Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Sixty-Six

When the reward was over, and after the Girl had left him, the Adder left the soft comfort of the bed and approached the bar. From it, he took a bottle of sparkling mineral water – Sémillante, from France – and uncapped it. As he drank some down, the bubbly fluid tingling the back of his throat, the Adder thought of the Girl. He could still feel her warmth against his body. Her wetness all around him. Her tender sweet taste on his lips. Now that she was gone, he felt like something was missing.

It was very, very odd. He could not understand it.

He got dressed and exited the Special Room. He found the hatch in the floor, opened it, and started down the rungs of the ladder. He’d made it less than a quarter of the way down when he heard the Doctor and the Girl, speaking somewhere above him.

‘Did you please him?’ the Doctor asked.

‘I think so.’

‘You think?’

‘Well . . . yes, he seemed pleased.’

‘Did he ejaculate?’

Pause.

‘Answer the question, girl.’

‘He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t always—’

Slap!

Then . . . crying.

‘Come here,’ the Doctor ordered.

‘Please . . .’

‘Lift up your skirt.’

There was another moment of silence, and then the Girl let out an uncomfortable sound. ‘Please, you’re hurting me—’

‘Shut up! . . . Look, there – he ejaculated.’

The Girl made no reply, only another uncomfortable sound.

‘Do not make me do this again. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

There was silence. No more conversation. Just the sound of footsteps walking away down the hall.

The Adder did not move from the ladder. He stayed there, rooted to the spot like a gargoyle, and replayed the dialogue in his head. Over and over again. And a strange feeling rose up inside him. One he didn’t like. The Doctor was stirring things up. Old things within him. Bad things. Feelings.

It was the Doctor’s fault.

Like a distant, growing thunder, the laughter started in the Adder’s head. And he closed his eyes, as if this would somehow shut out the sounds. Before they could expand on him again – before they could crash down on him like cold lightning – he climbed back down the ladder, opened up the dumbwaiter, and grabbed his recording equipment from the shelves. He shoved it all into a burlap sack, along with a drill, screw-gun and some screws.

Then, with the burlap sack slung around his shoulder, the Adder crouched down low and climbed inside the dumbwaiter. He then began climbing up the old chute, one bracket at a time. He headed for the second floor.

For the room that was forbidden.

Sixty-Seven

Striker and Felicia spent the next half-hour checking out the rest of Metrotown Mall, but Striker knew in his heart it would be a wasted effort. Larisa had seen Bernard Hamilton of Car 87, and she had hightailed it as far from Burnaby South as her legs would carry her.

Their one big chance, destroyed.

While Felicia did another run around of the main level, Striker attended the security office and spoke to the two guards inside. He emailed the office a copy of Larisa’s picture and told them to scour the footage and see if they could find her.

He had little hope of success.

By the time he was done and leaving the small office, Felicia was already outside waiting for him. She had two cups of Tim Horton’s coffee in her hands and a tired but determined look on her face. Striker took one of the paper cups from her, said thanks.

‘Any luck?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

‘She’s gone,’ was all Felicia said.

Striker could not help but scowl as they headed back to the car. ‘This is such bullshit,’ he griped. ‘That fuckin’ Bernard. He’s royally screwed it for us on this one.’

Felicia nodded. ‘I wonder who his source is.’

Striker took a sip of his coffee. It was too sweet. As usual, Felicia had put sugar in it. ‘There is no source,’ he said. ‘Never was.’

‘Then how—’

‘Hamilton was eavesdropping on our conversation when we went over the air,’ he said. ‘He heard you on Dispatch, then he listened in when we switched to Info and requested a Burnaby unit to attend here. He caught on. Figured out we were coming for Larisa.’

‘You really think? That’s pretty devious.’

‘I know it is, and I know Bernard.’ Striker thought of how they had also coincidentally run into Bernard at 312 Main Street when checking for warrants. There were too many coincidences with the man. He turned to Felicia. ‘Run a history of Bernard’s unit status. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he was closer than we were when we made the call to Burnaby. It’s how he got on scene so fast.’

Felicia grabbed the computer and ran the Remote Log. After a few seconds, she nodded. ‘You’re right, he was already out here at the same time we made the call. He put himself out at Boundary and Adanac Street.’

Striker glanced over at her. ‘Recognize the location?’

‘Mapleview,’ she said.

‘Exactly. He was probably there looking for Larisa. Or trying to get information.’

‘But why? Why would he care so much?’

Striker gave her a bemused look. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? Bernard doesn’t care. When was the last time you saw him put in this kind of work for any other mentally ill patient?’

‘Well, never.’

‘Exactly. Bernard just wants to be the one to save Larisa. Think about it. She’s a former employee of the Vancouver Police Department. A Victim Services worker, no less. And she’s been through hell and back. Now Bernard Hamilton – caring community cop and all-around godsend – comes along and rescues her from her mental illness. Think of how he’d spin that one.’

