Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Eighty-Six

Striker wanted to run Lexa Ostermann and all her aliases through Interpol – the International Criminal Police Organization. Interpol’s primary purpose was to facilitate cooperation between police departments from almost two hundred countries. Essentially, it was a spider’s web of information. Starting there was their best bet.

They headed back for Homicide.

When they got there, Striker was surprised to find the office busy, and upon speaking to fellow detective Jana Aiken, learned that there’d been another gang shooting on the Granville Strip.

Nothing interesting.

He found his way to his cubicle and sat down. The computer was still running, but locked, so he logged on and quickly checked his email. No message from Larisa. No voicemail either. Frustrated, he initiated Versadex and loaded the Query page for Interpol.

As far as Striker knew, Lexa had no criminal record, not that it mattered. The database listed everything from wanted criminals to missing children to stolen property. Striker was hoping Lexa would be there, in some form or another; how, he didn’t much care. All he wanted was a lead.

Instead of starting with Ostermann, Striker typed in the oldest name they knew of:

Lexa Novak.

For a date of birth, he typed in an age range of thirty-five to forty-eight.

The query came back within thirty seconds to a positive hit, low score, meaning that the details provided matched perfectly but the details provided were few and vague. There were over thirty hits.

Striker sorted through them all until he found one that matched:

Lexa Novak. Forty-six years of age

167 cm. 59 kgs. Caucasian

Hair: blonde. Eyes: blue. Build: medium

Place of birth: Mesto Roztoky, České Republiky.

Striker looked up the name of the town and saw that it was not far from Prague. He looked for any tattoo or scar descriptions, but found none. He scrolled down the page and came to a Remarks section.

What he saw made him smile.

Policie České Republiky

Person of Interest. Identity Fraud

Contact Detective Lundtiz. 974 852 319.

‘České?’ Felicia asked.

Striker nodded. ‘Police of the Czech Republic,’ he explained. ‘We got a legitimate possible.’

He picked up the landline and dialled. The number took a long time to connect, but then it started to ring. The man who answered spoke in limited English, but managed to convey to Striker that Detective Lundtiz was now Inspector Lundtiz, working in the Unit for Combating Corruption and Financial Crime.

He patched Striker through.

After another set of rings, Striker’s call was answered by a receptionist and, after again explaining who he was and why he was calling, he was transferred to the main line.

As Striker waited for the inspector, Felicia got the call from one of the cops she knew in Burnaby South. The privatized file from Gabriel’s childhood was ready. She gave Striker the thumbs up, then left to pick it up from the Burnaby North detachment.

Striker waved goodbye and waited on hold.

After a long pause, the phone was picked up. ‘Good evening, Detective Striker, this is Inspector Lundtiz.’

Striker was surprised to hear that the inspector spoke with good English and had almost no accent. ‘Good evening, Inspector. Thanks for taking my call. I’m enquiring about—’

‘Lexa Kaleena Novak,’ Lundtiz replied. ‘Yes, I know her quite well. Intimately well, I would say. I spent many months following this woman before she disappeared on me. That was many years ago. Almost twenty, I would think. My God . . .’

‘Well, she’s been found in Vancouver, Canada,’ Striker said.

‘Has she killed again?’

The words shocked Striker. ‘Has she killed there?’

‘Undoubtedly. Proving that, however, was another matter.’

Striker said nothing for a moment, then took out his notebook and a pen. ‘What exactly do you know about this woman?’

‘A great deal.’

‘I’ve got the time.’

The inspector cleared his throat and began speaking. ‘I have the file right in front of me, though I went over it so many times, I practically know it all by memory. Lexa Novak was born in the city of Prague. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, Charles Bridge and all.’

‘I’m aware of it.’

‘She grew up one of three sisters. Katerna was eldest, followed by Nava, and then Lexa. The family was upper class. Very well known. Her father, Dagan, was a well-respected man in these parts – a doctor with his hand in politics.’

