Blood Poppy

By Jay Black

"How do you think your dad's going to react when he finds out the heroin in the shot that nearly killed you came from the same place your brother was killed?"

Vancouver, 2008. Retired police detective Thomas "Poppy" Popoff has been struck by personal tragedy, his son David killed while fighting with the Canadian military in Afghanistan. At

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terror House Press, LLC
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781951897666

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Also by Jay Black

Guttersnipe

Blackbird Hollow | Le creux du merle

Copyright © 2022 Jay Black.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means (whether electronic or mechanical), including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-951897-66-6

EDITOR

Matt Forney (mattforney.com)

LAYOUT AND COVER DESIGN

Matt Lawrence (mattlawrence.net)

TERROR HOUSE PRESS, LLC

terrorhousepress.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: ‘88

Chapter 2: Pub 10-33

Chapter 3: Home, Sweet Home

Chapter 4: Get the Dog On

Chapter 5: Hot Shot

Chapter 6: Notification Team

Chapter 7: 100 Block

Chapter 8: ICU

Chapter 9: Highway of Heroes

Chapter 10: Stand-In Dad

Chapter 11: Let’s Do Lunch

Chapter 12: Jet-Lagged

Chapter 13: Visiting Hours

Chapter 14: I Need a New Phone

Chapter 15: From Calgary to Calvary

Chapter 16: Canadian Content

Chapter 17: Brunched

Chapter 18: Holy Saturday

Chapter 19: Easter Eve News

Chapter 20: Vigil

Chapter 21: Vidi Glaciem

Chapter 22: Easter Eggs

Chapter 23: Pre-Wake Jitters

Chapter 24: A Wake

Chapter 25: Monday of the Angel

Chapter 26: Asymmetrical Relationships

Chapter 27: Fork in the Road

Chapter 28: Slow Burn

Chapter 29: Lights…Camera…

Chapter 30: Shop ‘Til You Drop

Chapter 31: Booze, Bucks, and Babes

Chapter 32: Stitches and Painkillers

Chapter 33: Mirror, Mirror on the Wall…

Chapter 34: Downside Up

Chapter 35: Midnight Flight

Chapter 36: Sweet Dreams

Chapter 37: What Might Have Been

Chapter 38: Buying Time

Chapter 39: Tell it to the Judge

Chapter 40: On the Upswing

Chapter 41: Ride the Grey Goose

Chapter 42: Liminality

Chapter 43: Synced

Chapter 44: Dinner Dates

Chapter 45: Howl

Chapter 46: Creepy-Crawlies

Chapter 47: Meet-and-Greets

Chapter 48: That Was MDMA, Lover Boy

Chapter 49: All the World’s a Stage

Chapter 50: Twilight

Chapter 51: Lookout

Chapter 52: Daggers

Chapter 53: The Devil Made Me Do It

Chapter 54: Quick Change Artist

Chapter 55: Slippery When Wet

Chapter 56: Bad News Travels Fast

Chapter 57: Mean Business

Chapter 58: Time Heals All Wounds

Chapter 59: Translucence

Chapter 60: Worth a Shot

Chapter 61: Appear Weak When You Are Strong

Chapter 62: Discharges

Chapter 63: The Handler

Chapter 64: Victory Square Angels

Chapter 65: Eye in the Sky

Chapter 66: Win

For all who have lost a loved one to heroin,

whether on the supply or demand end of the black market trade.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?

— JOHN DONNE

Chapter 1: ‘88

Danny let go of his mother’s hand and broke into a brief sidewalk sprint, as five-year-olds will do. He returned smiles from shopkeepers who opened their doors to start the business day, and then planted the soles of his red, low-cut Converse All Stars near a florist’s outdoor display. There, amid the fresh-cut tulips and daffodils, spun a pinwheel. Its red and white, maple leaf-patterned sail gleamed in the sunlight that filtered through leafy alders along the curb. He fell into a light trance as it turned in the warm spring breeze, until his mother caught up and set a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned to face her with a pleading look.

She crouched at his side. That’s a nice one, but it might be for decoration.

A young florist pushed her bottom against the inside of the door as she stepped out with two flower-filled aluminum buckets, and then flicked the stopper down with the pointed toe of a yellow slingback flat. The opening notes of Tears for Fears’ Everybody Wants to Rule the World played over the store radio as she arranged the buckets on the shop’s terraced display. She smiled when her eyes met Danny’s. Good morning, sir.

