One that twisted up his insides.
The folder he was reading was labelled: Jeremy Heath. It was divided into sections. The first section held pages upon pages of basic information. Everything from his date of birth and mother’s maiden name to computer passwords and banking information. There were also forms from the Post Office for a change of address.
The next section of the folder had every type of insurance Jeremy Heath had ever taken out, ranging from medical insurance to life insurance to disability insurance. Jeremy Heath’s file even had a soldier’s recompense page from Veterans’ Affairs.
The third section of the folder was all the avenues of income. Visa. MasterCard. American Express. Bank names and their associated account numbers. Even pages of stocks and bonds.
The fourth and final section was composed of spreadsheets, showing lists of income from each of these cards. There was also a column for how many times each credit card limit had been upped, and if and when that request had been declined.
Everything was precise, systematic, planned.
Last of all was the envelope attached to the back of the folder that housed all the various pieces of ID. As Striker looked them over, he realized why the ID looked so real. The answer was simple.
The ID was all legitimate.
The Ostermanns hadn’t been creating fake IDs, they had been obtaining real identification from the original source. All the driver licences, social insurance number cards and birth certificates were legitimate issue. He had never seen anything like it, not on this scale.
He showed all this to Felicia. ‘They’ve actually attended the motor vehicle branch and have had their own pictures implemented.’
‘They’re friggin’ experts,’ she said.
He nodded solemnly. ‘And they’re systematically destroying people’s lives. Even worse, they’re going after all the marginalized victims.’ His own words triggered some darker thoughts, and he got on the phone with the Collins Group.
The Collins Group was a private company, run by ex-cop Tom Collins – a friend of Striker’s from years past. Collins had worked primarily in Financial Crime during his twenty-year stint with the VPD, and he had carried that expertise with him into his new endeavours of investigating corporate insurance fraud. When Striker told the receptionist who he was, she transferred him without question.
‘Tom Collins,’ Striker said. ‘How’s my favourite highball?’
The man on the other end of the phone let out a gruff laugh. ‘Shipwreck. Good to hear from you, man. I hear you had some problems last year over at St Patrick’s.’
That made Striker pause. ‘Yeah, memories better left forgotten,’ he finally said. ‘Look, I got some victims of identity theft here, and I was wondering if you could research them a bit for me.’
‘How fast you need it?’
‘Like yesterday.’
‘I should have let it ring to voicemail.’
Striker just laughed and gave the man a list of the names he had accumulated from the boxes.
‘And what exactly are we looking for?’ Collins asked.
‘You’ll know it when you find it,’ Striker said. ‘I need this done fast. Today sometime.’
Collins let out a sour laugh. ‘Your way or the highway, like always, huh?’
‘What can I say? I’m particular.’
He hung up the phone, feeling better. He liked Tom. The man had been a good cop and a better friend. It had been too long since they’d seen one another.
Typical in the world of policing.
He looked back at Felicia, who had her head buried in the computer. ‘What are you finding on Gabriel in PRIME?’
She looked up as if she was only now aware that his conversation with Collins had ended, and turned the screen to face him. ‘With the exception of Dr Ostermann, there’s not a whole lot on any of them,’ she said. ‘Gabriel is carded in a few of the police reports as a witness, but that was only due to car accidents. There’s also a report here from almost twelve years ago. He must’ve been, what, eight at the time.’
‘What does it say?’
‘I can’t bring it up, it’s privatized, and it’s a Burnaby file.’
‘We still need it,’ he said.
‘Well, duh!’ She laughed at the surprised look on his face. ‘I’ve already left a message for the detective in charge. Get this: her last name is Constable. Can you believe that? Detective Constable.’
Striker grinned. ‘Well, if she ever makes Chief Constable, the papers will have a field day with it.’
‘Yeah, no kidding. I’m just waiting for her to get back to me.’
‘What about Lexa?’ he asked.
‘In PRIME? Lexa is listed only once. Under a fingerprint file.’
‘Probably for when she got her criminal record check done for nursing.’
‘Bang on,’ Felicia said. ‘As for Dalia, she is a complete nonentity. Not in any of the systems. She doesn’t exist.’
Striker thought this over.
‘Run both their vehicles for tickets. Any infraction. Speeding. Red light. Parking. I don’t care. Just run it all.’
Felicia didn’t move. ‘We already know Ostermann drove like a maniac.’
‘I’m not interested in the offence, I’m interested in the locations.’
Felicia said nothing and turned back to the computer. After a few clicks, she made an interested sound. ‘Hey, look at this. We know the X5 has streams of tickets, but the Land Rover, which is registered to Lexa, has only three tickets – all of them on the Trans-Canada Highway.’
This piqued Striker’s interest. ‘Where exactly?’
‘One out near Furry Creek, and the other two just outside of Whistler Village.’ She looked up. ‘Maybe they have a cabin there, or something. I’ll check it out.’ She turned around and got on the phone to Whistler’s registrar office; while she talked, Striker continued going through the boxes of files. When he finished the Ks and started the Ls, he found one file that made him pause.
Logan, Larisa.
‘Holy shit,’ he said.
He opened up the file, but it was empty.
Confused, he looked back in the box for any loose papers, but found none. The words on the tab stared back at him. Made him angry. He searched the next three files to see if Larisa’s paperwork had accidentally slipped into the wrong folder.
None had.
He sat there, letting everything sink in and feeling sick about it. He picked up his desk phone and checked his voice messages. There were seven, but none from Larisa, and none relevant to the file.
No time for them now.
He archived the phone messages and looked through his emails. Again, there were tons of messages, but nothing pertinent to this investigation. Irritated, he brought up the email Larisa had sent him the previous day and made another reply to it:
Subject: Contact me!
Larisa,
Please tell me where you are! Or go to the nearest police station and call me. Dr Ostermann is dead. Gabriel and Lexa and Dalia are missing. They are very dangerous. Beware of them. Come in or call me. Please!
– Jacob
He looked at the message for a moment, hoping it was personal enough to make her respond. He hit Enter and the message sent. After that, he sat there for a long moment, waiting for a response. None came. And after recalling the way things had gone down at the Arabic Beans coffee shop at Metrotown, Striker wondered if one ever would.
It was doubtful.
The woman no longer trusted him. She trusted no one. She was all alone and in hiding. And the longer she stayed missing, the worse their chances of finding her became. It was a cold, hard fact. But it was real.
They were running out of time.
Eighty-One
It was morning by the time the Adder reached his destination. He was tired. He had not slept all night. He was hungry. He was cold.