‘Sounds powerful,’ Striker noted.

‘He was. I remember him. And with Lena for a wife, every man around the town envied him. Lena was beautiful, Lena was the perfect wife and mother, and Lena brought with her a family fortune.’

‘Elite upper class,’ Striker said.

‘Entirely. And from an outsider’s perspective, they were living the dream. But home life was very different. Dagan Novak was a sadist. He took great pleasure in dominating his family, abusing them in all ways – psychologically, physically, even sexually, once the girls reached a certain age. Life in the Novak family was an existence of helplessness and torture. I am ashamed to say the police of this time failed the family utterly.’

‘They knew?’

‘It was reported. But because of Dagan’s social and political connections, the matter was – how do you say it? – conveniently overlooked.’

Striker frowned. It was a situation he had seen before as well. ‘What happened to the rest of the family?’

‘Lena, the mother, supposedly left the family and relocated to Paris, where she had other family connections. Yet when I tried to locate her, the search quickly reached a dead end. I have no doubt that Dagan murdered her.’

‘And the other girls?’

‘The story is quite sad, I’m afraid. Even beyond the abuse.’

Striker shook his head. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘The eldest of the sisters, Katerna, had to be hospitalized when she was but sixteen years of age. For severe schizophrenia. Three years after that, Nava was also afflicted with the illness.’

‘A genetic link.’ Striker thought this over. Given the history, it was unsurprising that Lexa had turned to a career of psychiatry. ‘Lexa must have lived in constant fear of acquiring this illness.’

‘The illness haunted her, tortured her . . . And I think it was the turning point of her freedom. The so-called fuse that set her off. It was not long after the middle child was hospitalized that her father took ill. His symptoms came on slowly, gradually, his skin paling, his body weight diminishing, and then his hair began falling out.’

‘Arsenic?’

‘In his tea, we believe.’

‘And yet you never charged her?’

‘We couldn’t. The family had a cook. They had a maid. Even a live-in nurse for when the children came home for visits, which of course became exceedingly rare as the illness progressed. In short, Lexa was surrounded by other suspects. There was no way to link her to the poisoning. And to be honest, at the time, I wasn’t entirely sure she was involved. I had placed more of my focus on the nurse, still feeling Lexa to be a victim of her father’s evil-doings.’

To hear that Dagan Novak got his own justice didn’t particularly bother Striker. ‘So she got away with one.’

‘Yes, she did. Then, when Lexa was nineteen, she met a man named Victor Devorak. He was a young man, a good-looking man, from an estimable background. Within one year of being married to Lexa, he also developed a strange unknown illness and eventually passed away. Lexa moved on, and within two more years she had met and married another young man, also from a rich family. His name was Kavill Svaboda. He lasted longer than her previous husband – almost three full years. But then, four months after Lexa obtained her medical degree, he passed away from unknown causes.’

Striker said nothing as he thought things through. Most everyone around this woman had died, and her two sisters had ended up sick in mental hospitals. The diagnosis was schizophrenia, but he now wondered if Lexa had also played a role in that. He didn’t know enough about the illness to speculate.

‘So two husbands in just over, say, six years. And they died in a similar manner to her father. Did you bring her in for questioning?’ Striker asked.

‘Of course I did. After the death of both husbands. The woman was a star. Charming and open. Confident. Secure.’

‘Like most psychopaths. Were there any more deaths after that?’

The inspector let out a tired sound. ‘I wouldn’t know. She disappeared. Just upped and left the country. And no matter how I tried to track her down, I could never find her. One of my contacts had traced her as far as Brussels, but it was an unconfirmed sighting. And after that, the trail went cold. Plus the woman in Brussels had been many months pregnant.’

‘Lexa does have children.’

The inspector made a sad sound. ‘That is a truly horrible thing.’

‘How long ago was that sighting?’

