Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Striker just nodded and left the office.

On the way back to the car, the Sarj’s words bore into him. The man was right. Larisa was a good person, and she had suffered a terrible tragedy. At a time when everyone should have stood up and been counted, they had all stepped back into the shadows. In essence, they had all failed her.

Him included.

Felicia looked over as they approached the car. She offered him a soft smile. ‘You okay there, Big Guy?’

Striker barely met her stare. ‘She became a goddam missing person, and no one noticed. Not even me.’

He climbed inside the vehicle and slammed the door shut.

They headed for Car 87 headquarters, the Vancouver Police Department’s Mental Health Team. Striker was determined to see if they had any files on Larisa Logan.

He was betting they had.

Thirty

‘That’s odd,’ Felicia said as she read through the computer reports.

Striker drove eastward into the fast lane of West Broadway Street and turned south on Main. ‘What’s odd?’ he asked.

‘Larisa Logan’s already been run through the system this morning. Real early, too. Actually, there’s a CAD call for her from yesterday. And Mandy Gill as well.’

This piqued Striker’s interest. ‘Run? By who?’

She read through the electronic pages. ‘Car 87.’

‘Who’s in the car today?’

‘Hold on, it’s slow in coming . . . okay, here it is. Well, that figures. Just your favourite person in the whole wide world – Constable Bernard Hamilton.’

‘Bernard, huh.’ The words left a bad taste in Striker’s mouth. ‘So he gets off work real late last night, and already he’s out this morning, running people. Our victim and Larisa, no less.’

‘We worked late last night, too,’ Felicia replied. ‘And we’re out early this morning.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Striker explained. ‘We need to be out this early. We’re in the middle of an investigation here. Car 87 works regular hours unless something big comes up. So the question here is, what’s going on that made Bernard get off his lazy ass for once?’

Felicia made no response, and Striker thought about it as they drove on. The question felt heavy in his mind.

As they passed 29th Avenue, Striker looked at his watch. It was quarter to seven now, and the Thursday morning rush-hour traffic showed it. Cars were already lined up bumper to bumper all along the main drive, but at least they were moving. The sun was rising in the east, barely breaking up the heavy darkness of the night with a slash of light grey.

They sped up and drove down 41st. When he reached their destination, Striker pulled over and stared at the old house in front of him. It was an old heritage home, three levels, and beautiful with big white shutters and a double door in the front. To most people, it looked like a private residence. But anyone in policing knew the truth. This was the headquarters of Car 87 and the rest of the psychiatric nursing team. They had arrived.

Striker parked the car. Without a word, he climbed out and made his way towards the front door. Bernard Hamilton was somewhere inside the house, and Striker wanted to speak to the man.

Bernard had a few questions to answer.

The double front doors of Car 87 headquarters were always locked for security reasons, so Striker had to be let inside. His knock was answered by the very man he was looking for. Bernard Hamilton pulled open the door, saw them, and put on a wide smile that didn’t move the rest of his face.

‘Striker,’ he said. ‘Felicia. Good morning. You’re certainly up early.’

‘Same can be said of you,’ Striker replied.

He gave Bernard the once-over. As usual, the man had dressed with flair. The dress shirt he wore was made from pastel red silk – a hideous floral pattern – and the accessory band he used to braid his ponytail matched.

Striker stepped inside the foyer without an invitation, and Bernard automatically stepped back. As Striker turned around, he bumped into a pile of boxes on the floor. Each one had a label and a date on it. He looked at them.

‘Macy’s Day Sale?’ he asked.

‘We’re relocating,’ Bernard said. ‘Out east with everyone else.’

Striker nodded. He recalled hearing something about that. He turned the conversation to more immediate matters. ‘You research Dr Ostermann yet, like we asked?’

Bernard said nothing for a moment, but looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and then turned his head towards the den area where three women – all psych nurses Striker had never seen before – were having coffee and going over files from the previous night. ‘Perhaps we should take this discussion elsewhere.’

Striker didn’t much care. ‘You got an office?’

‘Right over here.’ Bernard showed them the way, then ushered them inside. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’

Striker didn’t argue the point, and Felicia nodded eagerly. When Bernard turned the corner and was gone from view, Striker shut the door and gave Felicia a hard look.

‘Good old Bernard doesn’t seem too happy to see us,’ he noted.