Hi, replied Danny.

The florist looked at his mother. Can I help?

Is the pinwheel for sale?

Not really. I ordered a few because Canada Day’s coming up, but he can have it. She reached for its stem while his mother rose from her crouch and unsnapped her clutch purse to pull out a pair of loonies.

Will two cover it?

The florist crouched in front of Danny, and then smiled again as she held out the pinwheel for him to take. It’s free, since you’re so handsome, she said before she blew its sail into a quick spin.

Welcome to your life

There’s no turning back

Even while we sleep...

Well, we know where to buy flowers from now on, don’t we? What do you say to the nice lady, Danny?

Thank you.

You’re very welcome. The florist stood up.

We’re on our way to the bank, on the corner, said Danny’s mother. Would you mind wrapping a half-dozen of those lilies for me? We won’t be more than ten minutes.

‘My pleasure. The florist smiled once more and then turned for the door.

Thank you, again. Come on, Danny.

Help me make the most of

Freedom and of pleasure

Nothing ever lasts forever...

Danny ran ahead again, eyes on the pinwheel’s spinning sail. He stopped at the corner, turned around, and then ran back toward his mother, who took his hand as they neared the bank. She held it’s door open for him, and then cried out as a hard, downward yank on her ponytail pulled her to the floor.

Her masked assailant tilted her head to view the .38 calibre revolver he now aimed at her face. Terrified, she glanced at Danny, who had run toward the tellers’ counter to maintain the pinwheel’s spin. I’d suggest you call your kid back here before he gets killed. She opened her mouth, but found herself unable to speak.

Hey! Whose kid is this? came a shout from the counter. Danny stopped and looked up at the bandit, who had pointed his pistol at one of the tellers, and then noticed several customers sprawled on the floor.

I got his mother here! yelled his partner. He jerked her head back and looked into her eyes. Call him over.

D-Danny! Come here right now! Her son looked across the room to find her in the thug’s grip. Now, Danny! He ran toward her. The lookout man shoved his mother aside and grabbed him by the upper arm. No! she screamed, and immediately found herself staring at the gun barrel’s end again.

Come on, come on, come on, dammit! the impatient stickup man pressed. No dye packs. Just fill the bag with what’s in your till and the two next to yours. The teller calmly obeyed his commands as a police siren sounded in the distance.

The lookout pulled Danny toward the window and peered down the street. Cops are close, man. Let’s go!

His partner retrieved the stuffed bag from the teller, zipped it shut, and then bolted toward the door to exit first. Mom! cried Danny, whose feet left the floor as the lookout wrapped an arm around his chest and lifted him. He kicked at his abductor’s shins with the backs of his heels, and then bit down hard on his arm as his mother scrambled to her feet and pounced like tiger.

The bullet found her neck. Blood spurted from the wound until she collapsed to the floor. The panicked lookout man dropped Danny before he raced out the door.

Mom? Danny shook as he crawled toward her on all fours, amid the whimpers of those who still cowered face down on the floor. He kneeled at her side, and caught sight of her shredded throat. Mom?

His pinwheel, which had come to rest across one of her ankles, dripped blood as it spun to a slow stop in the closing door’s draft.

Chapter 2: Pub 10-33

DOWNTOWN EASTSIDE, VANCOUVER: 2008

Poppy stood silent, in the early evening shadow cast by Victory Square’s monolithic war memorial cenotaph.

THEIR NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE

A sombre sigh preceded his spotting a pair of young addicts, hoodies up, preparing to fix on a bench some 20 metres away on the monument’s opposite side. Hey! They ignored him. VPD! Not in the park! He reached into his jacket for his badge wallet as they glanced his way and then recalled he was retired as they packed up their gear. Go to Insite, two blocks east, on Hastings!

Yeah, yeah. We know.

Fuckin’ narc.

Poppy’s eyes returned to the cenotaph’s inscription and then moved upward to view the staffed Canadian flag mounted in its bronze, triple-maple leaf receptacle. Flanked on one side by the Union Jack and Canadian Red Ensign, and the Royal Canadian Air Force and White Ensign on the other, they hung inert in the windless air.