‘I’m not sure any more.’ Twenty years? The inspector made an uncomfortable sound. ‘It’s odd . . . when my receptionist told me she had the police from Canada on the phone, Lexa was the first person I thought of.’

‘Any advice you can give with this woman?’

‘Only this, Detective. Catch her. Never let her escape. For there is one thing I learned above all else with Lexa Novak. She will never stop killing. She simply enjoys it too much.’

Eighty-Seven

With the conversation with the Czech police inspector finished, Striker hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. He thought of the Ostermann family.

Dr Erich Ostermann had been evasive and secretive from minute one, and now that they had discovered the man’s sexual perversions, that those actions all made sense. As a whole, the world may have become more accepting of people’s sexual preferences, but there was little doubt that the professionals and politicians Ostermann hung out with would be less than understanding should his sadomasochistic goings-on ever come to light.

As for Dalia and Gabriel, they had been oddballs from the start. Lexa was the one who had surprised Striker the most. When he had first met her, she had come across as the beautiful, trapped wife of a powerful and dangerous man. Striker had found himself wanting to help her, intrigued by her charms. He now found it frustrating to see how easily she had played him.

And he looked forward to capturing her.

He was deep in thought on this matter when his cell phone went off with a text message. He picked up the cell and looked at the screen. What he saw made his heart clinch. There was a message. From Larisa.

From: Logan, Larisa

Subject: Lost

The message was brief, to the point, and the underlying sense of panic was unmistakable:

I’m not going back to the hospital. Not ever. But I’m afraid, Jacob. I think someone’s been watching me. This morning. A woman with dark eyes. She felt very . . . off. Everywhere I turned, she was there. And I’m scared. Part of me just wants to end it all. I don’t know what I should do . . . I want to trust you, but . . .

The message ended there, and it tugged at Striker’s heartstrings. Here was the woman who had been there for him during his darkest hours, and when hers had come, he had fallen way short of doing anything remotely helpful. He looked at the message details. It had been sent only two minutes ago.

Quickly, he typed back:

Larisa, wait! Where are you?

He waited for a long moment, but received no response. Bad thoughts flickered through his mind as he thought over her description.

A woman. With dark eyes.

Striker got on the phone with Bell, his service provider. He gave them his badge number and position, his phone number, and told them to trace the text sender. The technician was resistant at first, and Striker lost his temper.

‘This is a matter of life and death,’ he explained. ‘I know your company policy – I’ve done this a hundred times. Now trace the goddam call and tell me where it’s coming from. Or if anything happens to this woman, I’ll be sure to hold you criminally responsible. Not the goddam company, but you.’

The clerk made an uncomfortable sound, then asked him to hold. Seconds later, he came back on the line. ‘The text is coming from the Whistler Blackcomb area,’ he said. ‘Any closer than that, I can’t give you.’

‘Can’t, or won’t?’

‘Can’t. It doesn’t show up as anything more specific than that.’

Striker cursed. He hung up the phone without saying goodbye and went over his options. Whistler Blackcomb was a twomountain ski resort a hundred kilometres from the downtown core, which translated into roughly a two-hour drive.

An hour fifteen, if he needed it to be.

By population, the resort was the largest in North America. Normal population ranged from a steady flow of ten to fifteen thousand, but with the post-Christmas ski season set to begin, the two main resorts were overflowing with triple that number. Not to mention the numerous villages that clustered in pods around the outer perimeter. Looking for someone there would be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.

He cursed out loud. Thoughts of alerting the other police jurisdictions flickered through his mind, but he wiped them away when he recalled the last fiasco with Bernard Hamilton of Car 87 at the coffee shop in Metrotown. If Larisa felt he had tried to trick her again, she would run. And that was something he just couldn’t risk.

There was no other option.

He dialled Felicia. She picked up on the first ring.

‘Lonely Man’s Hotline.’

Normally the comment would have brought a smile to his lips. Not today. ‘Where are you?’ he said.

