‘And then what?’

‘And then she left.’

‘You mean quit?’ Felicia asked.

‘Yeah, she quit. As in sayonara. End of April, I think. Maybe May. I’m not sure, exactly, but it was long after she’d fallen off the social ladder.’

Striker thought this over. ‘She give you a letter?’

‘Nope. Just sent an email, telling everyone how sorry she was, but that she could no longer do the job – and you know what? I don’t blame her for that, especially after what she’d been through. This place never gave those girls enough training and support for the job they did.’

‘What do you mean, training?’ Felicia asked.

‘On how to deal with all this stuff.’

‘But I thought they were all psychologists,’ she said.

The Sarj shook his head. ‘Psychologists? Fuck, no. That’s a common misconception around here. As of this last year, yeah, now they’re all psychologists – and that was done mainly for liability reasons to protect the department – but back then the counsellors were just a couple of young girls offering a shoulder to cry on. They got almost no training and even less support. Took the Union to get some changes on that.’

Felicia nodded as she thought this over. ‘The stress obviously took a toll on Larisa. And she broke down.’

The Sarj said nothing.

Striker agreed with Felicia’s analysis. He spoke with the Sarj some more and got all of Larisa’s last-known details – her address, phone numbers, email addresses, and contacts. But the information he received was no different from what he’d already found in the PRIME database.

In the end, it did nothing to help them.

‘I do have a photo of her on file,’ the Sarj offered. ‘Jpeg. Give me your cell and I’ll Bluetooth it to you.’

Striker handed him his iPhone and the Sarj sent him the photograph. ‘This is the latest picture we have.’

‘It’s appreciated,’ Striker said. Before leaving, he met the Sarj’s stare one more time. ‘This is a really delicate issue for us. You call me if you hear anything about her, okay, Sarj? And I mean anything.’

He nodded. ‘You and you alone.’

The Sarj stood up from the desk, rounded it in his socked feet, and started for the door to usher them out. At the wall, he stopped and stared at the photograph of Larisa Logan. ‘She was such a good person,’ he said. ‘And we all miss her. But over time, she just kind of . . . faded away. It’s not right.’

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.