Striker didn’t like it.

When they reached the only other bedroom on this floor, Striker paused. It was the master bedroom. He knew this from the way Lexa had gestured to it during their earlier conversation in the foyer.

Through the door he could smell that strong, earthy scent.

He gave Felicia the nod to make sure she was ready, then pushed open the door. Inside, a king-sized bed owned the middle of the room, unmade. Next to it, the drawers of the credenza had been opened and dumped.

‘It looks like the place has been ransacked,’ Felicia said.

‘Or like someone was getting ready to run away in the middle of the night.’

Striker stepped into the room. He cleared the walk-in closet to his left, then made his way towards the last door, which led to an ensuite. When he reached it, Striker readied his pistol and slowly pushed the door all the way open with his foot.

What he saw inside the bathroom shocked him.

The windows were fogged, and the air was hot and humid. Along the far wall sat a Jacuzzi tub, filled to the rim with hot foamy water. The foam was not white, however, it was a deep brownish-red colour – because in the centre of the tub lay Dr Erich Ostermann.

His eyes were like a doll’s eyes, wide open and unfocused, and his skin was ghostly white. One of his arms lay beneath the discoloured water of the tub; the other draped over the side. One look at it and Striker saw the meaty razor gash running down the length of the forearm, on into the wrist and palm. There were several, in fact.

Deep, grooved lines that no longer bled.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said. ‘He killed himself

‘Just watch our backs,’ Striker said.

He stepped carefully into the room and looked around the area. On the floor, by the foot of the tub, lay an old razor knife. The blade was brownish-red.

On top of the toilet-seat lid was a note and a key.

Striker moved over to it. The paper was folded, and on the face were the two handwritten words:

Detective Striker

He gloved up and picked up the note. Opened it and read. The message was brief and direct:

Dear Detective Striker

I have spent over fifteen years perfecting the EvenHealth programme, dedicating countless hours of my time in the selfless service of others. I have sacrificed all for the lost and the ill, and would ask you only to consider this before destroying my legacy.

Before you act too rashly – before you tell the world what I have done – please consider this . . . intimately. The videos. They are not proud of them. Or of my weaknesses. To be blunt, I simply couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried, or how bad I felt afterwards.

Please, do not show this letter to anyone. Please do not tell the world what I have done. Especially not the other members of my profession. This is my final request.

With this letter is the key to my study.

Sincerely yours,

Doctor Erich Reinhold Ostermann

Seventy-Five

A friggin’ suicide, Striker thought. He couldn’t believe it was ending this way.

He read the note three more times and felt a sense of frustration wash over him. This was the coward’s way out, and it left him feeling empty. Like something had been stolen from him.

It also never told him where Larisa was located.

He gently folded the paper and placed it back exactly as he had found it. Sitting beside the letter was a key to the study. Striker picked it up, then returned to the master bedroom to join Felicia.

‘Suicide note?’ she said.

He just nodded.

‘Let’s clear the rest of this damn place,’ he said. ‘We still need to find the rest of the family.’ There was a sense of worry in his words; he could not hide it.

The quicker they got moving, the better.

They left the bedroom, then made their way down the hall to the stairway and continued up to the final floor. At the top of the stairs, the landing went three ways: east, west and one short add-on to the north.

They headed east. Down at the end was another bedroom with the door wide open. Striker and Felicia went down there. The room was very clean and orderly, with all types of clothes hanging in the closet, and a standard-sized bed. Striker guessed the room belonged to Dr Ostermann’s son, Gabriel.

From the bedroom they went back to the west side of the house. It turned into one giant loft. The room had been renovated into a movie room, complete with an overhead projector, movie-style seats with drink holders, and a surround-sound system built right into the walls. The room was impressive, and it made Striker wonder if Ostermann had watched his videos up here.

‘Clear,’ Felicia said.

‘Clear,’ Striker agreed.

He turned around and looked back into the hall. Every room had been cleared now. Every room except for one down the north hallway.

The doctor’s private study.

They made their way back down the hall, then turned north along what appeared to be an add-on to the house. The hallway went on for about fifteen feet before stopping at a plain door. Striker touched the wood. It was solid oak. Strong.

Before opening it, Striker paused. He looked all around the area for wires or hidden switches. Dr Ostermann had been bat-shit crazy. No matter what he said in his letter, no matter how much he prattled on about his legacy and the welfare of his patients, Striker would never trust the man. There was nothing a madman loved more than taking a couple of cops with him.

Seeing no imminent danger, Striker turned to Felicia.

‘Watch for traps.’

He reached out and grasped the doorknob. It refused to turn, so he stuck the key into the lock and gave it a twist. The lock clicked and the knob turned, and the door opened.

As it did, Striker scanned the room. What he saw surprised him. He had expected to see another office, similar to the one downstairs. A large desk. Some reading chairs. Maybe even a file folder or two. A credenza.

He saw none of that. Instead, he saw a cabinet in the far corner of the room, composed of polished redwood and shiny brass locks. The doors to it were closed.

In the centre of the room, he saw what appeared to be a large wooden table, also made from polished redwood. It was covered with scuff marks and scratches. Opposite the table, on the wall, hung a brand-new LED widescreen with a built-in Blu-ray player.

Striker made his way into the room. When he closed in on the table, he noticed that there were heavy iron pins and handcuffs attached to each side. And chains. On the top right handcuff, brownish-red liquid coloured the steel. The floor below it was also stained.

‘We got blood all over here,’ Striker said.

Felicia looked under the table and her face tightened. ‘We got torture stuff under here, too. Rods. Knives. Holy shit, a pair of pliers. Man, this guy was one sick puppy.’

Striker said nothing. He looked at the table with the bindings, then at the torture tools underneath it. A thought crossed his mind, and he made his way over to the redwood cabinet. Once there, he slowly opened the doors and looked inside.

Staring back at him was a black leather mask – the exact same type as the one he had seen on the suspect, back at the Mandy Gill crime scene. There were also two rows of DVDs. An external hard drive. And cameras – high-def tape, mini-disc and digital. The sight of it made his stomach tighten.

Felicia saw all this, too. ‘The mother lode.’

Striker didn’t reply. He was too busy taking it all in. He reached up to the top shelf and plucked up one of the Blu-ray discs. He took it over to the wall-mounted TV, turned on the Blu-ray player, stuck in the disc and hit Play.