Snakes & Ladders (38 page)

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.

‘These patients, were they part of EvenHealth?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Enrolled in the SILC classes.’

Dr Richter made an
ahh
sound. ‘The group sessions. Social Independence and Life Coping skills.’ She smiled. ‘One of Dr Ostermann’s ten-step programmes. It is aimed primarily at bipolar patients, for the most. A few of the patients have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Lexapro and Effexor are common treatments for this. They more often than not work extremely well, especially when taken together. For any more detail than that, I’d have to check my files.’

‘You don’t recognize your own prescriptions?’ Striker asked.

Dr Richter laughed bemusedly. ‘Detective, please. Between my work with EvenHealth and the other clinics, I’ve treated over seven hundred patients in the last year. Each one of them is on as many as ten different medications. That’s
seven thousand
medications in total. Do you honestly think I remember them all?’

‘Sounds like mass production.’

‘It sounds like
money
,’ she said brazenly. ‘I’ve already told you, I never joined this profession for the long hours and the constant lack of progress, I joined it to make money. Cold, hard cash. And I intend on being retired on a beach in Jamaica by the time I’m forty.’

Striker ignored that. ‘I’m less concerned about the medication types and more concerned about the patient names,’ Striker said. ‘Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan, in particular.’

Dr Richter said nothing for a moment. Her eyes took on a faraway look and her face remained expressionless. In that moment, she looked older. And much more experienced.
Clinical
.

‘I have a vague recollection of the group,’ she finally said. ‘And I’m not overly comfortable discussing them, especially not without perusing the file first – remember, I was only a fill-in for the group when Dr Ostermann could not be present.’

‘Larisa Logan,’ he pressed.

Dr Richter gave him a cold look, but then spoke anyway. ‘Her, I do remember. She was a Victim Services worker, if I recall correctly.’

‘She was,’ Striker confirmed. ‘Her family was killed in a car accident. She suffered a breakdown.’

‘Yes, I remember Larisa Logan. She was a kind and genuine person. I felt for her.’

Striker doubted that, but said nothing.

‘Larisa is missing,’ Felicia interjected. ‘And we’re desperate to find her – not for any criminal reasons, but for her own safety.’

Dr Richter’s face took on a confused look. ‘I don’t understand, why are you here talking to me?’

Striker blinked. ‘Are you not her doctor?’

‘No. Not at all. As I already explained, I was only an
interim
doctor for the SILC classes. I never worked with any of the patients during private sessions – there’s no money there.’

‘Then who was Larisa’s doctor?’ Felicia asked.

‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’

Striker leaned forward in his chair. ‘Let me get this straight here. Other than the odd fill-in day here and there, you never worked with Larisa?’

‘Of course not. She was Dr Ostermann’s patient, and his alone. He was quite . . . possessive of her, really. His own personal project.’

Striker looked at Felicia and saw the tightness of her expression. He steered the conversation back to other matters – whether Dr Richter had ever used any experimental medication on the patients, whether she had any connections to the army, and whether she ever did any work at Riverglen Mental Health Facility.

The answer to all three questions was a resounding
no
.

When they were done with the interview, Striker stood up and put his notebook away. He shook the woman’s hand, and thanked her for her time. Then, with Felicia at his side, he walked to the front door.

‘Keep your phone nearby,’ he said to Dr Richter. ‘I have a feeling I’ll be calling you again.’

‘Any time,’ she replied.

But no smile parted her lips.

They drove back out of the cedar-covered hills of West Vancouver and took the highway to the downtown core. During the drive, Striker tried to relax his mind and let everything fall into place. But Felicia was unusually wired.

‘We have the connection,’ she said. ‘Dr Ostermann was seeing
all four
patients – Gill, Rose, Mercury and Larisa Logan – and he was seeing them not only during group sessions but one-on-one.’

Striker nodded. ‘I agree. He’s also about the same size and stature as the man who attacked me back at the Gill crime scene – but it’s all still circumstantial at this point. Everything.’

Felicia scowled. ‘Which means what, he gets a free ride?’

‘No. Which means we see the man.’

Felicia nodded, but her face took on a concerned look. ‘Just be careful you don’t tip him off on anything.’