The screech of tires and a blared car horn turned his attention to the intersection at Hastings at Cambie, where an elderly drunk’s diagonal stagger across it held up drivers from all directions. He sighed once more and then jogged into the street to guide the man to the sidewalk, kitty-corner from the monument. Gonna be alright? He breathed through his mouth to avoid the pockmarked man’s stench.

Just so you and I are both aware ... Poppy grabbed his wrist as the man tried to steady himself on his shoulder and then propped his hand against a storefront façade. ...there’s no way I’m dying in this fuckin’ neighbourhood.

Good plan. Just go home and stay off the street on the way, the alcoholic muttered to himself as he ambled eastward.

Poppy walked a half-block north up Cambie Street to Pub 10-33, a cop bar he had purchased a third share in after he had sold the Westside family home he’d grown up in—and later raised his two boys in—on his recent early retirement.

The low sunlight that flashed into the dimly lit pub led patrons to shield their eyes as Poppy entered. A play-by-play announcer’s call of a late-season National Hockey League game on the big screen blared through the P.A. speakers as off-duty beat officers, EMS workers, nurses, bus drivers, and other high-stress occupation patrons greeted him with nods, waves, and hellos. He smiled, pointed, and patted shoulders in return. As always, his bartender had a Crown Royal shot and bottled lager chaser set up before he had found his stool. Ah, thanks Fitz. The crowd erupted at a brawl that had broken out on the ice after the end-of-period horn sounded. What’s the score? he shouted over the fracas.

Canucks are up two on the flames. Third period coming up. Fitzpatrick pointed at the screen, where a Vancouver defenceman pummelled a Calgary forward with a series of quick uppercuts. Yeah! Kick his ass back to Cow Town!

Poppy took a long swig of beer as the game officials separated players too tired to keep punching. I don’t know why you get so worked up about it. Playoffs start next week and we’re a few points out of a spot.

Have some faith. They’re not mathematically eliminated yet. The bartender caught the self-servers line up from the corner of his eye. Here they come, he said as a CBC National news break pre-empted the intermission commercial run. Anchor Peter Mansbridge sat behind his studio desk. An inset graphic of a Canadian combat soldier silhouetted against an Afghan flag appeared over his left shoulder.

Hand me the remote, Fitz.

It’s at the end of the bar, by the phone, shouted the bartender as he turned to serve the thirsty. Poppy left his stool to retrieve the remote, raised the volume, and took a few steps toward the screen.

A heavy blow for Canadian troops on mission in Afghanistan today. Four soldiers were killed and two others were wounded when an improvised explosive device detonated near a small convoy in the Coalition-controlled Arghandab district, about 30 kilometres north of Kandahar Airfield. A noticeable hush fell over the crowd. Patrons seated at a few of the tables between the screen and bar turned their heads for a look at Poppy, as the news anchor continued. "Their loss brings the number of Canadian military personnel killed during the six-year mission to 88. Canadian Forces are withholding names of the deceased until their families have been notified. We’ll have more on this later tonight on The National." He backpedalled until his butt met the stool, and then retook it.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and then turned to find his bartender holding a second shot of rye whiskey in one hand while he held out the other, empty palm up. Trade ya. He passed Fitzpatrick the remote, downed the drink, and then wiped the damp from his bushy, salt-and-pepper moustache with the back of his hand. It’s too early to know what’s happened.

Poppy shook his head. His rotation’s up in a few weeks.

Fitzpatrick hesitated before he spoke. Hey, what do you say to a round of shots to toast David’s safe return home.

Why not?

He cleared his throat. Round for the house coming up, folks! Courtesy of Poppy! A polite cheer sounded from the tables and booths.

Poppy scanned the room and spotted a younger, clean-cut man hunched over an open folder at a booth near the foyer. He guzzled the rest of his beer, lifted two shots off one of Fitzpatrick’s trays, and approached. Hi Shelby, he said. I thought it was you.

The seated man looked up from his papers. Hi, Poppy, he said with a smile. How are things? The two shook hands as Poppy seated himself across from his former partner.

Attention, gang! shouted the bartender. The group quieted down and turned to face him. Poppy, who some of you know as the pub’s newest part-owner, has a son on his second rotation in Afghanistan. David, who’s Army infantry, is due home in a few weeks, and his dad’s asked if you’ll join him in a toast to his safe return. Poppy handed a shot glass to the bartender, who raised his glass. To David!

