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.’