Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Seventy-Nine
It was over two hours later, at quarter after nine in the morning, by the time Striker and Felicia left the Ostermann house. With them they took three cardboard boxes, jam-packed with file folders.
All possible victims of identify theft.
When they reached their vehicle, Felicia opened the trunk and Striker dropped the boxes inside. He closed the trunk, then took a moment to pull out his phone and call Courtney. She had an appointment booked with her OT this morning, and Striker wanted to make sure she attended.
The phone rang three times, then went to voicemail.
‘Get up, Pumpkin,’ he said. ‘I’m already at work and you got an appointment with Annalisa this morning. Ten o’clock, and don’t be late. I love you.’
He hung up the phone and went to put it away, but it vibrated against his hand. He looked down at the screen, expecting to see Courtney returning his call, but all he saw was a red number 1 over his phone icon.
A missed call.
He read the number and recognized it as Kirstin Dunsmuir’s. Which piqued his curiosity. The woman was a pill, and colder than a popsicle enema, but no one could question her work ethic. She had probably been at the lab all night long.
Fitting for a Death Goddess.
‘That was the medical examiner who called,’ he said.
Felicia made an ugh sound. ‘I don’t do Kirstin Dunsmuir before lunch.’
‘She might have something.’
Felicia offered no reply, but her scowl remained.
Striker ignored it and checked his voicemail. Dunsmuir hadn’t left a message, so he returned her call. She answered with her usual grace and warmth, which meant one-worded and ice cold:
‘Dunsmuir.’
‘It’s Striker. I saw you called.’
She skipped the small talk. ‘I have the results of the autopsies. There are two things of importance. Mandy Gill had a needle-mark incision. Angled medially and inferiorly, just posterior to the medial head of the clavicle.’
‘Left side?’ Striker asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What about needle marks on Sarah Rose?’
‘Far too badly burned to determine. Regardless, it does appear he’s injecting them.’
‘But with what?’
Dunsmuir made an uncertain sound. ‘I’m not entirely sure at this point – there are numerous drugs in both the victims’ systems. One of them we’ve managed to isolate is a powerful muscle relaxant. There was enough of it in Mandy Gill’s system to eventually stop her heart. We’re awaiting test results for an exact determination.’
Striker thought this over. He recalled how both victims had been facing the windows, facing into the camera. Unable to move. Unable to call for help. Barely able to breathe. He hoped they didn’t realize they were going to die at that moment, but somehow he thought otherwise.
‘No idea on the kind of relaxant?’ he asked.
This seemed to irritate the ME and her tone dropped. ‘These things take time, Detective. It’s not a movie, after all.’
‘I know that. Otherwise we’d have a happier ending.’
Dunsmuir let out a bemused laugh. ‘There are no happy endings.’
Striker had had enough of the conversation. He told Dunsmuir to call him with the results. Then he hung up the phone.
Felicia started to get into the car. When he did not follow her lead, she stopped. ‘What?’ she asked.
‘Is Gabriel left-handed?’
‘Why?’
‘Just a thought. But look at the location of the needle marks. Left side, just posterior to the clavicle. And the angle of the needle – driven in at a medial angle. If the suspect came up behind his victims, this would be a hard angle to get with the right hand.’
‘And why do you think he comes up behind them?’
‘No defensive wounds. Depressed or not, they would still react in some way. But here, there is nothing. It makes me think they were surprised, hence from behind.’
Felicia nodded back but said nothing, and they both piled into the car. For Striker, the phone call with Dunsmuir had been emotionally draining. And he’d had enough of the Death Goddess to last him a lifetime.
He put the car into Drive and drove. There was still tons of paperwork and police reports to comb through. Already they’d been at it for more than three hours, and they’d barely made a dent in things. Neither one of them had gotten enough sleep the last few days, and he was feeling it.
It was going to be another long, hard day.
Eighty
The day had arrived and the sun was finally out – a piercing ball of whiteness in a sky so light it was barely blue.
Striker drove them down Main Street, then detoured on Terminal. He cut through the Starbucks drive-thru and ordered them a pair of egg-white breakfast wraps and a couple of coffees – an Americano, black, for himself, and a vanilla latte for Felicia.
Then they returned to headquarters.
Back in Homicide, the office was dead. Everywhere Striker looked, he saw empty rows of cubicles. Half the office was on their day off, the other half was out in the field, trying to write off leads and solve files. If any of them caught fire, they’d be back in before noon; otherwise, it would be an early weekend for most.