Felicia nodded. ‘More glory in his bid for Cop of the Year.’

‘Exactly. The worst part is he knows he’s actually putting her in greater danger – and ruining our chances of getting her back safely. But he doesn’t care. Because he wants to be the one who scores on the arrest.’ Striker felt his entire body grow tight with anger. ‘He’ll never get that award. Not ever. Because everyone knows what he’s all about. He doesn’t care about Larisa or any of them.’

‘He cares about the publicity,’ Felicia said.

‘He wants publicity, I’ll make sure he gets some,’ Striker said. ‘Starting off within the department.’

Felicia gave him a curious look, and he smiled at her darkly.

‘Later,’ he told her. ‘When the time is right.’

A half-hour later, at exactly eight o’clock, they drove back over Boundary Road municipal border and entered the City of Vancouver.

‘We’re looking at this the wrong way,’ Striker said. ‘Let’s stop trying to find out where Larisa went and find out why.’

Felicia gave him an odd look. ‘We already know why.’

‘Do we?’ he asked.

‘The medical warrant.’

He shook his head. ‘There’s something else she’s running from here, something besides the medical warrant. There has to be. Think about it. The woman emailed me and told me she believed Mandy was murdered. She also had Sarah’s name written down in her place. At the time, we thought it was all part of her mental illness. But now I wonder.’

Felicia nodded. ‘It was almost like she had proof.’

Striker thought of all the opened DVD cases they had found on the floor of Larisa’s ransacked rancher.

‘We need to find out what that proof was,’ he said.

Felicia opened up the laptop with a renewed sense of energy about her. ‘Let’s go over everything one more time.’

Striker pulled over to the side of the road. He opened up his notebook, then the file folder of all the evidence he had collected back at Larisa’s rancher. There was a ton of stuff. Stories. Articles. Newspaper clippings.

One thing stuck out more than all the rest. It was the article from the Vancouver Province newspaper about the man who committed suicide at the Regency Hotel. Someone had used a thick pen to write LIES! LIES! LIES! across it.

Striker read through the article, saw that the victim’s name was Derrick Smallboy. The man was said to have suffered from depression, addiction and fetal alcohol syndrome.

A hell of a trio.

Striker found the article intriguing, in a dark sort of way. ‘Run this name,’ he said to Felicia. ‘Derrick Smallboy. Age twenty-eight.’

She did, and after a moment the feed came back.

‘He’s deceased,’ she said.

‘I know that; he’s the guy from this article. Read up on him, tell me what you find.’

Felicia did. After a long moment, she looked up with a shocked look on her face. ‘Holy shit, Jacob, look at this. Says here that Smallboy suffered from depression, FAS, alcoholism, and schizophrenia. This guy was really messed up. He ended up throwing himself off the top of the Regency Hotel.’

‘I know all that.’

‘Be patient,’ she told him, and read on. ‘Says here he was enrolled in the EvenHealth programme, and was taking SILC classes.’

That made Striker take notice.

He leaned over and scanned through the report. As he learned the basics – that Derrick Smallboy had plummeted from the top of the Regency Hotel with no witnesses and no evidence of foul play – something else caught his eye.

A Lost Property file where Smallboy was listed as a complainant.

‘Bring up that one,’ he said.

Felicia exited the current report and brought up the Lost Property page. The synopsis was brief. Smallboy had lost several pieces of ID, namely his BC driver’s licence, his status card, and his birth certificate. He believed they had been stolen, but the author of the report hinted at paranoia.

‘Go back into Larisa’s main page again,’ Striker said.

When Felicia did, he pointed to one of the reports Larisa had made in August last year. It was listed as a Lost Property report, and when Felicia brought up the synopsis, he saw the same basic facts.

All of Larisa’s ID had been taken. Just like Smallboy’s. She also thought it had been stolen. But there was no proof of this. Not even a possible suspect. In the end, the report had been cleared as Unfounded.

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘You still have your contact at Equifax?’

‘You bet. TransUnion, too.’

‘Call them. Find out if there were any credit problems with Smallboy and Larisa.’

Felicia got on the phone and got hold of her contact at the credit bureau who could search both TransUnion and Equifax databases. The process was slow and cumbersome, but after almost twenty minutes, she hung up the phone with a curious look on her face.

‘Bad credit reports?’ Striker asked.

‘The worst. Non-payments. R3s. You name it. And it gets worse than that,’ she said. ‘Smallboy and Logan were both victims of identity theft. Full frauds. It’s all documented with the bureau. Someone damn well bankrupted them. Took out credit cards in their names, emptied their bank accounts – everything.’

Striker felt the energy of a new lead.

‘Awfully coincidental,’ he said.