Felicia agreed. ‘You see that smile he gave us at the door?’

‘More plastic than a Ken doll.’

Felicia laughed at that, and Striker looked around the office. On the wall was a picture of James Dickson – a well-known cop who had received the Officer of the Year award for his work with the sex-trade workers in the Downtown East Side. Next to the computer, which was locked, sat a pen and clipboard. On it was a piece of white paper with two lists written down. On one side were Bernard’s accomplishments and commendations. On the other side was a list of all James Dickson’s achievements, leading up to his Officer of the Year award.

Felicia saw this, too, and laughed.

‘He wants to be cop of the year,’ she said.

Striker nodded. ‘No big secret there. Bernard always has. Too bad the guy doesn’t get it.’

‘Get it?’

‘Yeah, get it.’ Striker turned to face her. ‘The cops who win that award are never trying to win it. They get it, ’cause they’re good cops and they do a good job, and eventually they get recognized for it. It’s not a checkbox list.’

Felicia looked at the list one more time. ‘You never know. Bernard might get it; he is pretty ambitious, after all.’

‘Well, let me know when he does. I’ll start playing Russian roulette with six bullets.’

The door opened, and Bernard Hamilton walked in. He handed them both a cup of coffee, each with sugar and powdered cream, and they both thanked him for it. Felicia sipped hers; Striker just held the cup.

‘So: Dr Erich Ostermann,’ he said immediately.

Bernard let out a heavy breath. ‘Look, I tried to dig up some stuff on the man, but the file’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

Bernard nodded. ‘Like I said, they got rid of most of the personnel files a while back, after the leak. Department shredded every single one of them.’

Felicia stepped forward. ‘But there should still be a copy of Dr Ostermann’s employee record,’ she said.

‘Exactly,’ Bernard replied. ‘That was what I was looking for, but I can’t seem to find it.’ He looked around the small office and gestured to the boxes at each corner. ‘It’s probably here somewhere, but with the move going on, everything seems to be everywhere. Half the boxes are already in storage. I’ll keep looking though, and I’ll call you if I find something.’

‘When you find something,’ Striker said.

‘Sure. When.’

Striker watched Bernard avoid eye contact, and had little faith in ever receiving a phone call from the man. ‘So Ostermann’s out. What about this Dr Richter?’

Bernard shrugged and raised his hands. ‘Same thing. I can’t find any of the files right now, not with all this mess around here. For all I know they’ve already been taken out east.’

‘This isn’t helping us,’ Striker said.

Bernard sighed. ‘Look, I know Dr Ostermann well, and I have the utmost respect for the man. He’s a good man and he’s connected to management – he donates quite heavily to the PMBA, you know. As for this Dr Richter though, I’ve never heard of him.’

Striker nodded. He took out his notebook and wrote this information down – for the sole purpose of showing Bernard that everything he did was documented. ‘We’re trying to find Larisa Logan. You ever deal with her?’

For a quick moment, Bernard looked lost. Frozen. His fingers tightened on the Styrofoam cup he was holding. Then he blinked and sipped his coffee.

‘The name is familiar,’ he said.

‘It should be,’ Striker said. ‘You ran her this morning.’

Bernard said nothing, but his face turned red.

‘I know, Bernard. I saw the call.’

‘Well, so what if you saw the call?’ Bernard threw his cup into the garbage and moved around to the other side of his desk. ‘That call should never have been put on the board in the first place. It was private. Goddam dispatchers.’

‘So what’s going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on.’

‘Then why all the sensitivity?’

Bernard sat down at his desk and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. His long drawn face looked even longer at that moment, and the muscles beneath his sagging skin looked tired and flaccid. ‘I can’t say too much on this one.’

‘Can’t, or won’t?’

‘Both,’ he finally said, and the irritation in his voice was audible. ‘There are rules, Striker. Privacy issues. Sensitive ones.’

‘I’m aware of the legal issues.’

Bernard laughed bemusedly. ‘Not just legal ones. And not just departmental policy. There’s also the Mental Health Board to consider.’

Striker said nothing; he just looked at Felicia, saw the hard expression on her face, and knew that she wasn’t falling for the stream of bullshit either. She stepped forward, came right up to the desk, and looked down at Bernard.