Once back at his desk, Striker set down all three boxes they had seized. There were still more boxes back at the Ostermann home, and due to the enormity of the task and their limited time, Striker had called in Clowe and Parker from Robbery to assist them. They were leafing through the files back at the Ostermann house even now.
Felicia came up beside him. She gave him an irritated look. ‘We should be researching Gabriel,’ she said. ‘And Dalia and Lexa. We can go through all this stuff later.’
Striker shook his head. ‘These folders are the reason all this is happening. Understand the victims and you’ll better understand the Adder.’ Striker thought it over. They still needed to access the Police Information Retrieval System and the Law Enforcement Information Portal. ‘You research Gabriel through PRIME and PIRS and LEIP; I’ll keep wading through the files.’
The suggestion seemed to placate Felicia. She went to take another long sip of her latte, found it empty, then threw it in the trash can. ‘I’ll make us a pot,’ she said, and walked across the room.
Striker was glad to have some space. He pulled over the first box and started skimming through the files.
Each was important, because of the crime that had been committed. Identity theft had ruined many a person’s life, and it was the fastest growing crime in today’s white-collar society. But, collectively, the files said so much more. He was less than halfway through the first box – well into the Hs – when he saw a pattern emerging.
One that twisted up his insides.
The folder he was reading was labelled: Jeremy Heath. It was divided into sections. The first section held pages upon pages of basic information. Everything from his date of birth and mother’s maiden name to computer passwords and banking information. There were also forms from the Post Office for a change of address.
The next section of the folder had every type of insurance Jeremy Heath had ever taken out, ranging from medical insurance to life insurance to disability insurance. Jeremy Heath’s file even had a soldier’s recompense page from Veterans’ Affairs.
The third section of the folder was all the avenues of income. Visa. MasterCard. American Express. Bank names and their associated account numbers. Even pages of stocks and bonds.
The fourth and final section was composed of spreadsheets, showing lists of income from each of these cards. There was also a column for how many times each credit card limit had been upped, and if and when that request had been declined.
Everything was precise, systematic, planned.
Last of all was the envelope attached to the back of the folder that housed all the various pieces of ID. As Striker looked them over, he realized why the ID looked so real. The answer was simple.
The ID was all legitimate.
The Ostermanns hadn’t been creating fake IDs, they had been obtaining real identification from the original source. All the driver licences, social insurance number cards and birth certificates were legitimate issue. He had never seen anything like it, not on this scale.
He showed all this to Felicia. ‘They’ve actually attended the motor vehicle branch and have had their own pictures implemented.’
‘They’re friggin’ experts,’ she said.
He nodded solemnly. ‘And they’re systematically destroying people’s lives. Even worse, they’re going after all the marginalized victims.’ His own words triggered some darker thoughts, and he got on the phone with the Collins Group.
The Collins Group was a private company, run by ex-cop Tom Collins – a friend of Striker’s from years past. Collins had worked primarily in Financial Crime during his twenty-year stint with the VPD, and he had carried that expertise with him into his new endeavours of investigating corporate insurance fraud. When Striker told the receptionist who he was, she transferred him without question.
‘Tom Collins,’ Striker said. ‘How’s my favourite highball?’
The man on the other end of the phone let out a gruff laugh. ‘Shipwreck. Good to hear from you, man. I hear you had some problems last year over at St Patrick’s.’
That made Striker pause. ‘Yeah, memories better left forgotten,’ he finally said. ‘Look, I got some victims of identity theft here, and I was wondering if you could research them a bit for me.’
‘How fast you need it?’
‘Like yesterday.’
‘I should have let it ring to voicemail.’
Striker just laughed and gave the man a list of the names he had accumulated from the boxes.
‘And what exactly are we looking for?’ Collins asked.
‘You’ll know it when you find it,’ Striker said. ‘I need this done fast. Today sometime.’
Collins let out a sour laugh. ‘Your way or the highway, like always, huh?’
‘What can I say? I’m particular.’
He hung up the phone, feeling better. He liked Tom. The man had been a good cop and a better friend. It had been too long since they’d seen one another.
Typical in the world of policing.
He looked back at Felicia, who had her head buried in the computer. ‘What are you finding on Gabriel in PRIME?’
She looked up as if she was only now aware that his conversation with Collins had ended, and turned the screen to face him. ‘With the exception of Dr Ostermann, there’s not a whole lot on any of them,’ she said. ‘Gabriel is carded in a few of the police reports as a witness, but that was only due to car accidents. There’s also a report here from almost twelve years ago. He must’ve been, what, eight at the time.’