Striker gave her a quick glance as they headed over the Lions Gate Bridge. ‘I said
see
him, not speak to him.’ He took out his cell phone and dialled Hans Jager –
Meathead
, to anyone who knew him. Meathead was one of the breachers for the Emergency Response Team. The man answered, they talked, and a few minutes later, Striker hung up the phone and headed for the Cambie Street bridge.

There was some equipment they needed to pick up.

The Adder had no idea what time it was when he finished the set-up. It could have been eight o’clock at night, it could have been well into the morning hours. He did not know. He did not care. Time held little importance to him, and he only took careful note of it when on a mission. All that mattered now was that the set-up was complete. And that it was done well.

It was.

The bulk of the camera’s body sat within the steel bracket, which was screwed securely to the two-by-four beams of the dumbwaiter. The lens poked through the small hole in the wall, coming flush with the other side – just a one-inch lens that focused on the centre part of the Doctor’s private room.

The forbidden room.

The Adder turned on the camera and looked at the LED screen. The image displayed was angled perfectly. It captured the oak bureau across the room. The four-poster king-sized bed in the centre of the room. The locked cabinet in the far corner.

The camera took in
everything
.

As if scripted, the Doctor returned, and not alone. At first the Adder reared from the camera and started to make his way back down the long and narrow chute of the dumbwaiter. But something made him pause.

A dark curiosity.

He climbed back to the top and stared at the camera’s LED screen. Already the motion sensor had been triggered and the recording had been started. The two people in the room were beginning. The Adder had heard the act before. He had seen the results. He had known it existed.

But he had never actually
seen
it.

Now, as he stood in the darkness and watched the Doctor unlock the cabinet, a strange feeling invaded his chest. And it only got worse when he saw what the Doctor pulled out.

He should have felt shock. Fear. Revulsion. He should have felt all of these things, he knew, but he felt none of them. All he experienced was a growing tension in his chest, one that spread all throughout his core as he watched the LED screen in near disbelief.

When the screams began and the first glimpse of blood appeared, the Adder wanted to leave the chute, but he did not. He stayed there, fixated, immobile. A statue in the dark.

He just could not take his eyes away.

The traffic was surprisingly bad, so they were later than anticipated. Striker half expected Meathead to be gone by the time they reached the north end of the Cambie Street bridge. But within seconds of reaching the bottom of Nelson Street, Felicia spotted a group of big men clad in black jump suits. In the heavy darkness of the night, they blended well. Most of them were climbing into a white van that was parked kerbside.

They were ERT. The Emergency Response Team.

Canada’s answer to SWAT.

The cluster of cops were Red Team, and Striker knew most of them: Reid Noble, who everyone called Jitters. Davey Combs, who was only five foot six but over two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle. And Victor Santos, who was a crazy-ass bastard and – thank God – no relation to Felicia. Their sergeant, Zulu 51, was Tyrone Takuto, a top-notch Eurasian cop Striker had known and respected for years. He would be Chief one day. Striker knew it.

All the men looked tired from training, but happy to be going. It was Miller time.

Striker parked on Nelson and scanned the street both ways. ‘You see Meathead anywhere?’

‘Just in my nightmares,’ Felicia said.

Striker laughed at that. She had barely spoken the words when they looked up at the nearest skyscraper and spotted the man. Meathead was rappelling down the south side of the building. He was three storeys up and still looked massive. At six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, he was a force to be reckoned with.

He saw Striker from the second storey level and gave a holler. When his eyes found Felicia, a large smile spread his lips and he yelled out, ‘Hey, honey-cakes, can I come down there and butter your muffin?’

‘Butter
this
!’ she called back.

Meathead let out a hoarse laugh, then rappelled down to ground level. He tried to lever down, did it a bit too fast, and accidentally unclipped before his feet were fully planted. He fell awkwardly, landing half on his ass, half on his hands.

‘Smooth,’ Felicia said.

Meathead looked up and grinned. ‘I always fall for the hotties.’

She made an
ugh
sound.

‘I was referring to Shipwreck.’

Meathead let out a hyena laugh and climbed to his feet. Striker was six foot one and two hundred and twenty pounds. No small man. And yet next to Meathead, he felt undersized. He moved up to the breacher, and the two bantered about their old partnership days for a few minutes. Then Meathead packed up his gear and started placing it in the transport van.

‘About the gear,’ Striker said.

Meathead nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. I got what you need right here, but you got to get it back to me tonight or Stark will have my balls in a sling.’