To David! the faithful replied. Poppy and Shelby touched glasses and downed their shots with the others.

Last thing! shouted Fitzpatrick. I’m working alone tonight, so it would be a big help if you’d put your glasses on the dishwasher rack when you come to the bar. Now, who wants another beer before the third period starts? He set a pallet on the dishwasher’s conveyor and then stepped back behind the bar as a new lineup formed.

‘Glad you stopped by, Shelby, said Poppy, whose flip phone’s digital O Canada ringtone sounded from a pocket. ‘Can I get you another beer? He checked the incoming call’s number on his phone’s display.

Shelby straightened his papers, and then closed the file folder as his former partner’s phone continued to ring. No, thanks. Not staying long. I’d heard you’d bought into this place, so I thought I’d stop in for a look. You’re sure everything’s up to code?

Thanks a bunch. Planning on leaving the Drug Unit for Coastal Health inspections? Shelby chuckled.

As bad as it is, I miss your sense of humour.

What are you working on?

My thesis. I’m back at school.

Oh yeah? What’s your topic?

Terrorism funding by drug trafficking.

Poppy shook his head. They teach that stuff in school now?

Shelby check their surroundings for eavesdroppers and lowered his voice as he spoke. Poppy, there’s more heroin entering our port now than ever, a lot more. Why the spike in overdose deaths despite the supervised injection facility opening a couple of years ago? Gang-related shootings are up across the region. Our most recent data suggests it’ll only worsen over the next five years.

Poppy’s phone’s ringtone started again. Sure you don’t want another beer?

100 percent.

Where are you studying?

Shelby looked in the ringtone’s direction, and then made direct eye contact with Poppy. Simon Fraser, the campus in the new Woodward’s Building, across the back alley from your bar. It’s only four blocks from the station, so it’s convenient. Why’d you decide to buy into this place?

"I bought a million dollar condo in the new Woodward’s Building, behind the bar, for a third of what I sold the family house for.

Lifer.

What’s that supposed to mean?

You spent decades chasing dealers and distributors around Canada’s poorest urban neighbourhood, and now that you can live wherever you like, you get dug in. Why not Bermuda or the French Riviera or New Zealand? It’s a big world and you’re not that old.

Poppy shrugged. I don’t know. It feels like home, I guess.

The hepatitis C positive infection rate is higher down here than it is in Botswana. Poppy held his shot glass up over his mouth to drain the last drops. How high up are you?

33rd floor. I moved in last month. That left me $2.3 million. I put half of that into this place. The rest is gaining interest in the bank.

You know, Poppy, the War on Drugs you spent the better part of your career fighting is a façade. Our legitimate institutions exploit regulatory loopholes in the financial sector to the tune of billions each year. Vancouver’s became a top-four money laundering hub worldwide. It’s why we live in one of the world’s most expensive cities. Why do you think you were able to sell your house for as much as you did? Or why the skyscraper you live in signalled the current push to gentrify neighbourhood? Criminals need laundries to clean their dirty cash. They shrink the real estate market which drives prices up.

You’ve been studying too hard.

I’m serious. Things might be different if we broadened our definition of organized crime to include bankers and corrupt politicians. The pub crowd cheered as the Canucks scored.

Good luck with that. Make any good busts lately?

Today, actually. We picked up a gang-affiliated distributor, who Homicide and Combined Forces Special Enforcement have been watching for over a year, and another member we’ll try to squeeze a plea out of.

Well done. Scorpion? Shelby shook his head. Independent soldier?

Guess again.

Wah Ching?

Strike three. MS-13.

They took over the street before I retired, but I didn’t know they were distributing.

This guy worked his way up. Homicide liked him for an execution-style hit on a Scorpion a few months before his promotion, but the Crown rejected it for flimsy evidence. Then the Mounties’ regional gang unit thought they’d tied him to another hit on another rival gang member. They’d picked him up, interrogated him, learned he’d arrived from Honduras via Ciudad Juarez, L.A., and Seattle, but had to release him for the same reason. We grabbed him for possession with intent to distribute, this afternoon.

Nice work. All I can say is, I’m glad I left.

