up trace elements?’
‘He can pick up damn near anything, if the vapour pressure isn’t too low.’
Striker had no idea what that meant but took it as good. ‘So explosives could have been in this garage, but aren’t necessarily here any more. Like with the drug dogs, it can pick up
the lingering traces.’
Faust nodded. ‘I’m gonna run him round the room a few times, see if he hits on any of the walls.’
Striker held his tongue and let the dog search. As he waited, his cell vibrated against his side. He grabbed it, looked down at the screen, and saw the name ‘Mike Rothschild’ across
the display. He didn’t answer for fear of triggering a detonation. Instead, he turned to Faust.
‘You okay here?’ he asked.
‘We’ll be fine.’
Satisfied, Striker told the rookie to maintain cover and then made his way back through the house. As he exited the front door, thoughts of his godchildren flashed through his head, images of
Shana and Cody – two little kids who had already lost their mother to cancer. For them to lose Rothschild too was unthinkable, and the notion filled Striker with a dark, vacuous feeling.