Striker said nothing. He just got the car back on the road and drove down the highway.

Destination: Whistler Blackcomb ski resort.

They were just entering the district of West Vancouver when the conversation about Larisa Logan ended and Felicia finally got down to business with the Gabriel Ostermann file. She grabbed the thin folder and opened it up. Striker glanced over and saw a police report as well as an addendum from the Ministry of Children and Families.

‘The file looks thin,’ he noted.

‘Well, in this case, less is more,’ Felicia said. ‘You ready for this?’

Striker nodded. ‘Go.’

And she read through the report.

‘This all took place ten years ago, just after Lexa and Dr Ostermann got married.’

‘Gabriel must have been only eight years old,’ Striker pointed out.

Felicia nodded. ‘Which is why the Ministry of Children and Families was involved and also why it was privatized.’ She turned through the pages. ‘The file itself was a 911 call that was later changed to a Sudden Death call. As it turns out, the Ostermanns were away on vacation at a place called Lost Lake. Gabriel and his younger brother, William, were out playing in the snow.

‘William?’ Striker asked.

Felicia nodded. ‘Apparently Lexa had two children she brought into the marriage – Dalia, and William . . . Anyway, Gabriel threw a Frisbee to his brother and William missed it. The toy went over his head and landed on the lake.’

‘Which was frozen at the time?’

Felicia nodded. ‘Yeah, exactly. So the Frisbee lands on the ice. The kids had been warned by their parents not to go near the lake because winter was ending and the ice was too thin. Well, the kids never listened. Gabriel was the oldest and heaviest, so he stayed ashore. William was the youngest and the lightest, so he went out to get it.’

‘And the ice broke,’ Striker said.

‘Yeah. The kid went right through. Worst thing is there was a chance to save him. Apparently, the boy managed to grab on to the edge of the ice and hang on for quite some time. He kept calling for someone to help him, kept calling out for his brother. But Gabriel just froze.’

‘Wow, completely?’

‘Damn near catatonic,’ she replied. ‘It was apparently all caught on video by one of the neighbour’s surveillance systems. Gabriel couldn’t bear to watch. So he turned away from the boy. Fell down in the snow. Covered up his ears with his hands.’

Striker pictured the moment in his mind. ‘Jesus.’

‘When help finally came, it was too late. William was dead. Sunk somewhere beneath the ice. And Gabriel was damn near catatonic.’ She leafed through the pages of the report, shaking her head with sadness. ‘The ministry was involved quite a bit after that. They’ve made many notes about Erich Ostermann’s detached fathering skills and even more about Lexa’s treatment of the boy. How she blamed him for William’s death.’

Striker thought about this and nodded. ‘Lexa was pregnant in Brussels,’ he said. ‘Maybe William was her only biological son. And Dalia was born from her marriage to Gerald Jarvis. Before she married Erich Ostermann.’

‘What’s your point?’ Felicia asked.

‘That they’re a blended family.’

‘They’re a freak show is what they are,’ Felicia said.

Striker nodded. ‘With Lexa as a mother, how could they be anything but?’ He thought of what it must have been like to be an eight-year-old child growing up under her evil care – an eight-year-old that she blamed for her only son’s death. What life must have been like for Gabriel Ostermann was unthinkable. ‘It makes me think that Gabriel is less mentally ill with any known psychological diagnosis and more . . . programmed into what he has become.’

‘Lexa made him,’ Felicia said. ‘There’s no doubt. The one question is, did his father know?’

‘Dr Ostermann?’ Striker scowled. ‘How could he not? You saw how he treated the boy – like a subject, not a son. The man was wilfully blind to it all. Had to be with all of them living there. Pride and power, just like with Lexa – till he got caught.’

Striker looked down at the file. He saw no attached envelopes.

‘Where is the video?’ he asked.

‘That’s the strange thing,’ Felicia said. ‘The neighbour swore they had one, but when the police went to collect it, the tape was gone. It just vanished, and was never found again.’

Striker frowned at that.

‘Nothing vanishes,’ he said.

The tape was still out there somewhere.

Ninety-One

An hour later, Striker looked in his rear-view mirror and saw Brandywine Falls behind them. The waterfall was hard to see in the five o’clock dimness. The entire canyon around them was a charcoal-grey colour, so deep it was all he could do to make out the treeline.

‘We’re getting close,’ he said.

Felicia just nodded. ‘And then what? We wait around for another call that might not even come? Or another email message she won’t respond to?’

That irritated Striker. ‘No, we start hitting the pavement. You know, good old-fashioned, hard-nosed police work. We’ll start with Whistler and make our way into Blackcomb. Show her picture around. See what we get.’

Felicia remained unconvinced. ‘We don’t know if she’s even in one of the villages any more. She could be in one of the smaller towns around the perimeter. Or even headed back to Vancouver.’

‘She’s here,’ Striker said. ‘And if you can come up with a better way of locating her, then let me know. I’m all ears.’

They drove on through the swerving bends and rising hills in silence, Striker thinking of what lay ahead and any possible routes their investigation could take, and Felicia going over the computer files for the millionth time. When the traffic thickened and Striker saw a sign that signalled Whistler Golf and Country Club ahead, he spoke.

‘We’re almost there.’

Felicia looked up from the computer screen. ‘My eyes are going buggy from the screen and I feel carsick from all this reading. I need a coffee before we start. And some food. We haven’t eaten a thing since this morning; aren’t you hungry?’

Before Striker could respond, his cell went off. He snatched it up, looked at the screen and saw a number he didn’t recognize. He pulled over to the side of the road, into one of the runaway lanes, and answered.

‘Detective Striker.’

‘Shipwreck,’ came the reply, the voice deep and gruff. It took Striker but a second to recognize it as his old friend Tom Collins, previously from Financial Crime.

‘Hey, Tommy, what’s up?’

‘Those names you gave me to run through our insurance databases,’ he said. ‘You jerking my chain here, or what?’

Striker thought of the list he’d given Collins. Every name and date of birth had been one of the people listed in Lexa Ostermann’s folders.

‘I don’t follow,’ he said.

Collins explained: ‘I thought these were all supposed to be victims of identity theft.’

‘They are. Why? What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is they’re all dead. Every single one of them.’

Striker said nothing for a moment. ‘There were over fifty people on that list. How many of them did you—’

‘Every single one of them.’

‘Jesus.’ Striker gave Felicia a glance and saw the curiosity in her eyes. He ignored it for the moment and asked Tom, ‘How? What was the manner of death?’

‘All sorts, really. Accidents. Unexplained natural causes. A lot of suicides.’

Striker thought this over. ‘And what kind of policies did they have?’

‘That’s where it gets interesting. They had good life insurance policies. All of them. Over half of the claims have already been paid out. I’ve done the math here. Accumulatively, we’re talking twentyfour million dollars from fourteen different insurance providers. And like I said, nearly half the claims haven’t been finalized.’