‘We’ve gone through all the PRIME files,’ she explained, ‘and all the CAD calls, too. We know you’ve been running the woman through the system. But there also seems to be something missing here. Something happening behind the scenes. We were hoping your file could connect the dots.’

‘Our file?’ Bernard said. ‘What file?’

‘She’s had depressive issues,’ Striker said. ‘Surely, the Mental Health Team—’

‘There’s nothing here,’ Bernard said. He brushed his hand over his ponytail, as if making sure the braid was still in place.

Felicia turned to Striker and frowned. ‘The woman’s got to have a mental health file,’ she said. ‘Given what’s happened. But I’ve been through the database three times. There’s nothing there to be seen.’

To be seen.

Her words clicked something in Striker’s mind, and he smiled at Felicia.

‘I know why,’ he said. ‘You can’t find the file in PRIME because the system won’t let you. The file has been hidden. It’s privatized.’

Thirty-One

There was much to do. Plans – good plans – always took time. Preparation. Rehearsals. Risk management.

The Adder took nothing for granted.

The morning sky was finally turning blue when the old clerk from Home Depot shuffled up the walkway in his bright orange work apron and unlocked the front doors. The Adder watched him go, then waited for a few minutes until other customers entered the store. When at least ten had gone in – a high enough number to blend in with as an ordinary shopper – he adjusted his hat, put on his glasses, and entered the store.

He made his way under the harsh artificial lights of the warehouse as the PA system broadcast details of all the great sales that were available today. Something to do with bathroom renovations. He wasn’t really listening; his mind was focused on the supply list.

He found Aisle 6: Building Materials, and bought himself one hundred ten-inch wood screws and six steel brackets.

He found the lumber yard and grabbed himself three two-bysixes, cutting each one into six-foot lengths. Then he found a solid oak door. It was heavy as hell and by far the most expensive item on his list.

Lastly, he picked up five large canisters of Steinman’s wood varnish – this was essential.

On his way to the checkouts, he passed the power tool section and stopped. A thought occurred to him. Sound; it was ever so important. He steered his buggy of lumber and supplies into the area and found the cordless drill section. There were many brands to choose from – Bosch and Milwaukee and Ridgid – but each unit was not what he was looking for.

A young sales clerk came over and spoke to him uninvited. ‘The DeWalt there has the most power, if that’s what you’re looking for – 450 unit watts of power. But the Makita has the longest battery life.’

The Adder picked up each of the screw guns and hit the triggers on each, one at a time. He heard the loud, high-pitched whirr of the motors and shook his head. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for one that’s quiet.’

‘Quiet?’ the clerk asked.

‘Ear problems.’

‘Oh, we have hearing protection in Aisle—’

‘I’ll look through them myself, thanks.’

The clerk nodded, then walked down the aisle to assist another customer. With him gone, the Adder turned back to his task. He took his time, testing each one of the drills. It was the seventh one that made him smile. A simple Black & Decker. Less power than some of the others, but still plenty enough for the task that was required. But most important was the noise level. The Adder hit the trigger and listened to the soft whirr of the motor.

It was almost negligible.

He threw it into the buggy, walked to the checkout and rang his items through. Excluding the door, the cost came to one hundred and ninety-eight dollars and ninety-seven cents. The Adder smiled at that. Less than two hundred bucks.

Not bad for a murder kit.

Thirty-Two

Striker left the mental health office of Car 87 feeling angry and frustrated with the whole situation. Ever since he had joined the Vancouver Police Department, he had noticed that there had been a lack of communication between all of the health emergency services – the police, the paramedics, the fire fighters, the hospitals and psychiatric wards. Although a damned nuisance, it was understandable.

But how in the hell were they supposed to do their job when even their own department hid files from them?

It was maddening.

Felicia spoke out loud as she thought it through. ‘Larisa was hired by the Vancouver Police Department, not directly by the City. If they’ve privatized her file, then there’s something in it that’s obviously considered sensitive.’

Striker agreed with this. Making a file privatized was not out of the ordinary at the department, especially if it concerned a fellow employee. Most of the time it was done out of a matter of respect – the person in the file didn’t want co-workers knowing the innermost details of their private life. Making the file privatized locked everyone out from reading it.

At times it made sense.

But Larisa Logan’s file had been taken one step further. Not only had the file been privatized, but it been rendered invisible on the system, meaning that only the people with previously granted authorization could even see that the file existed. For all others, it just plain didn’t even show up.

