Snakes & Ladders (10 page)

‘Because we’ve been there before. It’s the address of the Mental Health Center.’

‘Strathcona,’ she said and looked east. ‘That’s just down the road from here.’

Striker nodded. ‘Looks like Mr Ostermann is
Doctor
Ostermann.’

Felicia read through the file and clarified, ‘He’s a psychiatrist.’

Striker looked at the list of places where Dr Erich Ostermann worked. One stuck out to him. ‘Riverglen Mental Health Facility,’ he said sternly. ‘Mandy Gill was a patient there for a brief period of time. She also spent time at the Strathcona Center.’

He put the car into Drive and pulled out on to the road. They headed for Heatley Avenue.

When Striker and Felicia arrived on scene, they found that the Strathcona Mental Health Center was closed for the night, and the emergency number listed on the front door was actually the number for Car 87 – the officer-and-counsellor paired unit of the Vancouver Police Department’s Mental Health Team.

It was a dead end for now.

Striker looked at his watch, saw that it was now nine twenty, and shrugged. ‘We could always go see Dr Ostermann at his home. You up for a trip out west?’

Felicia nodded, but her posture spoke otherwise.

Striker bribed her. ‘I’ll buy you another eggnog latte on the way – as rich and creamy as you like it.’

‘A double-shot,’ she added. ‘I’m gonna need it.’

Striker smiled at her; she was a trooper. They got back into the car, and Striker headed west.

The Ostermann house was located just to the east of the Endowment Lands, on one of the most expensive – and widely unknown – jewels of the city, Belmont Avenue. Striker had been to the area once on a million-dollar fraud call. That was ten years ago. He doubted that the road had changed any. Just multimillion-dollar homes for multimillion-dollar families.

As they turned off Burrard Street and drove along the forever busy grind of West 4th Avenue, Felicia brought up as many PRIME pages as she could, and read through the known police history of Dr Erich Ostermann.

‘He’s listed in the database a ton,’ she said. ‘But always under the entity of
doctor
. He’s related to a gazillion mental health files – everywhere from Riverglen, way out in Coquitlam, to the Strathcona Medical Health Center in the Downtown East Side.’

Striker zigzagged around an Audi sedan turning left on Arbutus and gunned it to get through the yellow light. He turned his eyes from the traffic to Felicia. ‘Go over his driving record again.’

Felicia brought up his driver licence history and said, ‘Wow. This guy’s a road criminal. Got over twenty tickets for everything from speeding to running stop signs. It’s a wonder they haven’t suspended his licence yet.’

‘I guess being a psychiatrist has its privileges.’ Striker thought this over. ‘So Erich Ostermann is the good doctor in the medical clinic, but a road warrior when he’s in his vehicle. Kind of a Jekyll and Hyde guy. Interesting detail. Says something about his character, I’m sure.’

Felicia was less impressed. ‘It also says something else, unfortunately – that him blowing that stop sign was probably just the regular driving pattern for him. He does it all the time and probably wasn’t evading anything.’

‘Maybe. And yet, there
is
a connection between Mandy Gill and Riverglen. It’s a lead still worth investigating.’ He glanced at Felicia, then floored it to the twenty-two hundred block of West 4th Avenue. He drove into the oncoming lane of traffic and parked the cruiser in an open stall, facing the wrong way.

Felicia put a hand over her heart. ‘Jesus, Jacob, are you trying to kill us?’

‘If I wanted to be suicidal, I’d just propose to you.’

She gave him the ice look, and he just smiled back. He then pointed to the Pharmasave drug store next to them. ‘Important stop.’

‘Why? What are we doing here?’

Striker just smiled at her.

‘What can I say?’ he said. ‘I need my meds checked.’

The Pharmasave drug store, located on the corner of 4th Avenue and Vine Street, was one of the few pharmacies in the area that was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, all year round. More importantly, it was one of the few places where Mandy Gill had ordered her medication from – even though it was a twenty-minute bus ride from her Strathcona apartment.

