Striker had always hated it.

He reached the third floor. This was the primary information area. Records. Crown Liaison. CPIC – the Canadian Police Information Center. Transcription. And of course, Warrants.

Striker fished the key from his pocket. All the other doors in the building had been upgraded with the swipe-card system, but not here. This door still used the old-fashioned lock and key, and half the time, the lock was buggered. Striker slid the key in, fiddled with the lock, then yanked the heavy door open.

Inside, the floor was covered with brown threadbare carpet. Matching this were tinted brown windows on every wall. Above their heads, bare fluorescent tubes hummed in the cold winter air. Felicia squinted against the glare of one of them and cursed. ‘The quicker they demolish the building, the better,’ she said. ‘Why the hell are we here anyway?’

‘To see Lilly.’

‘Lilly? That old battleaxe? God, why?’

‘Confirmation.’

Before she could ask more, Striker walked ahead, circling Records and bypassing the other units, most of which were nothing more than ramshackle cubicles with inkjet-printed signs: TRANSCRIPTION. CPIC. CROWN.

As always, the entire floor was busy with people running this way and that, and the never-ending sound of keyboard clicks and phone trills filled the air. The floor was run entirely by women, and the high-pitched chatter of female voices was like backdrop music.

When they reached Warrants, Striker spotted Lilly. As always, her hair was brushed too high and she had plastered on too much make-up – a common occurrence that seemed to be worsening with every new-found wrinkle on her face.

They reached her cubicle, but Lilly ignored them and kept typing. When Striker cleared his throat and asked, ‘Still happy as always, Sunshine?’ she looked up with a pissed-off expression covering her face. Then, as recognition filled her eyes, she stopped typing and smiled.

‘Well, I shoulda known trouble was coming. Got my period first thing this morning.’

‘So I’m off the hook then?’

Lilly snorted more than laughed, and Striker moved up to the cubicle. He pushed the drop-off bins out of the way and leaned his arm on the top of the counter. Lilly glanced at the drop-off bins and scowled.

‘Knock those off and I’ll knock you off,’ she said.

Felicia crossed her arms in irritation, but Striker just smiled, amused.

Lilly was an old-timer up here. Pushing sixty-five, she had long since passed the eighty-factor quota required in order for her to retire with a full pension. Still, she hung around in this dingy office, chugging away like an old diesel engine that refused to break down.

In the harsh, artificial light of the office, her face looked tired. Her eyelids drooped down over her cold blue eyes and her hair, which was sometimes dyed brown or even red, had grown long enough to show grey roots.

‘What do ya want, Shipwreck?’ she asked.

‘Warrants. The freshest you got.’

When Lilly gestured to the bin, Striker made an uh-uh sound. ‘The freshest, Lilly. And not just the criminal ones – I want them all.’

She made a weary sound, then struggled to her feet. ‘You’re always work,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’ She grabbed her cane – required ever since her hip surgery – and wandered off down the hall.

Striker watched her go and smiled; Lilly never changed.

‘God, she’s a miserable old witch,’ Felicia said.

‘Hey, be nice. That’s just Lilly.’

‘No, that’s just you – making excuses for everyone. Like you always do. She’s a hag, half the time. And she’s well past her retirement factor. Why doesn’t she just quit, for God’s sake?’

Striker turned to face Felicia. ‘Because she has nowhere else to go in her life. No kids. No family. And her husband died six years ago. Lilly doesn’t even have a dog. This is it for her. If she ever left here, what would she do?’

‘Get a life maybe. Take some personality classes.’

Striker said nothing back. Felicia was right, in part; Lilly could be grumpy and annoying and even overbearing at times. But the woman had a good heart. You just needed to know how to melt the layers of ice around it.

He was about to say more when Lilly came hobbling back. Her face was tight and her hip looked to be paining her. When she reached the cubicle she muttered, ‘Here,’ and slammed the pile of papers down on the counter. ‘Any fresher and I’d have to slap it.’

Striker picked up the pile and started paging through it.

‘What are you looking for?’ Felicia asked.

‘Larisa Logan.’ He handed her half the stack. ‘Get looking.’

‘In warrants? She may have issues, but she’s no crook, Jacob.’

‘I know that, Feleesh. Just look.’

Felicia said nothing more. She licked her thumb, then started paging through the different warrants. They were both halfway done when she made a surprised sound and held up one of the papers.

‘I got it. She’s right here.’

Striker put down the stack of papers he was sifting through and moved closer to Felicia. He scanned the top of the warrant and found the words he was looking for: Form 21.

He pointed this out to Felicia.

‘A Director’s Warrant?’ she said.

He nodded. Now it all made sense.

A Director’s Warrant was the medical equivalent of an arrest warrant. Essentially, it gave police the legal right – and the duty – to apprehend someone under the Mental Health Act. A Form 21 meant that a psychiatrist had ordered one of their patients to be returned to their care for further mental health assessment. Which, half the time, was politically correct jargon for imprisoning and medicating the hell out of them.

To Striker, the Form 21 signified one thing. It was proof that Larisa had gone over the edge – so far, that her own doctor believed she was now possibly a threat to herself or to others.

It made him deflate a little.

‘This is why she’s run away from us,’ he said. ‘She knows about the medical warrant. It’s why she wants our help but won’t come forward.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Because the second we see her, we have to apprehend her and take her back to the hospital.’

‘Not just any hospital,’ Striker corrected. ‘Riverglen.’

‘The insane asylum.’

‘Mental Health Facility,’ Striker corrected. ‘Gotta be PC nowadays.’

Felicia raised an eyebrow. ‘New term, same old shit.’

Striker agreed, even if he didn’t say it. ‘No matter what route Larisa takes, she loses. And she obviously realizes this, otherwise she’d come in to see us.’

‘It also means she’s unstable, Jacob.’

Striker took the warrant, photocopied it, and returned it to the fresh warrants bin. When he turned around, Felicia had a lost look on her face.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘I ran her in the car,’ she said. ‘None of this came up.’

Striker nodded. ‘Because it hasn’t been entered in the system yet. CPIC can be up to six weeks behind at times.’

‘Six weeks?’

Striker gave her an irritated glance. ‘Yes, six weeks. Sometimes more. Jesus Christ, Felicia, get your head in the game. You should already know this. What are you, a homicide detective or some piss-kid rookie?’

Felicia said nothing back, but her cheeks flushed red. ‘You need to seriously chill out, Jacob,’ she finally said. ‘Take a pill.’

Striker barely heard her. ‘Most warrants aren’t walked through the courts,’ he continued. ‘Only when there’s been a history of violence. And Larisa hasn’t tried to hurt herself or anyone else, so it won’t be expedited.’

‘She hasn’t tried to hurt anybody yet.’

Striker turned and said goodbye to Lilly, then gave Felicia a curt nod and headed back down the narrow corridor of brown threadbare carpet. Before heading out through the exit, he ran right into Bernard Hamilton. The man stopped hard, looked surprised to see him, then put on his usual waxy smile.