‘What does it say?’
‘I can’t bring it up, it’s privatized, and it’s a Burnaby file.’
‘We still need it,’ he said.
‘Well, duh!’ She laughed at the surprised look on his face. ‘I’ve already left a message for the detective in charge. Get this: her last name is Constable. Can you believe that? Detective Constable.’
Striker grinned. ‘Well, if she ever makes Chief Constable, the papers will have a field day with it.’
‘Yeah, no kidding. I’m just waiting for her to get back to me.’
‘What about Lexa?’ he asked.
‘In PRIME? Lexa is listed only once. Under a fingerprint file.’
‘Probably for when she got her criminal record check done for nursing.’
‘Bang on,’ Felicia said. ‘As for Dalia, she is a complete nonentity. Not in any of the systems. She doesn’t exist.’
Striker thought this over.
‘Run both their vehicles for tickets. Any infraction. Speeding. Red light. Parking. I don’t care. Just run it all.’
Felicia didn’t move. ‘We already know Ostermann drove like a maniac.’
‘I’m not interested in the offence, I’m interested in the locations.’
Felicia said nothing and turned back to the computer. After a few clicks, she made an interested sound. ‘Hey, look at this. We know the X5 has streams of tickets, but the Land Rover, which is registered to Lexa, has only three tickets – all of them on the Trans-Canada Highway.’
This piqued Striker’s interest. ‘Where exactly?’
‘One out near Furry Creek, and the other two just outside of Whistler Village.’ She looked up. ‘Maybe they have a cabin there, or something. I’ll check it out.’ She turned around and got on the phone to Whistler’s registrar office; while she talked, Striker continued going through the boxes of files. When he finished the Ks and started the Ls, he found one file that made him pause.
Logan, Larisa.
‘Holy shit,’ he said.
He opened up the file, but it was empty.
Confused, he looked back in the box for any loose papers, but found none. The words on the tab stared back at him. Made him angry. He searched the next three files to see if Larisa’s paperwork had accidentally slipped into the wrong folder.
None had.
He sat there, letting everything sink in and feeling sick about it. He picked up his desk phone and checked his voice messages. There were seven, but none from Larisa, and none relevant to the file.
No time for them now.
He archived the phone messages and looked through his emails. Again, there were tons of messages, but nothing pertinent to this investigation. Irritated, he brought up the email Larisa had sent him the previous day and made another reply to it:
Subject: Contact me!
Larisa,
Please tell me where you are! Or go to the nearest police station and call me. Dr Ostermann is dead. Gabriel and Lexa and Dalia are missing. They are very dangerous. Beware of them. Come in or call me. Please!
– Jacob
He looked at the message for a moment, hoping it was personal enough to make her respond. He hit Enter and the message sent. After that, he sat there for a long moment, waiting for a response. None came. And after recalling the way things had gone down at the Arabic Beans coffee shop at Metrotown, Striker wondered if one ever would.
It was doubtful.
The woman no longer trusted him. She trusted no one. She was all alone and in hiding. And the longer she stayed missing, the worse their chances of finding her became. It was a cold, hard fact. But it was real.
They were running out of time.
Eighty-One
It was morning by the time the Adder reached his destination. He was tired. He had not slept all night. He was hungry. He was cold.
He rounded the cabin from the north in the mid-morning light, and stood on the back deck. As he breathed out, the warmth and moisture from his breath fogged the air. He stared out over the lake. The edges were still covered with a fine layer of ice, and the weeds and reeds were frozen in place. The air smelled strongly of pine and cedar. Morning sun broke the top of the mountains to the far east. It gleamed on the cold, calm waters of the lake.
It was the perfect day. The kind of morning every skier and snowboarder craved all season long. Crisp, clear, cold. It should have been beautiful.
But the Adder could focus on none of this. All he saw was one bad memory. And the images in his head. Ones that had once been terrifying but now seemed like faded stills from a different life. A different world.
And in some sense, that was exactly what they were.
The sliding glass door opened behind him with a soft rolling sound.
‘Gabriel,’ a feminine voice said. Soft, and with emotion. With relief. And the Adder immediately knew it to be Dalia. She was the only one who cared. The only one who had ever cared. She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest, then let loose a gasp and shivered. ‘You’re so cold,’ she said softly. ‘Come inside. Later on, I’ll help you warm up.’
He said nothing; he merely turned around and walked with her towards the cabin. Before entering, he stopped.
Thought.