The electronic doors parted as Striker approached them, and the warm store air was a sharp contrast to the howling cold outside. Inside the store, the soft coma-inducing sound of muzak filled the air and shoppers lined up wearily at the front till. Striker searched the store for the pharmacy and found it in the far rear corner.

He and Felicia made their way down.

Behind the counter stood the pharmacist. He was an East Indian man with large glasses, tall – damn near six foot six – with overly long arms and hands that appeared disproportionately small. Striker watched him stomp back and forth behind the counter, then stop to give his assistant shit about something. She was a small Japanese woman, and she looked tired.

‘I’m sorry,’ she explained to him. ‘I’ve been up the last three nights with my boy. He’s been sick.’

‘Don’t bring your family problems to work.’

‘I didn’t mean to, it’s just that, well, I thought you said to—’

‘I know what I said,’ the pharmacist snapped. ‘God gave you ears, woman. Next time use them.’

The diminutive woman nodded obediently and said nothing, but her face remained fixed with a rock-like expression.

‘Minimum-wage help,’ the pharmacist muttered, then carried on with his work.

Striker took an immediate dislike to the man. He approached the counter and pulled out his wallet. When the pharmacist finally deigned to look over, Striker flashed the badge and motioned for the man to come closer.

‘Detective Striker,’ he said. ‘Vancouver Police Department.’

The pharmacist said nothing back; he merely pointed at his name tag, which was labelled:
Pharmacist
. ‘It’s been a very busy night. What do you need of me?’

Felicia laughed softly. ‘What do we need of you? Wow, formal.’

Striker took over the conversation. ‘We have a bit of a problem,’ he explained. ‘A woman who buys her medicine from you is having some very serious mental health issues – I’d like to see the referrals you keep on record.’

‘Everything is electronic nowadays.’

Striker blinked. ‘I think you’re mistaken. Her
history
is all electronically stored, but I’m talking about the referral pads themselves. The paper slips, specifically.’

‘I don’t know,’ the man replied. He took off his glasses and began cleaning the lenses. ‘We’re very busy tonight.’

‘It’s important.’

‘Do you have a warrant?’

Felicia stepped up to the counter. ‘According to BC Medical, you’re supposed to keep all referrals on site for three years before purging. Are you not doing this? Because if not, this is very serious. It constitutes a breach of MSP protocol.’

‘A breach?’ the pharmacist replied. A sour look took over his face and he put his glasses back on. ‘I think that’s hardly justified.’

Striker took advantage of the moment. He pulled out his notebook and showed the man the information he’d written down from the pill bottles at Mandy Gill’s residence:

‘I want to see the referral slip written for these pills.’

The pharmacist looked at the page for a long moment, like it was an unwelcome bill or the results of a herpes test. He did not move away from the counter.

‘Might I inquire as to why?’ he finally asked.

Striker gave Felicia a quick look, then continued: ‘As I explained, it’s related to one of this doctor’s patients. A woman we are currently investigating for some very violent offences. Stalking, home invasion, forcible kidnapping – I really can’t say more. But I will add this: time is crucial here.’

‘Do you have a warrant for this information?’ he asked again.

‘There’s no time for that,’ Felicia said.

‘Then I can’t help you.’

Striker said nothing for a moment. He put on his best surprised look, then nodded slowly, acceptingly. ‘That’s fine with me,’ he said. ‘It’s completely within your right to refuse, sir. Just give me your identification and I’ll write up the form.’

‘Form? What form?’

‘The
Refusal
form.’

‘Why would you need my name on that?’

Felicia cut in. ‘It’s a matter of civil liability.’

‘Li-liability?’

‘Of course,’ Striker said. ‘Without a warrant, you have every legal right to deny us the information. But you do have to give me your name and details so I can keep a record of it – that’s the
law
.’

‘But . . . . but why?’

‘What is your name, sir?’

‘Parm-Parminder. Parminder Sanghera. But why—’

Striker pointed his pen at the man. ‘Because if something bad happens to the doctor, the Vancouver Police Department certainly isn’t going to wear it – especially not in civil court.’

‘
Civil
court?’

Striker made an annoyed sound, then spoke in his best condescending manner as he explained the situation. ‘Legal and civil court are two entirely different matters – you should know this if you plan on denying possibly lifesaving information to the police.’