This was a process rarely done, and it made Striker wonder: what exactly had happened to Larisa over the past year?

‘I’ve never dealt with one of these files before,’ Felicia said. ‘How do we even bring it up then?’

‘We don’t.’ Striker gave her a quick glance while driving. ‘Management really doesn’t like to do that – it brings up a whole lot of privacy issues with the Union and Human Resources. Labour law stuff.’

‘Well, someone must have access.’

‘They do.’

‘Inspector Laroche?’ she asked.

Striker laughed at that. ‘Are you kidding me? Laroche would do everything in his power not to let us see the file. He’d bury it the first chance he got. Last thing he’s gonna do is sign off on anything that might open a can of worms on him.’

‘Then how are we ever going to see it?’

‘We need a higher power than Laroche for this one. Superintendent Brian Stewart.’

Striker headed for 2120 Cambie Street to speak with the superintendent. Stewart was their only hope of gaining quick access to the file. Otherwise, they’d be forced to deal with one of the deputy chiefs.

And that always took time.

Superintendent Stewart’s office was on the seventh floor of the Cambie Street headquarters and faced out over the North Shore mountains. When Striker and Felicia knocked on the door, the sun was just cresting the far-away peaks and the entire skyline was awash in a wintertime blue.

It was eight o’clock.

When they entered his office, the superintendent was sitting behind his desk with a pile of ledgers on one side and a stack of handmade notes on the other. In front of him sat a cup of coffee and an empty plate with some leftover pastry on it. He pushed the plate away from his big belly and wiped his moustache for crumbs.

‘Morning, sir,’ they both said.

‘Shipwreck,’ he said. ‘Wow, it’s been a while.’

Felicia gave Striker a surprised look, one the superintendent caught. He explained: ‘Your partner and I worked together in our Patrol days. For what – two years?’

‘Seemed like two thousand.’

Stewart let loose a deep belly laugh. ‘Then Mr Hotshot here went to Homicide.’

Striker gestured to the man’s lapels. ‘I’m not the one wearing pips.’

Stewart raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah. Well, maybe you were the smart one. God, look at this mess.’ He gestured to the mass of paperwork on the desk. ‘It’s all CompStat. All of it! Goddam meeting after meeting. Stats for City Council.’

Striker could have cringed at the thought. He’d been to one CompStat meeting before when he was an acting sergeant for the day. It had been a morning of drudgery as much as trickery. And as Striker soon learned, statistics could be played one way or the other. Some of the inspectors were wizards at it.

Well, they can have it, he thought. As far as Striker was concerned, there were three rooms in hell – the room with lava, the room with knives, and the room where they held CompStat meetings.

Superintendent Stewart stood up from his desk and extended his hand to Felicia. As he did so, his full girth became more noticeable. His belly hung down over his belt, making his hundred pounds of excess body weight apparent and offering an explanation for the ruddiness of his cheeks.

Felicia shook his hand, then took a seat next to Striker.

‘So what brings you up to the seventh floor?’ Stewart finally said.

Striker explained the whole story, holding nothing back. With every detail, the superintendent’s expression hardened. When Striker was done, the jovial mood had completely left the superintendent and he looked every bit the man who suffered from high blood pressure and cholesterol issues.

‘Can you bring up the file?’ Striker asked.

Stewart rubbed his fingers down the sides of his greying moustache and nodded slowly. ‘I can,’ he said carefully, but made no move to do so. He looked at the computer screen for a long moment, thinking, then looked back up at Striker and Felicia. ‘This normally requires paperwork. How are you planning on using this information?’

‘You mean, are we seeking charges?’ Striker asked.

‘Exactly.’

‘No. We’re only trying to find Larisa. For her own welfare as much as anything else. So far we’re coming up blank. We’re hoping that her history will give us something to help track her down – or at least understand what’s going on in her head right now. Because otherwise, we’re pretty much at a standstill here. And to be honest, I’m worried she might be in danger – if not from something in our investigation, then from herself.’

Stewart nodded. He logged into the system and brought up the file. He then printed it out, slid it into a legal-sized envelope, and handed it to Striker. When Striker grabbed it, the superintendent did not let go.

‘I don’t have to remind you this is extremely sensitive.’

Striker nodded. ‘It’ll be shredded the moment we’re done.’