He knelt down and removed the DVD from his pocket. It was Disc 1, the only copy he had left, and the only one that truly mattered. He slid it beneath the porch steps, far into the back where it was out of view. Then he stood up and moved into the warmth of the cabin. He’d barely stepped foot on the ceramic tile when the smell of green tea hit him. And then the Doctor came storming into the kitchen. Her eyes were set and dark, her face so tight it looked bloodless.
‘It’s about time – you fool,’ she said.
Dalia stepped forward. ‘Mother, please—’
‘To your room, girl.’
‘But Mother—’
‘To your room!’
Lexa Ostermann stepped forward and gave the Girl a backhanded strike – a sharp, hard SLAP! that resonated like the crack of a whip. Dalia recoiled from the blow and grabbed her cheek. Sobbing, she spun from the kitchen and raced up the stairs to the second floor of the cabin.
The Adder watched her go, but did nothing. A strange tingling sensation was tickling the back of his mind. His heart. His entire body.
And he did not like it.
‘You’re a fool,’ the Doctor continued. ‘Everything, ruined. Years of work, ruined. Our family, ruined!’
‘I did nothing.’
‘Your videos,’ she said, and there was ice in her words. ‘They are what set everything off. Your father, dead. The police, hunting us down. Like animals, Gabriel. Like animals!’
He said nothing, and his silence only seemed to infuriate her more.
‘Outside. Now.’
He looked out of the sliding glass door. ‘There is no reason.’
‘You know the rules.’
‘But there is no well here,’ he started, then he saw the lake.
‘Outside,’ the Doctor ordered. ‘I will not tell you again.’
The Adder said nothing for a long moment, then he nodded absently and walked back out through the door. The moment he left the kitchen, the cold wind slapped his face. Sharp, stinging, burning his skin and eyes. He marched across the slippery wooden porch, down the steps and across the small back yard. The frozen blades of grass crunched beneath his feet. Then he was at the edge of the lake. Memories of the past deluged him. Memories of William.
He could not bear it.
‘Take off your clothes,’ the Doctor ordered.
Mechanically, the Adder did as instructed, folding them neatly and placing the articles one on top of the other. Shoes, then pants, then shirt. When he was completely naked – when the winter wind was cutting into him like an icy blade – the Doctor stepped closer.
‘Into the lake.’
Without so much as a word, the Adder stepped forward until the soles of his feet touched the thin ice of the lake. The ice cracked, and broke beneath his weight, and the sounds of laughter grew in his ears and the image of William was suddenly there before his eyes. A little boy running and giggling on the lake.
He stopped moving.
‘Into the lake,’ the Doctor said again.
But this time, the Adder did not respond.
‘I order you into the lake.’
The Adder turned. Faced her.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not do this any more.’ And for the first time in his memory – the first time since William’s death – the Adder felt more than alive, he felt awake.
The Doctor’s face took on a shocked look, and then she nodded slowly. ‘I always knew this day would come, Gabriel. Very well then. You have finally left the past behind you. Pick up your clothes and join me in the cabin. We have much to discuss.’
The Adder nodded. He bent over to pick up his clothes and suddenly sensed movement beside him. He turned – but was far too slow. A sharp pricking sensation stung his neck, and he knew the needle had gone in.
He jerked backwards, stunned, and felt a strange hot warmth rush from his neck down his arms. The flow carried on through his body, down his legs, and even up into the top of his head – a strange numb warmth. Almost immediately, his muscles grew weak and he felt himself folding inwards. His legs trembled, then gave out, and he collapsed on the edge of the lake.
A strange, distorted sound filled the air, and the Adder realized it was the Doctor. She was laughing at him. One second there was only white sun and blue sky above him; the next moment, the Doctor was there, looking down at him with a dark smile on her lips.
‘Mivacurium chloride,’ she said. ‘How does it feel to be on the receiving end, for a change?’
The Adder could not speak. He looked up at her melting face and tried to respond, tried to say something – what, he had no idea – but his lips would not move.
‘There is a certain set order, Gabriel,’ the Doctor continued. ‘A hierarchy. And you need to remember your place within it.’
The mask she wore crumbled away in pieces, and the Adder saw her for everything that she was. Everything she had always been.
The monster beneath.
He felt her grab his legs. Felt his body being dragged along the ground. There was a wet, cold feeling surrounding his legs and hips, and he knew she had left him in the lake. Cold. So terribly cold. And the sky was black and growing blacker by the second. After a while, the sky faded. And eventually the sun burned out, leaving him with nothing but black.
