She was already on the line.

That usually meant at least a half-hour wait, so he left her a brief message, then hung up the phone. Felicia hung up her own phone as well. When she let out a long sigh, Striker didn’t like the sound of it. ‘What now?’ he asked.

‘I just tried their office. A few of the nurses are there, but Car 87’s gone home for the night. We can’t get to any of their files till morning.’

Striker cursed and thought this over.

‘Screw it. We’ll drop by the office anyway. See if anyone else there can help us. Maybe one of the nurses has access to the files.’

The light changed from red to green and Striker hit the gas. Not ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of the building, just in time to see a familiar figure emerging.

Constable Bernard Hamilton was sneaking out of the front door.

Striker knew it was Bernard. He was the only cop around that owned an entire wardrobe of pastel-coloured dress shirts, complete with matching ties. He was a strange-looking man. He was thinning badly on top, and in an effort to divert attention away from his baldness, had grown the rest of his hair into a long ponytail, which he then braided down his back.

Striker didn’t like the man. Never had. As far as he was concerned, Bernard Hamilton was a lot like Inspector Laroche – a by-the-book guy, but only when it served his purpose. Bernard Hamilton cared more about stats and commendations than honest-to-God police work, and his only goal in life was to see his face on the Officer of the Year plaque.

Whether he deserved it or not.

Striker had done the man some favours in the past, covering him when he needed a day off for personal reasons – which was, of course, not by the book. Bernard Hamilton owed him one for that, and for many other things over the years. It was time to collect.

Striker rolled down the window. Cold air blustered inside the car. Striker ignored the chill and waved the man down. ‘Bernard! Hey, Bernard!’

Hamilton looked up, unwelcome recognition filling his face. ‘Striker,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Planning my retirement. You got any room in there?’ When Hamilton didn’t so much as break a grin, Striker got right down to business. ‘We’re here about the Mandy Gill suicide down on Union Street.’

Bernard shuffled his feet and blew into his hands. ‘Yeah, I figured as much. I heard the call.’

‘What do you know of her?’

Bernard Hamilton shrugged as he came closer. ‘Not much more than’s already in her file. No family or friends. On social assistance. Suffered from depression. And she self-medicated, like everyone else down there. You know how it is.’ He pulled out a pack of smokes and lit one up.

‘What kind of self-medication?’

‘What kind ya think? Crack, mostly. Some heroin too, though. She could be a little speedball queen.’

Striker made a note of this for the toxicology tests, then texted the information to Kirstin Dunsmuir. While he made the text, Felicia interjected.

‘What about this doctor Mandy was seeing – Dr Erich Ostermann?’

Bernard blew out a trail of smoke. ‘Ostermann? Don’t know him personally. But he’s a good man, from what I hear. Created EvenHealth, you know – he’s won awards for that. Got some publicity from it. Good stuff. Front page stuff. TV, too. BCTV news, I think.’

Striker didn’t much care about the accolades. He put his phone away and asked, ‘What do you know of the man’s work?’

Bernard bundled up the top of his coat, hiding a pastel blue shirt and matching tie, and turned away from the wind. ‘Fuck, it’s cold out here. Can we do this later?’

‘Just answer the questions,’ Striker said.

Bernard took another quick puff and cursed. ‘Ostermann does a lot of work with high-risk offenders. The criminally insane. The mentally ill. Stuff like that. Works mainly out at Riverglen.’

‘Can I see his file?’

Bernard said nothing for a moment, he just stared back blankly.

‘You mean his personnel file?’

‘What other one is there?’

Bernard shook his head. ‘Sorry, man, they did away with all that after one of the patients stole a folder. One of the docs complained about it and the board ruled it a breach of privacy. The office got rid of all the staff’s private data six or seven months ago. Shredded everything.’

Striker gave Bernard a queer look. ‘All of it?’

Bernard asked, ‘Why are you so interested in Dr Ostermann anyway?’

‘Because he’s not being entirely forthcoming with us. I think he’s protecting one of his patients. Billy something. I need you to look into it. And while you’re at it, keep an eye open for a Dr Richter. His name was seen on Mandy Gill’s referral pad.’

Bernard bit his lip. ‘I dunno. We’re pretty busy right now.’

‘I’m not asking.’

Bernard let out a heavy breath. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘You owe me one,’ Striker reminded him.

Bernard threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. ‘Fine, then, fine. Tomorrow, maybe.’

Striker nodded his understanding. This was Bernard Hamilton’s passive-aggressive way of trying to get out of doing the job. Striker pretended not to notice.

‘No maybe,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Uh sure.’

‘Track you down if I have to.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ Hamilton said, the irritation in his voice now audible.

Striker smiled. ‘You’re a saint, Bernard.’

Felicia always giggled at that joke, and Bernard just scowled.

‘Whatever, Striker. I’m freezing my balls off here, and I’m not getting paid for it.’ Bernard Hamilton turned about, his ponytail snapping across his upper shoulders, and stormed down the road towards his car.

Striker watched the man climb into a new-model Audi located on the east side of the road. The lights turned on, the motor revved, and Bernard Hamilton took off down the road. He was just barely out of sight when Striker’s cell vibrated against his side. He plucked it up and saw that he had voicemail. He scrolled back through the received calls and frowned when he saw the name:

Larisa Logan.

The counsellor from Victim Services.

He let out a groan.

Felicia looked over and smiled. ‘Just call her back and tell her you don’t want to talk about Amanda right now.’

Striker met her stare. ‘You don’t know Larisa – she’s a pit bull. The woman’s jaw locks and she never lets go.’

‘Then tell her now is not a good time.’

‘She’ll say that means it’s exactly the right time.’

Felicia grinned. ‘She’s persistent, I’ll give her that.’

‘Stubborn as hell is more like it – similar to others I know.’ Before Felicia could respond, Striker hit the Voicemail button and then punched in his password. There was only one message waiting, and when he hit Play the sound of Larisa’s voice was completely unlike anything he remembered of her from the past – high in pitch, unsteady, and speaking too fast:

‘Jacob, it’s me, it’s Larisa . . . Look, I just saw you on the news and . . . . I need to speak to you. About what happened. About Mandy Gill. She didn’t kill herself, Jacob. She was murdered. And I can prove it.’

Twenty-Five

The phone message shocked Striker and he called Larisa’s cell number. It went unanswered. He dialled and waited for her to pick up three more times but to no avail. Finally, he got hold of the police department’s Info Channel and asked them to look up Larisa Logan’s home number. He called that, too. Again, there was no response.

‘This is bullshit,’ he said.

Felicia agreed. ‘Let’s just go there already.’

‘Already one step ahead of you,’ he replied and hit the gas.

Larisa Logan lived in Burnaby, just a few blocks outside the boundary of the City of Vancouver. From Striker and Felicia’s location – the twenty-seven hundred block of Granville Street – the drive normally took twenty minutes.