Come on. I thought you had a little fight left in you.

"It’s all interesting, but the only thing that concerns me right now is David getting home in one piece.

"I get it. Are you still using the same email address?

Yeah.

Good. I’ll send you a few links I found in my research. Poppy rolled his eyes as his phone rang once more. That’s the third time I’ve heard the first half of the national anthem in five minutes. Are you going to take it?

Yeah, outside. Help yourself to that beer. I won’t be a minute. Poppy walked the hall to the front door and accepted the call as he pushed on the panic bar. Hello, Danny. Always a pleasant surprise to hear from you. Too bad it’s only when you need help getting sprung.

Hey, Dad.

What did you get picked up for this time? Wait. Let me guess. Something drug-related, right?

Dad, I hate to bug you on a Saturday night, but—

Here it comes.

You know I hate to ask you for anything, and I wouldn’t unless I had to, but I really need you to come down.

Poppy paced in and out of the cenotaph-cut sun’s rays. Do you have any idea how many IOUs I’ve burned for you the past few years?

And I’m grateful, but I’m not safe here right now.

Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to have to ask people whose respect I’ve earned over decades for help in getting your charges dropped?

I know, Dad, but I’m—

Bullshit. You don’t have a clue.

Please, just listen. There’s a dealer in here, a total psycho. Me and a buddy ripped him off a few months back.

That’s so stupid, I almost believe you.

You can lecture me all you want later. Right now, I—

How much did you take him for?

We took his stash. It was worth about 15 grand.

Do the guards know him?

Doesn’t look like it. Word is he’s in here dropping another dealer. He’s been staring me down for an hour.

That’s very creative, Danny. Entertaining, even.

I swear it’s true. He came in with another guy. They’re creepy as fuck. Mexicans with tattoos all over their faces.

Are you through?

That’s my situation.

Your situation is you’re not looking forward to going cold turkey against your will.

That’s true. I don’t want to go into withdrawal either, but—

Save it. Poppy looked down and noticed a crack in the sidewalk under his boot. You’re a disgrace, to me, to your brother, and to your mother’s memory.

Danny fell silent for a few seconds. You’ve never said that before.

Guess what I just heard on TV.

TV? Dad, there’s a lineup waiting for the phone. Are you coming down?

David asked about you when he called the other day.

What did he say?

He wanted to know if you’d gotten away from that poison yet.

What did you say?

I told him to stop worrying about you while he’s there.

"Look, Dad, I promise I’ll try to kick again. Are you at home?

Close enough.

Are you busy?

Not particularly.

Then you can be here in ten minutes, right?

Not this time, Danny. Poppy sensed eyes upon him and turned to find Shelby, whose raised eyebrows and pursed lips informed him he had caught the conversation’s gist. He lowered his phone and set his palm over the mic. Sorry, Shelby. I’ll be in soon.

Take your time. The detective drew a pair of aviator shades from his inside jacket pocket, set them over his eyes, and then flipped his windbreaker’s collar up. Man, that sun’s intense. I’m on my way. He stepped off the stoop and took a hard right into the alley, toward a Simon Fraser University downtown campus facility in the Woodward’s Building complex.

Send me those links! Poppy lifted his phone to his ear.

Have they charged you?

Trespassing.

A misdemeanour and because it’s your first, thanks to me, they’ll release you with a promise to appear. If they have anything on you that I don’t know about, a few nights in detention might do you a world of good.

Dad!

Ask for legal aid. Show remorse. You’ll get probation and community service. I’ve got to keep this line open, so don’t call again until you’re out.

I can’t believe you’re doing this.

Do your best to sleep it off, Danny. Poppy pocketed his phone and re-entered the pub as more than a dozen patrons filed out.

Fucking Canuckleheads. How do you blow a two goal lead with five minutes left? a dejected firefighter asked no one in particular.

We suck! shouted another as he shoved the door on his way out.

Poppy checked in with Fitzpatrick, who ran a seemingly endless stream of soiled glasses through the steamy bar-side dishwasher. Thanks for toasting David’s homecoming. The bartender shot him a subtle don’t-count-your-chickens look. It helped take the edge off tonight’s news. I’m leaving out the back.

Enjoy your night.

