Sean Slater - The survivor

Laroche beamed. When he spoke again, there was condescension in his tone.

‘We know Sherman Chan was involved. And Quenton Wong, too. We got the bodies. Now we have their best friend and roommate, found dead in the red mask. What else would you have us believe?’ The Deputy Chief stepped closer and put a hand on Striker’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you came back too soon. Maybe you should go back on stress leave. Just for a while.’

Striker shrugged Laroche’s hand off his shoulder. ‘I’m back for good.’

Laroche smiled. ‘Fine then. But I’ll give you a little bit of advice, Striker. One that’ll get you through a lot in this profession. When you’re in a field full of horses, don’t go looking for zebras. All you’ll find is more horses.’

‘I don’t know about that. I already found a jackass.’

The Deputy Chief’s smile never faltered. ‘Always quick with the wit, aren’t you? Right down to the bitter end — and this is bitter, I am sure.’ He stepped forward, to within a foot of Striker, so close he had to look up to see Jacob’s face. ‘The immediacy of this file is over, and the case will be downgraded. Immediately. You can turn your pistol over to your partner. Consider it seized.’

Striker’s automatic reaction was to argue, but the more he thought it over, the more he had to admit that, this time, the Deputy Chief was right. If the immediate danger was over, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. His firearm was evidence now — had been since the first shooting — and for him to refuse to surrender it now that all three shooters had apparently been caught would put him in breach of the Police Act.

He relented.

‘You can have the goddam gun. I’ll hand it in first thing in the morning — when I know with certainty that this thing is over.’

An uncomfortable look flitted across the Deputy Chief’s face. It was as if he was wondering how much further he could goad Striker until it blew up in his face. The battle was already won; there was no need to push it further. And in the end, he opted to leave it be.

‘I will allow you that,’ he said, stressing the word allow. ‘But have it done by nine. And not a minute later. Otherwise it will be seen as a breach.’ He looked over his shoulder at Felicia and smiled wide. ‘You hear that, Detective Santos?’

She moved closer. ‘Yes, sir. Nine a.m.’

‘On the button.’

Striker walked over to the primary scene, where Noodles was working. Something tugged at the back of his mind.

‘You got a time of death, Noodles?’

Noodles stood up from his squatted position and said, ‘He’s stiff enough. Been a few hours, that’s for sure. Sometime this morning, I’d say.’

‘After nine-thirty — or before?’

‘If he’s Red Mask, it’d have to be after.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

Noodles shrugged. ‘We’ll know more when the autopsy’s done.’

‘You check the lividity?’

Noodles gave him an irritated look. ‘Stop bustin’ my balls, Shipwreck. Check with the Medical Examiner when she’s done.’

Striker frowned. ‘Is Kirstin Dunsmuir doing it?’

‘Yeah. The Death Bitch herself.’

Striker told Noodles to expedite what he could and keep him informed, then walked towards the back of the yard. He needed to get away from everyone. Far, far away. As he walked, his phone vibrated and he snatched it up.

Call Missed, the screen read.

Judging by the time that had passed, it must have come when he was clearing the house. He called his message box and, seconds later, heard the most wonderful sound he’d heard in as long as he could remember:

‘Hey, Pops, it’s me. Just got in and was wondering when you’d be home from work. I pulled out some fish for dinner — God knows you’ve probably chowed down on enough fast food your first day back. Anyhow, call me if you’re not gonna make it, okay? The Court is out.’

The call ended.

Striker hung up the phone, smiled, and before he knew it, he was chuckling. Christ, Courtney had no clue — no friggin’ clue — about all that had happened today. Insane, but true. And he wondered: did fifteen-year-old girls ever listen to the news? Even on the radio?

It didn’t matter.

He slid the BlackBerry back into its pouch and turned around. Canned laughter from Inspector Beasley boomed again, and Striker ignored it. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he truly didn’t care. Not about Laroche or the crime scene or his position in Homicide. He didn’t care about any of it. His daughter had called. She was safe and waiting for him.

He was going home.

Striker left their undercover cruiser with Felicia and got Patrol to drive him home. It was well after seven p.m. and the day had been a long one. Every muscle in his back and legs groaned with stiffness as he plodded up the front sidewalk on aching feet. Since he’d left the crime scene at Que Wong’s residence, the inky blackness of the night had deepened, stealing away the moon and stars. Leaving him with only icy rain and wicked winds.

He walked through the downpour, smiling. His home had never looked more peaceful, more welcoming than it did right now. And in that one moment, it was as if he had forgotten the stress of not only the shootings and the upcoming investigations, but the time off as well. Who knew, maybe one day he’d even come to terms with Amanda’s death.

Maybe Courtney would, too.

The porch light was on, the front door locked. He unlocked it and went inside. The draught sucked at his coat when the door closed. The wool of his long coat was wet, so he hung it up on the rack, and stood there in his borrowed suit, which was worn and wrinkled from the long day.

He looked around. The front room was mostly dark, with just a flickering light from the television set. Courtney was seated on the couch in her blue Old Navy sweats, her eyes fixed on the TV screen. She was as stiff as a board; her eyes were swollen from crying. When Striker moved closer, she blinked, as if coming out of a bad dream. She snapped her head to face him, let out a gasp, and before Striker knew it, she was off the couch and in his arms, trembling, her breaths coming in deep and heavy sobs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just so, so sorry.’

There was nothing else he could think of to say or do, so he just stood there, holding her and telling her it was over now. It was all over. And they were here. In their home. They were together. They were safe.

And he wondered if it was doing any good.

When the worst of it was over, when Courtney finally got herself together and pulled back from him, mascara had run down her cheeks. Striker wiped a thumb through one of the trails, and found himself studying her face — her soft blue eyes, her light brown freckles, her thick and curly auburn hair that fell all around her shoulders in heavy, fluid waves. All at once the sight pained him, for she was every bit her mother. Just as beautiful. More so even.

And Striker prayed that was all Courtney got of Amanda.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

She nodded absently. ‘Yeah. Sure. I guess. I didn’t know. Not until now, like ten minutes ago.’ She looked up at him with anxious eyes. No doubt she had a lot of questions, ones he didn’t particularly want to answer right now — or ever, for that matter — and he just stared back at her with a father’s tenderness. She seemed to grasp this, and the fact that he was exhausted from the hellish day, and her blue eyes fell away from his.

‘I just… need some rest,’ she said.

‘I know you do.’

‘Some sleep.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Pumpkin?’

For a moment she was silent. She just stared at the fireplace, her mind somewhere else. Then she spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’