by Sean Slater
He left a note on the computer, telling her not to touch it because of police-related reasons, then left the house with Felicia by his side. As they stepped into the Ford, Striker took a long last look at his cosy little rancher.
Felicia noted this. ‘Holy Jeez, she’ll be fine, worrywart.’
Striker frowned and she laughed at him. He climbed inside the car, started the engine, and they headed for police headquarters. Not the downtown one, but the building on Cambie Street. It was their next best step in finding Larisa Logan.
It was where Victim Services was located.
Cambie Street was not far from the Dunbar area, so they made it there in less than ten minutes. When they arrived on scene at 0615 hours, the parking lot out front was unusually empty. Echo shift had already gone home for the night, Alpha was out on the road, and Bravo had not yet arrived.
Striker ditched the car and headed into the foyer. The building here on Cambie was owned by the Insurance Corporation of BC, not the Vancouver Police Department, and this pissed off a lot of the cops. Underground parking was shared with ICBC civilians – and, therefore, insecure – the elevators broke down every second week, and the entire building had a ramshackle, compartmentalized feel to it.
It made sense why. The building had been designed for the nine-to-five business crowd, not the twenty-four-hour/seven-days-a-week needs of a police department. Talks of relocating to a newer address out east were forever ongoing, but for now this was all the Vancouver Police had. Insufficient premises to go with an insufficient crime budget.
It was typical for the City of Vancouver.
In the end, Striker didn’t much care. The Cambie building was mostly patrol. He spent most of his time down at the 312 station, and a lot more of it out on the road. All he cared about with regards to the Cambie building was that it housed Victim Services.
That was Larisa Logan’s unit.
Sargheit Samra, the old bear, was the sergeant in charge of the Victim Services Unit, and had been for just over a year now. Before being transferred to the VSU, he’d spent damn near eight years working Alpha shift, so he’d become something of an early riser – the crazy hours were something he never could readjust from. For this reason, Striker hadn’t bothered to call ahead; he was betting on the fact that Samra would already be on scene.
Even at six o’clock in the morning.
Once inside, Striker and Felicia crossed the foyer and turned right, heading away from the elevators. The Victim Services office was located on the southwest corner of the foyer, surrounded by a transparent wall of tinted glass. By most accounts, it was a tiny section. Six desks, and sometimes not enough workers to fill them. Most of the counsellors were usually busy, called out to the worst crime scenes and at all hours of the day and night. Every shift was filled with stress and anguish.
Striker didn’t envy them their job.
He gave the glass door a solid rap with his knuckles, then turned the knob and went inside. Seated behind his desk with his police boots off, reading the Vancouver Province sports section was a fifty-ish East Indian male. Sargheit Samra.
The Sarj, as everyone called him.
He was a thickset man. Clean shaven. And even though he was carrying some extra cushioning these days, the thick underlying muscle bulk made his uniform fit well. Made him look like a force to be reckoned with.
Despite the fact it was a No Smoking building – a bylaw, in fact – a cigarette dangled precariously from his lips, and a steaming-hot cup of Starbucks coffee sat in front of him. Black as night, and in a paper cup, like always.
Upon seeing them, the Sarj looked up from his newspaper and a sly grin spread his thick lips. ‘Well, holy Shipwreck, look what the cat just dragged in.’ He spoke with no accent. He looked over at Felicia and smiled genuinely. ‘You still hanging out with this loser? He’ll get you a bad rep, you know.’
‘Damage is already done,’ she replied. ‘How’s life, Sarj?’
He folded up his paper and dropped it on the desk. ‘Slow this morning – and happily so.’ He gave them a dubious look. ‘Why? You two lookin’ at changing that?’
Striker closed the door behind them. ‘We’re here about one of your former counsellors. Woman who helped me out, in fact. Larisa Logan.’
The grin stretching the Sarj’s lips slipped away, and he took his feet off the desk. He sat up like he was getting ready for serious business, took a long drag of his smoke, and then spoke. ‘You really know how to kill a mood, Striker. Jesus Christ. What you want to know about her?’
‘Everything. Like why she’s messaging me, saying she has information on one of my cases.’
‘She did?’ The Sarj raised an eyebrow and stubbed out his cigarette in the plastic lid of his coffee cup. He rolled the butt thoughtfully between his fingers, as if debating something in his head. After a long moment, he gazed up at them, and suddenly he looked a whole lot older. Tired. ‘You know she left here, right?’
Striker nodded. ‘We’re aware.’
‘And not too long after I got here. So I didn’t have a whole lot of time to get to know the woman.’
‘Larisa didn’t spend too much time in the VSU?’ Felicia asked.
‘She’d been here for quite a while when I got transferred in. Bout three years, I guess. And by all accounts, she was one of the good ones.’
