A Lost Property file where Smallboy was listed as a complainant.

‘Bring up that one,’ he said.

Felicia exited the current report and brought up the Lost Property page. The synopsis was brief. Smallboy had lost several pieces of ID, namely his BC driver’s licence, his status card, and his birth certificate. He believed they had been stolen, but the author of the report hinted at paranoia.

‘Go back into Larisa’s main page again,’ Striker said.

When Felicia did, he pointed to one of the reports Larisa had made in August last year. It was listed as a Lost Property report, and when Felicia brought up the synopsis, he saw the same basic facts.

All of Larisa’s ID had been taken. Just like Smallboy’s. She also thought it had been stolen. But there was no proof of this. Not even a possible suspect. In the end, the report had been cleared as Unfounded.

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘You still have your contact at Equifax?’

‘You bet. TransUnion, too.’

‘Call them. Find out if there were any credit problems with Smallboy and Larisa.’

Felicia got on the phone and got hold of her contact at the credit bureau who could search both TransUnion and Equifax databases. The process was slow and cumbersome, but after almost twenty minutes, she hung up the phone with a curious look on her face.

‘Bad credit reports?’ Striker asked.

‘The worst. Non-payments. R3s. You name it. And it gets worse than that,’ she said. ‘Smallboy and Logan were both victims of identity theft. Full frauds. It’s all documented with the bureau. Someone damn well bankrupted them. Took out credit cards in their names, emptied their bank accounts – everything.’

Striker felt the energy of a new lead.

‘Awfully coincidental,’ he said.

‘That’s not the half of it,’ Felicia continued. ‘I also got him to check on Mandy Gill and Sarah Rose. Exact same thing. They all had their IDs stolen and they were all victims of identity theft.’

‘Did Larisa report the physical theft of the identification, or that someone was using her identity to obtain more credit?’ he clarified.

‘Both.’

Striker looked down at the date when Larisa Logan had reported the identity theft.

‘Larisa made a report of this on August third of last year,’ he noted.

Felicia nodded. ‘And three days later, she was committed.’

‘To where?’

‘Riverglen.’

‘By whose order?’ Striker asked.

‘Dr Riley M. Richter.’

Striker leaned back against the seat, his head swirling with information. Four victims of identity theft. All connected through the doctors of the EvenHealth programme. And now three of them were dead, one was missing.

The odds were astronomical.

‘It all comes back to the doctors,’ he said. ‘To Ostermann and Richter.’

He’d barely finished speaking the words when his cell phone rang. He picked it up, stuck it to his ear, and said, ‘Detective Striker, Homicide.’

The voice responding was smooth and soft. Feminine.

‘This is Dr Richter. Apparently you’ve been looking for me.’

Sixty-Eight

The address Dr Richter gave Striker was for a road named Stone Creek Slope in West Vancouver, Canada’s most expensive area of real estate. Within ten seconds of driving off the TransCanada Highway and entering the district, Striker could see why.

The lots became large and more secluded. Driveways were flanked by tall rows of old-growth cedars, and most of the mansions were barely visible behind the gated driveways and high stone walls. Every house had a veranda that stared out over the cold deep waters of the strait below.

Striker looked out over those waterways. They appeared like polished black stone, matching the cloudless night sky. Beyond them was the city of Vancouver, all lit up and busy. Just another weekday night in a city buzzing with night life.

He drove slowly down the long swerving slope of hill, until he spotted the address they were looking for on the left. A small driveway compared to the others, almost hidden by the trees.

‘It feels so secluded out here,’ Felicia said. ‘Like we’re out in the middle of nowhere – yet the city’s just a ten-minute drive away. It’s beautiful.’

‘And costs a fortune. That’s why only doctors and lawyers and celebrities live here.’

He turned the car up the driveway and stopped on a small, round parking area. They got out. The house before them was not as plush as the others but, in this neighbourhood, ‘not plush’ still meant worth millions.

Out front, the alcove lights suddenly turned on and the front door opened. Standing in the doorway was a woman of maybe thirty years, dressed in a sombre black dress jacket and matching skirt. She had soft brown hair that was long, but tied up in a bun. A strong but pretty face. And confident eyes that held Striker’s gaze without a moment’s nervousness.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I’m Dr Richter. I’ve been expecting you.’

Moments later, after they were all inside and introductions had been made, they moved into a small sunken den that overlooked the pool area outside and, beyond that, the cliffs over the strait. On the coffee table was a bowl of ripe mandarin oranges. The smell of them filled the room.

Striker sat down in a leather EZ Boy recliner, directly across from Dr Richter, who took the loveseat. In between them, on a matching sofa, sat Felicia.

‘Nice place,’ Striker offered.

Dr Richter tucked one leg under the other and smoothed out her skirt. ‘It’s my uncle’s,’ she replied. ‘The rent is good and he lives just across the street, which is perfect for me since I’m away much of the time. He keeps an eye on things for me.’

‘Were you away yesterday?’ Striker asked. ‘I left you several messages.’

‘Yes, and I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. I hadn’t bothered to check my messages since the day before. And then, all day long, I was flying back from New York.’

‘Conference?’ Felicia asked.

Dr Richter shook her head. ‘I have family out there. I visited a little bit, did the mandatory social thing. But I was really there to assess the area. I’m considering opening a private practice there. The money is triple what I can make here, and the taxes less than half.’

‘That’s quite a difference,’ Felicia remarked.

‘It’s a difference of fifteen years – retiring at fifty versus sixtyfive.’ Dr Richter gave them both a quick look, then spoke again. ‘I didn’t get into this profession for the love of psychiatry,’ she said bluntly. ‘I entered this field to make a lot of money, to retire young and still enjoy life.’

‘And yet you choose to work for EvenHealth,’ Striker pointed out.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, as if not making the connection.

He explained. ‘They’re government subsidized, and Dr Ostermann has built his reputation on helping out the poorest of patients. I’m sure the government don’t pay anywhere near what the private practices pay – especially in this area.’

‘They don’t,’ Dr Richter replied. ‘I’m not working at EvenHealth for the money, I’m there for the experience. Dr Ostermann’s name reaches to far places. Plus, I wanted to see how he had put together the programme. My goal in New York is to start my own private programme with doctors working for me. That’s where the money is.’

Striker found the woman interesting. Blunt and brutally honest, but interesting. Charming, even. He pulled out his notebook and leafed back through the pages until he came to what he was looking for.

‘You prescribed medications to some patients,’ he began. ‘Exact same kind and dosage.’ He reached out to show her what he had written in his notebook; she read the names and medications listed on the page.