‘That’s not the half of it,’ Felicia continued. ‘I also got him to check on Mandy Gill and Sarah Rose. Exact same thing. They all had their IDs stolen and they were all victims of identity theft.’

‘Did Larisa report the physical theft of the identification, or that someone was using her identity to obtain more credit?’ he clarified.

‘Both.’

Striker looked down at the date when Larisa Logan had reported the identity theft.

‘Larisa made a report of this on August third of last year,’ he noted.

Felicia nodded. ‘And three days later, she was committed.’

‘To where?’

‘Riverglen.’

‘By whose order?’ Striker asked.

‘Dr Riley M. Richter.’

Striker leaned back against the seat, his head swirling with information. Four victims of identity theft. All connected through the doctors of the EvenHealth programme. And now three of them were dead, one was missing.

The odds were astronomical.

‘It all comes back to the doctors,’ he said. ‘To Ostermann and Richter.’

He’d barely finished speaking the words when his cell phone rang. He picked it up, stuck it to his ear, and said, ‘Detective Striker, Homicide.’

The voice responding was smooth and soft. Feminine.

‘This is Dr Richter. Apparently you’ve been looking for me.’

Sixty-Eight

The address Dr Richter gave Striker was for a road named Stone Creek Slope in West Vancouver, Canada’s most expensive area of real estate. Within ten seconds of driving off the TransCanada Highway and entering the district, Striker could see why.

The lots became large and more secluded. Driveways were flanked by tall rows of old-growth cedars, and most of the mansions were barely visible behind the gated driveways and high stone walls. Every house had a veranda that stared out over the cold deep waters of the strait below.

Striker looked out over those waterways. They appeared like polished black stone, matching the cloudless night sky. Beyond them was the city of Vancouver, all lit up and busy. Just another weekday night in a city buzzing with night life.

He drove slowly down the long swerving slope of hill, until he spotted the address they were looking for on the left. A small driveway compared to the others, almost hidden by the trees.

‘It feels so secluded out here,’ Felicia said. ‘Like we’re out in the middle of nowhere – yet the city’s just a ten-minute drive away. It’s beautiful.’

‘And costs a fortune. That’s why only doctors and lawyers and celebrities live here.’

He turned the car up the driveway and stopped on a small, round parking area. They got out. The house before them was not as plush as the others but, in this neighbourhood, ‘not plush’ still meant worth millions.

Out front, the alcove lights suddenly turned on and the front door opened. Standing in the doorway was a woman of maybe thirty years, dressed in a sombre black dress jacket and matching skirt. She had soft brown hair that was long, but tied up in a bun. A strong but pretty face. And confident eyes that held Striker’s gaze without a moment’s nervousness.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I’m Dr Richter. I’ve been expecting you.’

Moments later, after they were all inside and introductions had been made, they moved into a small sunken den that overlooked the pool area outside and, beyond that, the cliffs over the strait. On the coffee table was a bowl of ripe mandarin oranges. The smell of them filled the room.

Striker sat down in a leather EZ Boy recliner, directly across from Dr Richter, who took the loveseat. In between them, on a matching sofa, sat Felicia.

‘Nice place,’ Striker offered.

Dr Richter tucked one leg under the other and smoothed out her skirt. ‘It’s my uncle’s,’ she replied. ‘The rent is good and he lives just across the street, which is perfect for me since I’m away much of the time. He keeps an eye on things for me.’

‘Were you away yesterday?’ Striker asked. ‘I left you several messages.’

‘Yes, and I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. I hadn’t bothered to check my messages since the day before. And then, all day long, I was flying back from New York.’

‘Conference?’ Felicia asked.

Dr Richter shook her head. ‘I have family out there. I visited a little bit, did the mandatory social thing. But I was really there to assess the area. I’m considering opening a private practice there. The money is triple what I can make here, and the taxes less than half.’

‘That’s quite a difference,’ Felicia remarked.

‘It’s a difference of fifteen years – retiring at fifty versus sixtyfive.’ Dr Richter gave them both a quick look, then spoke again. ‘I didn’t get into this profession for the love of psychiatry,’ she said bluntly. ‘I entered this field to make a lot of money, to retire young and still enjoy life.’

‘And yet you choose to work for EvenHealth,’ Striker pointed out.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, as if not making the connection.

He explained. ‘They’re government subsidized, and Dr Ostermann has built his reputation on helping out the poorest of patients. I’m sure the government don’t pay anywhere near what the private practices pay – especially in this area.’

‘They don’t,’ Dr Richter replied. ‘I’m not working at EvenHealth for the money, I’m there for the experience. Dr Ostermann’s name reaches to far places. Plus, I wanted to see how he had put together the programme. My goal in New York is to start my own private programme with doctors working for me. That’s where the money is.’

