‘I can’t believe we’re here again,’ she said.

Striker smiled. ‘You mean in the den?’

‘Stop it, Jacob. You know what I mean.’ She gestured towards herself and then him. ‘This. Us. I didn’t want it to happen again.’ She reached up to adjust her earring and closed her eyes. ‘Oh God, how did this happen again?’

Striker sat up. ‘Well, first you touched my shoulder, then you looked into my eyes—’

‘Stop.’ She gave him a hard look, cutting him off. ‘Just knock it off, Casanova.’

He laughed, then stood up. He stepped forward, into her personal space. When he went to put his arms around her, she stiffened a little, so he let go. She looked up at him, and there was conflict in her eyes. Tenderness, yet stubbornness. Nothing changed.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘We’re back to square one. All over again.’

‘Is that really so bad?’

‘Well, no. Yes. Shit.’

Striker just looked at her and didn’t know what to say. Their relationship had been complicated from day one. Had it just been them, everything would have been fine. But it wasn’t just them. There was work. And Courtney. And everything in between.

And they both knew that would never change.

He wanted to say something. Felt he had to say something. But, like always, he couldn’t find the words.

‘So what now?’ she said softly. ‘Where do we go from here, Jacob?’

He met her eyes, felt the heaviness of her stare, and gave her the only honest answer he could think of:

‘Back to the case.’

Fifteen minutes later – after another failed attempt at reaching Dr Richter and getting only voicemail – Striker drove them out east. More than anything he wanted to interview Billy Mercury, but in order to do that, he had to do one of two things first – either arrest the man on charges of arson and attempted murder, or gain permission from the man’s psychiatrist.

Who was none other than Dr Erich Ostermann.

They had come full circle.

He drove towards Riverglen Mental Health Facility, where Billy Mercury had been sectioned to. When they were nearing the east end of Vancouver, Felicia let out a long hard breath.

‘Inspector Laroche is gonna freak when he sees you’re not on medical leave.’

Striker scowled. ‘Laroche . . . who the hell cares what he thinks?’

‘I will when he suspends us.’

Striker gave her a hot look. ‘Okay, first off, Laroche never put me on leave. I took myself off the road in order to deal with the injury to my hand – and I never filled out the Workers’ Compensation Board papers yet.’

‘Semantics. You can’t be back on the road again until you’re cleared by one of the doctors at Medicore.’

Striker said nothing back. Felicia was right about that one – she was always right about stuff like that. She knew the Rules and Procedures manual better than anyone, and she was the only cop he knew who had actually read the damn thing from beginning to end.

The Medicore Health Center was the primary health insurer the Vancouver Police Department contracted. Once an officer was off duty from an injury, they could not return until cleared by Medicore – not even if another specialist had already been consulted.

It was all to do with insurance claims, and, therefore, money. So nothing about the system was overly surprising.

Striker gave Felicia a quick glance. ‘I won’t argue that point, but don’t forget, the whole Medicore thing is just policy, not the law. And it’s not even our policy, it’s a Workers’ Compensation Board thing. If I make the injury worse, they’ll just fight me on it in court. Well, no big deal. I’m fine with that.’

‘You oversimplify everything.’

‘I wish I could do that with you.’

She gave him a hard look, then let it go. Striker was happy with that. There were other larger issues to deal with here than injury compensation.

When they reached the corner of Broadway and Nanaimo Street, Striker pulled over to the kerb.

‘What?’ Felicia asked.

He looked at her. ‘What time did Ostermann say he worked at Riverglen until?’

Felicia looked at the clock, and was surprised to see it was already going on three o’clock. ‘Shit, you’re right. He’ll be gone by now. Maybe we can intercept him somewhere on the way back into town.’

‘Or maybe he’ll be staying longer today because of Mercury.’

Striker took out his cell and called Riverglen. The call was answered by the main switchboard who then transferred him to the receptionist they had dealt with earlier in the day. She was less than friendly.

‘Dr Ostermann only works here in the mornings,’ she said, offering nothing further.

‘I understand that,’ Striker said. ‘But I thought he might be putting in some extra time this afternoon because of what happened today with Billy Mercury.’

The woman made a weary sound. ‘Mr Mercury is not Dr Ostermann’s only patient, I’m afraid, though he does seem to take up the bulk of his time. Dr Ostermann will be seeing him at the clinic.’

Striker cast Felicia a disbelieving glance. When he spoke again, it was difficult to keep the agitation out of his voice. ‘Hold on a second, are you telling me that Billy Mercury is not already at Riverglen? I thought he’d been institutionalized.’

‘He has been, and he will be here – after Dr Ostermann is finished seeing him.’

‘In a private clinic? I’m not comfortable with that.’

The woman let out a long breath, as if to express how tired she was of the conversation. ‘We have armed guards, Detective. We deal with a lot of violent patients. We do it all the time. And we do it quite well. There is nothing for you – or anyone else, for that matter – to be concerned about.’

Striker felt his fingers tighten on the cell. ‘You might think differently if it was your house he just burned down. Now which clinic is Dr Ostermann seeing Billy at?’

‘That’s confidential information.’

Striker had had enough. ‘I’ll put it to you this way: right now I’m dealing with an important investigation and I need to speak to Dr Ostermann as quickly as possible. If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll charge you with Obstruction. And I’ll take the time to drive out there right now and arrest you myself. You got that? Now where the hell is he?’

The receptionist’s tone didn’t change, but she coughed up the information. ‘Dr Ostermann is where he always is on Thursday afternoons. He’s working with the EvenHealth programme.’

‘Which branch?’

‘It’s at Boundary and Adanac.’

Striker hung up the phone. When he turned to face Felicia, he saw a dark curiosity in her expression.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Where the hell is he?’

‘Mapleview,’ Striker said. He put the car into Drive, hit the gas and drove down Broadway.

The clinic was only twenty minutes away.

Fifty-Two

Striker and Felicia drove down Broadway. East Pender Street was less than five miles away, so Striker expected to be on scene in minutes. But he had barely gone five blocks when the emergency tone went off on the radio. The dispatcher, Sue Rhaemer, came across the air, and it was the first time in Striker’s memory that he had ever heard the woman rattled:

‘All units, all units, we have an officer down. Repeat: an officer down. Thirty-six hundred block of East Hastings Street.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said.

Striker said nothing; he just hit the gas. Before he could respond verbally, the road sergeant, Mike Rothschild, came across the air.

‘Who’s calling this in?’ Rothschild demanded.

‘We’re getting it second-hand from Ambulance,’ the dispatcher replied.

‘Where is the nearest unit?’

Striker grabbed the radio and gave their location. ‘Detective Striker, Broadway and Nanaimo.’