‘Heading back from Burnaby,’ she said. ‘Should be less than five minutes. I got the report on Gabriel.’

‘Good. You can read it over and explain the whole story to me when we’re on our road trip.’

‘Road trip? To where?’

‘Whistler Mountain,’ Striker said. ‘We’re going after Larisa.’

Eighty-Eight

How long it took for the feeling to return to his legs, the Adder had no clue. Time, as always, was unimportant to him. At first, there was only numbness below his waist, and then slowly, constantly, the feeling came. The pain grew. And with it came mobility. By the time he heard the front door open and close once more – the sign that the Doctor had again returned – he was finally able to stand.

Only then did he realize he was still completely naked. All his clothes were outside by the lake.

He moved from the den and the roaring gas fire back into the kitchen, where the Doctor was making herself a second cup of green tea. She kept her eyes straight ahead and did not so much as glance at him when he entered.

‘You’re going after the girl,’ she said.

‘The girl?’

‘Larisa Logan.’

The words made him pause. ‘She does not matter.’

The Doctor’s reply was terse. ‘Do not think, Gabriel. Listen. And follow orders.’

He said nothing, he just nodded slowly, and the Doctor continued.

‘Larisa Logan is the only person that can connect us to the deaths.’

‘But the police already know.’

‘Proof and knowing are different matters.’ The Doctor laughed out loud. ‘Besides, they have to find us first, Gabriel. It’s time for a new look for this family. A new identity that can never be traced – which is why I took the other DVDs. Your DVDs. They are more evidence connecting us.’

A strange sickness hit his stomach. ‘My DVDs—’

‘They are destroyed, Gabriel. And you will make no more of them. Do you understand me? You will make no more.’

‘I will make no more,’ he said softly.

‘Good. Then we are understood. Now go get your clothes and get some rest and leave me be for a while. I have much to go over, much to plan. You have caused me quite a bit of work.’ She took her cup and walked into the den.

The Adder watched her go. When she had disappeared from view, he opened the sliding glass door. Outside, the sky was greying over, darkening.

It made the lake look like charcoal.

He turned his eyes away from it and walked down the porch steps. When he reached the edge of the lake ice, he grabbed his clothes. On his way back to the cabin, he knelt by the steps, retrieved his disc – his beloved Disc 1 – and tucked it in between his folded pants and shirt.

Then he returned inside the cabin. He made his way up the stairs to the second floor. At the top, Dalia was waiting for him. Her eyes were wide and hollow, and wet with tears, as if ready to cry. She tried to speak to him, but nothing came out, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

The Adder did not respond. He brushed gently past her, into her room, and picked up her laptop.

Dalia took in a deep breath. ‘Gabriel, no,’ she whispered.

But he did not listen.

He took the laptop with him and headed for his room. Once inside, he shut the door and made his way into the closet. He closed the doors behind him, powered on the computer and logged on.

Then he slid in the disc.

Eighty-Nine

As Striker made his way out through the front doors of the annexe, his cell phone went off. He looked down at the screen, saw the name Sue Rhaemer, and felt a jolt of hope. It was Central Dispatch. Maybe they had a hit on one of the Ostermanns. He answered the call and stuck the phone to his ear. ‘Sue,’ he said. ‘What you got?’

She laughed softly. ‘Calm down, Big Fella, nothing about the Ostermanns, so you can get rid of your hard-on.’

Striker felt his renewed optimism disintegrate. ‘Then what’s the occasion?’ he asked, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice.

‘The occasion is Bernard Hamilton,’ Sue said.

That made Striker take notice. ‘Bernard? Now what has the idiot done?’

Sue chuckled at that. ‘Nothing too crazy, really. But it’s strange. He keeps calling me up and asking me questions – about you.’

‘About me?’

‘And the case you’re on. This one with Larisa Logan.’

Striker felt his fingers ball up. ‘You didn’t tell him anything, did you?’