Striker found the woman interesting. Blunt and brutally honest, but interesting. Charming, even. He pulled out his notebook and leafed back through the pages until he came to what he was looking for.

‘You prescribed medications to some patients,’ he began. ‘Exact same kind and dosage.’ He reached out to show her what he had written in his notebook; she read the names and medications listed on the page.

‘These patients, were they part of EvenHealth?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Enrolled in the SILC classes.’

Dr Richter made an ahh sound. ‘The group sessions. Social Independence and Life Coping skills.’ She smiled. ‘One of Dr Ostermann’s ten-step programmes. It is aimed primarily at bipolar patients, for the most. A few of the patients have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Lexapro and Effexor are common treatments for this. They more often than not work extremely well, especially when taken together. For any more detail than that, I’d have to check my files.’

‘You don’t recognize your own prescriptions?’ Striker asked.

Dr Richter laughed bemusedly. ‘Detective, please. Between my work with EvenHealth and the other clinics, I’ve treated over seven hundred patients in the last year. Each one of them is on as many as ten different medications. That’s seven thousand medications in total. Do you honestly think I remember them all?’

‘Sounds like mass production.’

‘It sounds like money,’ she said brazenly. ‘I’ve already told you, I never joined this profession for the long hours and the constant lack of progress, I joined it to make money. Cold, hard cash. And I intend on being retired on a beach in Jamaica by the time I’m forty.’

Striker ignored that. ‘I’m less concerned about the medication types and more concerned about the patient names,’ Striker said. ‘Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan, in particular.’

Dr Richter said nothing for a moment. Her eyes took on a faraway look and her face remained expressionless. In that moment, she looked older. And much more experienced. Clinical.

‘I have a vague recollection of the group,’ she finally said. ‘And I’m not overly comfortable discussing them, especially not without perusing the file first – remember, I was only a fill-in for the group when Dr Ostermann could not be present.’

‘Larisa Logan,’ he pressed.

Dr Richter gave him a cold look, but then spoke anyway. ‘Her, I do remember. She was a Victim Services worker, if I recall correctly.’

‘She was,’ Striker confirmed. ‘Her family was killed in a car accident. She suffered a breakdown.’

‘Yes, I remember Larisa Logan. She was a kind and genuine person. I felt for her.’

Striker doubted that, but said nothing.

‘Larisa is missing,’ Felicia interjected. ‘And we’re desperate to find her – not for any criminal reasons, but for her own safety.’

Dr Richter’s face took on a confused look. ‘I don’t understand, why are you here talking to me?’

Striker blinked. ‘Are you not her doctor?’

‘No. Not at all. As I already explained, I was only an interim doctor for the SILC classes. I never worked with any of the patients during private sessions – there’s no money there.’

‘Then who was Larisa’s doctor?’ Felicia asked.

‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’

Striker leaned forward in his chair. ‘Let me get this straight here. Other than the odd fill-in day here and there, you never worked with Larisa?’

‘Of course not. She was Dr Ostermann’s patient, and his alone. He was quite . . . possessive of her, really. His own personal project.’

Striker looked at Felicia and saw the tightness of her expression. He steered the conversation back to other matters – whether Dr Richter had ever used any experimental medication on the patients, whether she had any connections to the army, and whether she ever did any work at Riverglen Mental Health Facility.

The answer to all three questions was a resounding no.

When they were done with the interview, Striker stood up and put his notebook away. He shook the woman’s hand, and thanked her for her time. Then, with Felicia at his side, he walked to the front door.

‘Keep your phone nearby,’ he said to Dr Richter. ‘I have a feeling I’ll be calling you again.’

‘Any time,’ she replied.

But no smile parted her lips.

They drove back out of the cedar-covered hills of West Vancouver and took the highway to the downtown core. During the drive, Striker tried to relax his mind and let everything fall into place. But Felicia was unusually wired.

‘We have the connection,’ she said. ‘Dr Ostermann was seeing all four patients – Gill, Rose, Mercury and Larisa Logan – and he was seeing them not only during group sessions but one-on-one.’

Striker nodded. ‘I agree. He’s also about the same size and stature as the man who attacked me back at the Gill crime scene – but it’s all still circumstantial at this point. Everything.’

Felicia scowled. ‘Which means what, he gets a free ride?’

‘No. Which means we see the man.’

Felicia nodded, but her face took on a concerned look. ‘Just be careful you don’t tip him off on anything.’

Striker gave her a quick glance as they headed over the Lions Gate Bridge. ‘I said see him, not speak to him.’ He took out his cell phone and dialled Hans Jager – Meathead, to anyone who knew him. Meathead was one of the breachers for the Emergency Response Team. The man answered, they talked, and a few minutes later, Striker hung up the phone and headed for the Cambie Street bridge.

There was some equipment they needed to pick up.