The tall pharmacist suddenly seemed smaller. He took a step backwards. ‘I really . . . really don’t want to be a part of this.’

Striker ignored the request; he wrote into his notebook:

Striker showed this to the pharmacist. ‘Now just sign and date it.’

The pharmacist looked at the wording and his face paled. He wiped away the sweat from his brow and stepped back. ‘Well . . . well, hold on a moment. What exactly is it you wish to know?’

‘We don’t
wish
to know anything,’ Felicia said. ‘We
need
to know.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he replied. ‘I can see that now. Yes. But what exactly is it you need to know?’

Striker held up his notebook. ‘Where this referral came from.’

The pharmacist looked at the numbers and letters, then relented. ‘It’s already right there in your notebook, Detective. MVC is the clinic abbreviation. The referral came from Mapleview. Mapleview Clinic.’

Striker took in the words, then shook his head. He had hoped for Riverglen, but nothing was ever that easy.

‘What doctor?’ he asked.

‘Dr Richter,’ he said.

‘Richter?’ Striker said. The name was one he had never heard of. He had been guessing Ostermann.

‘That billing number is for Dr Richter,’ the pharmacist continued. ‘But Dr Ostermann is the one in charge of that whole clinic.’

‘Dr Richter,’ Striker said again. He wrote it down, then put his notebook away and took a long hard look at the man before him. ‘You did the right thing here today.’

‘Maybe even saved a man’s life,’ Felicia added.

The pharmacist, looking grey, just nodded. He asked if he was free to go, Striker said they were done, and the man left the counter area altogether, disappearing into the back. Once he was gone, Striker gave Felicia a nod and a smile, and they left the store.

It was getting late, but they were determined to see Dr Erich Ostermann before the night was through.

Belmont Avenue was less than ten minutes away.

They were barely back inside the car when Felicia bundled up her coat and cranked the heater to full. With the hot air blasting against his skin, Striker almost didn’t feel the vibration of his cell phone. He whipped it out and read the name on the screen: Noodles. AKA Jim Banner from Ident. He picked up immediately and stuck the speaker to his ear.

‘Give me some magic, Noodles.’

The man laughed. ‘Hey, if I was a magician, I would’ve pulled your head outta your ass years ago. But you’re lucky enough anyway. I did manage to find us some prints out there.’

Striker felt a jolt of electricity. ‘Where?’

‘On the fridge. Inside surface. On the door.’

‘Any hits?’

The Ident tech let out a frustrated sound. ‘Can’t run it. The print is only a partial.’

Striker cursed and deflated back against the seat. He looked over at Felicia, who was looking at him hopefully, then gave a head shake, signalling
no
. ‘How good of a partial?’ he asked.

‘Not very – but it is something for us to work with. You get me a suspect or comparison sample, and I’ll see what I can do to match it up. Won’t hold up worth a shit in court, but it might give you a lead to work on.’

‘Keep searching,’ Striker said.

And Noodles just sighed. ‘Friggin’ chain gang,’ he said, and hung up.

A partial, Striker thought. Shit. Nothing ever came easy on an investigation. He put his cell away and pulled back on to West 4th Avenue once more. They headed for Point Grey.

Where the Ostermanns lived.

The Ostermann House sat high above the main roads, on Belmont Avenue, looking over the violent pounding surf of the Burrard Inlet. The lot, nestled just east of the hundred-hectare wilderness of the Endowment Lands, was massive by city standards, and outlined by rows and rows of maples and Japanese plum trees.

Striker drove by the front of the house and spotted the black BMW X5 on the driveway’s roundabout, behind the gated entranceway. He came to a complete stop and assessed the place.

It was impressive. Everything was obviously top-notch, with no dollar spared. The whole lot was lined by tall grey stone walls with white stone pillars at each corner. Old-fashioned lanterns, in the form of iron sconces, lined the cobblestone driveway and walkways. And dotting the rest of the yard were stone sculptures and Japanese rock gardens. Standing direct centre of it all was a marble fountain. The water was turned off.