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.
Twenty-Five
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.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I know… I know we’ve had some issues and all. It’s just been harder. Everything’s been a lot harder… since then.’
A dozen responses flashed through Striker’s head, all of them sounding hollow and forced. And how could they not? Bringing up Amanda was the last thing he needed right now — the last thing either of them needed, whether Courtney understood that or not.
He looked at the lines that underscored her eyes, and grimaced.
‘You look exhausted, Pumpkin. Maybe you should have a hot bath and relax. Want a glass of wine or something?’
‘Wine?’ She laughed in a sad way.
‘Guess not, huh?’
‘You ever think about her, Dad? I mean, really think about her?’
‘I loved your mother.’
‘But do you ever think about her? I mean, any more.’
‘Every day.’
‘You don’t show it.’
Striker detected the resentment in her tone. ‘Soon it’ll be two years, Courtney. I’ve learned to cope. You will, too. In time.’
‘I don’t want to cope.’ Her words struck out at him, fast and hard, and for a moment, the anger was back in her eyes — that explosive fiery temper of Amanda’s that burned everything in its path and took days to die