‘You shred it yourself, Shipwreck.’

‘Understood, sir.’

Stewart finally let go of the papers, but even as he did, his fingers seemed reluctant. Striker handed the envelope to Felicia, then stood up to leave the office. ‘We were never here,’ he said.

‘I heard nothing,’ Stewart replied.

Striker grinned and left the office with Felicia by his side.

Once back in the cruiser, Striker drove a few blocks away from the station and parked beside Jonathon Rogers Park on Manitoba Street. Felicia opened the envelope, removed the papers and read through them. She did so silently, and the waiting made Striker anxious. He got out of the car and used the moment to call home.

Courtney answered on the first ring.

‘Hey, Pumpkin.’

Her tone was stilted. ‘Were you going through my MyShrine profile?’

Striker frowned; he had expected as much. ‘Yes, well, no – it wasn’t me. Ich from work had to do it—’

‘Oh my GOD, Dad, a guy from your work! I’ve got my personal stuff on there! I can’t believe you did that. It’s, like, totally private.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but we didn’t have a choice.’ He explained to her how he had received the message, and it seemed to placate her a little. ‘Do you know this guy? This Adder?’

‘No. I’ve never heard of the guy before.’

‘Well, I don’t like it.’

‘It’s no big deal, Dad. You get tons of people sending you messages all the time and requesting to be your friend. I only add the people I know.’

Striker still wasn’t happy with the situation. ‘You had your security levels set to minimum, so anyone there could see your pictures.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m on there. And whoever looks at those photos can connect me to you – I don’t want you exposed like that.’

She let out a soft laugh. ‘After what happened last year, everyone knows you’re my dad.’

Striker nodded as he thought that over. In last year’s case, both of their pictures had been plastered all over the internet, on TV, and in the papers. It had been a full-blown media nightmare. Something few people in this city were likely to forget.

‘Maybe so,’ he finally said. ‘But there’s no point in making it any easier for them. When this is all done, I want you to remove my photos from your site and keep your privacy settings at maximum.’

‘Dad—’

‘I mean it.’

‘Oh my God, fine – but you’re being paranoid.’

‘You’re sixteen years old and I’m your father – it’s my job to be paranoid. Besides, you would be, too, if you knew how many creeps are out there.’

‘Like I said, paranoid.’

‘What time is it anyway – shouldn’t you be on your way to school right now?’

‘It’s a professional day.’

‘Like last week?’

When she didn’t answer, Striker forced a laugh, but the tension never left his chest. He reminded Courtney not to touch the computer, to get her ass to school, and to make sure she was on time for her occupational therapy appointment. Then he said goodbye. When he hung up and returned to the car, Felicia had already finished reading the report.

‘Well?’ he asked. The waiting was eating away at his patience.

She brushed her long dark hair out of her eyes and sighed. ‘It’s all here in black and white, Jacob. Larisa had a total breakdown.’

‘How? Why?’

‘There was a motor vehicle accident,’ Felicia said. ‘Both her parents and her sister were killed in the crash – their car skidded on the ice and went into the oncoming lane. Happened two days before Christmas.’

‘The poor girl,’ he said.

Felicia met his stare. ‘It gets worse. Her younger sister was burned badly as a result, and held on for nearly three weeks before succumbing to her injuries. Third-degree burns to eighty per cent of her body.’

Striker thought this over and felt so bad for Larisa. ‘No wonder she broke down. So much grief. All three of them.’

‘Not just grief. Guilt.’

‘Guilt?’

‘Larisa was the one driving the car. And she escaped without so much as a scratch. CIU said it was a miracle she lived, much less escaped unharmed.’

CIU. The Collision Investigation Unit.

Striker let this thought settle in, and he felt a tightness spread all through his core. Such a tragedy. He looked over at Felicia. ‘Please tell me she wasn’t drinking and driving.’

‘Not a drop. Stone-cold sober.’

‘Thank God.’

‘But the report does say that speed was a factor. Larisa was driving too fast for the road conditions. It was wintertime, after all. Icy out. And dark. Happened around eleven o’clock at night, after she’d already worked a long shift.’

‘She fall asleep?’

‘No one knows – not even Larisa. She couldn’t recall anything about the accident. Who knows, maybe that was the beginning of her breakdown.’

‘I’ll bet it was. Let me see that.’