‘No, I told him to buzz off in my usual polite way. But he did pique my interest. So I got a little creative up here and ran his GPS history. A weird thing came back – Bernard’s position is the exact same as yours, and it has been all day long.’

Striker thought that over. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Hundred per cent. And it was the same yesterday. Wherever you put yourself out, he does, too. It’s almost like he’s been following you – or at least following your unit status, seeing where you went, then re-attending.’

‘The devious little—’

Striker cut himself off. He couldn’t believe his ears. The prick had no shame, and his motive was obvious. Bernard was planning on following their leads, then sneaking in and making the grab on Larisa right from under their noses. Not only was it a shitty thing to do to one of your fellow officers, but it was putting the woman at greater risk.

He had had enough.

‘There’s something wrong with that guy,’ Sue said.

‘Darlin’, you don’t know the half of it.’

‘Bernard’s not supposed to be using us to check up on you. Want me to do something about it? Speak to one of my superiors down here?’

‘I’ll deal with it myself,’ Striker said. ‘Though I might need your assistance, if you feel like helping me put the screws on him.’

‘Shipwreck, you’ve come to the right girl.’

Striker smiled. ‘I’ll call back.’

He hung up the phone, and walked out on to Cordova Street. Felicia was already on the sidewalk, waiting for him with two cups of coffee in her hands. She handed him one, then took a quick look at his hard expression and lost her smile.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. He told her everything he’d just learned about Bernard Hamilton, and she let out a worried sound. ‘He’s gonna screw up everything.’

Striker just shook his head and smiled at her.

‘Here’s what I need you to do.’

Fifteen minutes later, Striker parked on the corner of Burrard and Pender and waited for Felicia to get out. She hopped out of the car, closed the door, and stood ten feet away on the sidewalk, in a nook to get away from the wind. Once she was ready and gave him the thumbs up, Striker grabbed the radio mike. He depressed the plunger and spoke.

‘Detective Striker to Radio,’ he said.

Sue Rhaemer answered. ‘Go for Radio.’

‘Did you get that address I asked for?’

‘The one for Logan?’ she replied. ‘Yes, I sent it to your screen.’

‘Thanks,’ Striker said. ‘Can you get my partner to switch to the Chat channel?’

Sue Rhaemer raised Felicia over the air, and Felicia responded.

‘Switching to Chat,’ she said.

Striker ramped the radio up to the next level, and waited to hear Felicia come across the air. ‘Felicia on Chat,’ she said. He waited a few more seconds, to be sure that Bernard would be eavesdropping on the conversation. Then he depressed the plunger.

‘Hey, Feleesh, where are you?’ he asked.

‘Fifth floor. Why?’

‘Get down here. I know where Larisa is hiding out.’

‘Awesome, where?’

‘She’s up in Shaughnessy. 5142 Osler Street. Apparently her aunt lives there and has been letting her hide out for the last two days. I’ve got confirmation she’s there right now. We’ll be pushing our way in. The chief wants this done ASAP and kept under wrap.’

‘I’m coming down now,’ Felicia said. ‘Pick me up.’

‘Will do,’ Striker said. ‘Leaving Chat.’

He ramped the radio channel from Chat back to Dispatch. Then he called the Central Dispatcher. Sue Rhaemer answered on the first ring. She was already laughing.

‘Did it work?’ he asked her.

‘I’m checking his GPS now,’ she said. ‘And . . . Bernard is heading due south.’

Her reply made Striker smile. It was perfect.

He thanked Sue for her help, then said goodbye. Felicia returned to the car just as he hung up. She crashed down in her seat, giggling, and closed the door behind her.

‘So?’ she asked. ‘You think he was listening?’

‘Oh, he was listening. You can count on it.’

Striker put the car into Drive and headed west. They’d gone less than a block before Felicia spoke again. ‘5142,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘The Shaughnessy area? What’s that Osler Street address for?’

Striker just grinned and kept driving.

‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to know.’