Poppy walked the dark hallway to the rear exit. His push on the bar met with resistance, so he leaned into the door with a shoulder and then pushed hard with his legs. He then peered around the door’s edge to spot a pair of pink skater shoes at the end of a pair of faded denim clad legs. Miss? He pressed his shoulder, hip, and thigh against the door, and then heaved his full bodyweight into it. He heard her body thud off the pavement as it slumped off the stoop.

Outside, he noticed a plunged syringe dangling from her elbow’s abscessed crux. Her face, as pale as it was, led him to estimate her age at 16. He checked her wrist for a pulse and then placed the call.

911 emergency. Police, fire, or ambulance?

Police and ambulance, please.

What city?

Vancouver.

Your name please, sir?

Thomas Popoff.

And your phone number?

[phone].

What’s going on?

I retired from VPD a couple of years ago. I own Pub 10-33 on Cambie, just north of Hastings. I found an overdosed teenager in the alley, outside our back door. She’s deceased.

Thanks for calling it in, sir. A car’s almost there. A pair of headlights at the alley’s end drew and briefly blinded Poppy’s eyes. He waved the driver over.

A uniformed patrol officer parked the cruiser and then stepped out. Hi. Is this where you found her?

Yeah.

You tried CPR?

Her wrist was already stiff when I checked for a pulse. The officer nodded. An ambulance is on the way. Are you all right if I leave?

Let me take down your contact info.

Poppy pulled a dog-eared VPD business card from his wallet and a pen from a jacket pocket to jot his number on its back. I’ve kept this as a souvenir since I retired, but you can have it.

The officer shone a penlight on the card. Drug Unit Detective. ‘Sounds like a tough job.

Poppy looked at the decedent. You get used to it.

Chapter 3: Home, Sweet Home

Poppy glanced back at the slow-rolling ambulance as he left the alley for the Cordova Street sidewalk. He shook his head at his own indifference toward having found the girl’s corpse on the 100-metre walk from the pub and his building’sa entrance. Two decades with a drug unit will change a man, he thought.

He spied the concierge through the entry’s glass frontage as he approached, popped a breath mint, and then crushed it with his molars as he swiped his fob against the door’s sensor.

‘Evening, Ms. Price. He nodded on his way to the elevator bay.

She looked up from a magazine on her desk and smiled. How come I can call you Poppy when you won’t call me Maxine?

He stopped, and then turned to face her. That’s how a gentleman addresses a lady.

Not quite, Mr. Popoff, she said as he held his fob to the elevator sensor. It’s Ms. Price, but still Maxine to you. How did you get your nickname, anyway?

I played junior hockey as a youngster. Teammates tag each other with short nicknames to use on the ice. We won four Memorial Cups, but only half a dozen of us were drafted, so a few of us enrolled at the Justice Institute. My buddies kept using it, so it caught on there and then stuck when we were hired with the VPD. Poppy ignored the elevator bell as Maxine flicked her long, blonde ponytail over a shoulder with her. He admired the sparkle in her Alberta blue eyes as she cast a demure expression. You know... He pulled out his phone, flipped it open, and pressed a few keys. ...I have a son you should meet.

A giggle escaped her lips. Is that so?

Have a look. He stepped toward the desk and handed her his phone. That’s my David.

Maxine’s eyes widened. Handsome guy! Is that an army uniform?

Poppy nodded. He’ll be home from Afghanistan in a couple of weeks and might want to bunk at my place until he finds his own. I could introduce you if you like.

She gazed at the photo as she spoke, How tall is he?

We’re the same height, six foot one.

‘Sorry. It’s hard to tell from a headshot. I’m five-ten. You know how it is.

So I get to play matchmaker?

Sure, that sounds nice. She giggled as she returned his phone. You might want to check with the strata about how long visitors can stay.

Right. Thanks. Still learning. The elevator bell sounded once more. There’s my lift. It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Price.

She offered her hand, palm down and fingers curled, as though she were fishing for a kiss. His gentle turn of her wrist and polite handshake brought a coy smile to the young concierge’s face. He winked at her and then turned for the elevator. Night, Mr. Popoff.

Poppy sidestepped two young couples as they left the elevator and, once in, pressed 33.