Striker took the bundle of papers. The words were harsh and it felt like he was being sucked into a real-life nightmare. It was all there, police statement after police statement. Ambulance crew reports. Medical reports. The file was thick. And at the end was an addendum from the assistant to the police psychologist.

The name was Richter, and at the top of the page was a stylized MVC:

Mapleview Clinic.

‘There it is again,’ Striker said. ‘Dr Richter. That’s the same doctor that gave the prescription to Mandy Gill. That message Larisa left might not be entirely off the mark. She might actually have known Mandy then. The connection is there.’

Felicia shrugged. ‘That’s not too surprising. The police psychiatrists and psychologists deal with all sorts of mental health problems. And both Mandy Gill and Larisa Logan suffered from depression. They might have met through the counselling sessions at the clinic.’

Striker nodded. ‘It just seems awfully coincidental to me. I mean, what are the odds? Mandy Gill is our first file, and we know from her medication that she was given prescriptions by Dr Richter at Mapleview Clinic. Then this whole thing with Larisa goes down, and she was seeing Dr Richter, too.’

‘It’s not odd,’ Felicia said. ‘In fact, it’s quite the opposite – it makes perfect sense. It’s not that they both needed the police because they went to Mapleview; it’s that they had mental health problems that Mapleview was dealing with, and those same mental health problems were what brought them police attention.’

Striker said nothing back, he just thought things over.

‘The message from Larisa,’ he finally said. ‘She said she knew Mandy had been murdered.’

‘And once again, her message came after we’d been seen on TV; she probably saw us, right? Just like you said about the message from this Adder loon. He saw us on TV after the incident occurred, and then reacted. It’s standard.’

Striker thought over her logic; she was right about that. And for the first time, he wondered: was his connection to Larisa clouding his judgement?

‘Read through the police psychologist report,’ Felicia continued. ‘It also says that Larisa suffered from paranoia. Some of the medications she was on were to counter that.’ She reached out and touched his arm. ‘I know you don’t like to think this, Jacob, but Larisa isn’t the same person you remember. Seeing her family killed like that, it obviously put her over the edge. She had a breakdown. The woman is sick.’

Striker nodded. ‘I won’t deny that. But just because she’s sick doesn’t mean she doesn’t know something. She might have evidence on Mandy’s death – it is possible – and if that’s the case, then we need to know what. Keep reading through the files. Run every alias and associate the woman has. See if you can find a connection somewhere. Nothing is too small.’

Felicia let out a tired sound, as if she was sick of reviewing the same reports over and over again, but did as requested. Meanwhile, Striker got the phone number of Dr Richter from the details page and called it. The phone rang once then went straight to a standard pre-recorded computer greeting: The person you are trying to contact is not available . . .

Striker waited for the beep, then left a message, telling the doctor who he was and that he needed to speak to him about a particular patient. When he finally hung up, Felicia was also finishing reading the reports. She made a hmm sound.

Striker looked over. ‘What do you mean, hmm?’

‘There was an actual CAD call created for Larisa’s place, just this morning.’

‘This morning, or yesterday morning?’

Felicia looked up. ‘This morning.’ She read through the call. ‘It was made by Car 87. Bernard Hamilton. So not only did they run her but they went right out there to Larisa’s place.’

‘They actually attended the residence?’

‘Yeah, they’re listed as On Scene.’ Felicia scanned the call. ‘The narrative is basically a shell. There’s no information in it. Just a time arriving on scene and then clearing.’

‘What kind of call was it?’

‘A Check Well-Being.’

‘Does it actually show them arriving on scene? By GPS?’

‘Yeah, the time was logged.’

Striker frowned. That was the second CAD call created by the mental health car for Larisa Logan. And in just two days. It bothered him, mainly because Bernard Hamilton was not that dedicated a man. If he had attended Larisa’s place twice in two days – and at such an early time this morning – there was a good reason for it.

He considered just calling Bernard and asking him outright, but the man could be a snake. Striker wanted to do some of his own digging first, and he wanted to speak to the man in person, not over the phone. Face-to-face meetings always told cops more.

So much communication was non-verbal.

‘Where to?’ Felicia asked.

Striker cranked the wheel and hit the gas. ‘Burnaby,’ he said. ‘We’re going back to Larisa’s house. I have a feeling we’ve missed something.’