He left the lights off as he entered his apartment and then set his fob, phone, and wallet on the kitchen island. Still unpacked boxes on the living room floor forced him to find a serpentine path to the balcony door, where he checked the moonlit sky. His boot caught the corner of a box as he turned for the washroom, which sent him into an awkward spin that saw his bottom find his recliner’s seat.

He let out a half-chuckle at his luck before his gaze fell on a lidless cardboard file box next to the chair. An upside down eight-by-ten photo frame rested on a stack of documents that had remained undisturbed since his last day of work. His hand left the armrest to lift it out.

The photograph of his boys, then aged nine and six, and his wife Monique brought a lump to his throat. He recalled the day he took the shot, on the Waikiki beach where he and his bride had honeymooned years earlier. His eyes glistened wet as he brought the frame to his chest to clutch it close until he fell asleep.

***

Poppy tapped his pencil’s eraser tip against the paperwork on his cluttered desk while he stared at his family photo propped near its edge. A flock of pigeons circled outside his third-storey window when his desk phone’s pulse tone sounded. Right now, sir?...No, sir...I’ll be right there. He looked over his shoulder at his sergeant, who waved him over from behind the glass around his enclosed corner office.

Shut the door behind you, Poppy. The sergeant motioned with a hand for him to take a seat in one of two chairs that faced his desk. His expression revealed a 30/60 compassion/ seriousness split. I’d like to discuss your wife’s case for a few minutes. Okay?

Yeah. Of course. Here it comes, he thought.

You know we called it cold well after the average time we allot. You’ve had six months to find a new lead since then.

And I’m grateful. I’ve said so a few times.

I know you are. The sergeant cleared his throat. Have you got one?

A lead? No, sir.

Look, Poppy, we all feel for you here.

That’s part of the problem.

The sergeant raised an eyebrow as he leaned back in his chair. How so?

It’s...every time I go out on a call, whoever I’m partnered with can’t be themselves. I can’t walk to the water cooler without someone trying to avoid eye contact, or smiling awkwardly when they can’t.

Try to put yourself in your colleagues’ shoes. The sergeant leaned forward, set his elbows on his desk, and then interlaced his fingers. Despite our best efforts, none of us can escape feeling we’ve let you down. We have a team meeting in the morning. It might lift morale if you took a moment to thank them for their hard work on the case. It would lend them the sense that you recognize it’s time to move forward. Poppy lowered his head and sighed, as the sergeant lifted his phone’s receiver. Is he here?...Send him in. He set the phone down and looked in the eye. We’ve hired a new detective.

Does he know about Monique?

That would defeat the purpose of a fresh start, right? Poppy offered a slight nod. I’d also suggest taking your family photo home, or at least putting it in a desk drawer. Two quick taps on the door drew the attention of both. The sergeant waved the new detective in.

Good morning. He made quick eye contact with Poppy before he shook the sergeant’s hand.

I’d like you to meet one of our finest detectives, Tom Popoff.

Shelby turned to face Poppy, and then reached out to shake his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Tom.

Poppy’s fine.

Poppy it is.

Chapter 4: Get the Dog On

ARGHANDAB DISTRICT, KANDAHAR PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN: 2008

The Light Armoured Vehicle’s eight independently suspended tires bobbed over the exposed edge of a long boulder embedded in the dirt road to Baghi Pol Manda. Only 30 kilometres north of Kandahar City, the village rested within the Canadian military’s zone of security and operations. The small convoy to which the LAV was attached was now less than ten minutes from its destination, where a traditional dogfighting festival had drawn several thousand from neighbouring districts.

Its five armoured vehicles carried a Quick Reaction Force, dispatched in response to a village elder’s report of a suicide bombing earlier that day. Initial estimates received by Camp Nathan Smith cited more than 40 dead and 70 wounded. If accurate, the toll would amount to the single most deadly day for Afghan civilians since Canadian Forces had deployed to the province several years earlier. The QRF was tasked to transport a team of six Medical Technicians and a cache of medical supplies to the village. Led by a Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle, it carried two combat engineers whose eyes and sensors scanned the road ahead with vigilance.

As briefed by section commanders at the camp, the QRF’s instructions were, first, to approach the village with extreme caution (cry-wolf reports from locals had, in recent months, been used to lure Coalition responders into ambushes); next, to provide medical aid and supplies where possible; and, last, to gather intelligence on the attacker.

Four