‘Good work ethic?’ Striker pressed.
The Sarj nodded. ‘The best. Had to be to work down here. Back then, the Victim Services Unit was really a hoppin’ place – as busy as it is now, but with only two girls working it. Now we got five. So Larisa and Chloe were really moving. Hell, they were overworked. It burned them out good.’
‘Chloe?’ Felicia asked.
‘Chloe Sera. Moved to one of the crime analyst areas. Burnaby South, I think.’
Striker nodded. ‘Did you two get along?’
‘Me and Larisa?’ The Sarj spoke the words like the question surprised him. ‘For sure. Everyone did. Larisa was a peach. Always happy, never moody. She did her work and she kept her mouth shut. Never gossiped, never complained. Hell, I wish I could say the same for the new girls – everyone feels so fucking entitled nowadays . . . I miss her.’
Striker crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. ‘So what happened then? What made her leave?’
The Sarj opened his packet of Lucky Strike unfiltered. Thumbed one out. ‘Bad times,’ he said. ‘Real bad. Stuff happened with Larisa.’
‘Stuff?’ Striker asked. ‘Jeez, don’t be so technical, Sarj, you’re losing me.’
The old bear just grunted. He lit his cigarette, sucked deep, and blew out a trail of smoke that clouded the small office. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff. ‘Her parents were killed. Her sister, too.’
Felicia made a surprised sound. ‘My God, how?’
‘Motor vehicle accident. Larisa was never the same after that. She wanted stress leave, I gave it to her. Shit, the tragedy aside, she had earned it. It was a bad, bad time for the girl.’
Striker thought that over.
A bad time. That seemed like an understatement.
On the far wall across the room hung a series of photographs, one for each of the counsellors in the Victim Services Unit. Larisa’s face was still up there. Dark brown hair with reddish highlights. A warm stare. And a big wide smile that was captivating, exactly how Striker remembered it.
He missed seeing it now.
He turned and met the Sarj’s eyes. ‘You talked to her at all lately?’
The Sarj looked at the picture with a lost look distorting his face, as if he had forgotten the photograph was even there.
‘No,’ he said after a long moment. ‘No, I haven’t.’ When Striker asked nothing else, the Sarj closed his desk drawer. Let out a tense sound. Continued speaking. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Shipwreck – and don’t go spreading this around – but Larisa got a little . . . weird on us there.’
‘Weird? How so?’
‘It’s kind of hard to explain, really. She got private.
Fiercely private. And to some extent, I can see why – I mean, the way people gossip round here, it’s like a goddam high school sometimes. But after the tragedy with her family, she became really closed-off, really detached. Didn’t come to the social functions. Didn’t talk to anyone at the office – and it wasn’t from a lack of trying. We called her all the time, sent out condolence packages, and we each took turns dropping by her place to make sure she was okay.’
Felicia asked, ‘Did it help?’
The Sarj just furrowed his brow and sucked on his Lucky. ‘Did it help? Who the fuck knows? The more we tried to keep contact with her, the more she stayed away. One time, I remember going out there and knowing she was home – and I mean knowing she was there. But no matter how much I knocked, she just stayed inside the doorway there, pretending to be away. It was really, really odd. After that, I sent an email to Human Resources about her. Thought maybe they could check into it. Do some follow-up on her. See if maybe they could get Larisa some professional help for her problems.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then she left.’
‘You mean quit?’ Felicia asked.
‘Yeah, she quit. As in sayonara. End of April, I think. Maybe May. I’m not sure, exactly, but it was long after she’d fallen off the social ladder.’
Striker thought this over. ‘She give you a letter?’
‘Nope. Just sent an email, telling everyone how sorry she was, but that she could no longer do the job – and you know what? I don’t blame her for that, especially after what she’d been through. This place never gave those girls enough training and support for the job they did.’
‘What do you mean, training?’ Felicia asked.
‘On how to deal with all this stuff.’
‘But I thought they were all psychologists,’ she said.
The Sarj shook his head. ‘Psychologists? Fuck, no. That’s a common misconception around here. As of this last year, yeah, now they’re all psychologists – and that was done mainly for liability reasons to protect the department – but back then the counsellors were just a couple of young girls offering a shoulder to cry on. They got almost no training and even less support. Took the Union to get some changes on that.’
Felicia nodded as she thought this over. ‘The stress obviously took a toll on Larisa. And she broke down.’
The Sarj said nothing.
Striker agreed with Felicia’s analysis. He spoke with the Sarj some more and got all of Larisa’s last-known details – her address, phone numbers, email addresses, and contacts. But the information he received was no different from what he’d already found in the PRIME database.
In the end, it did nothing to help them.
‘I do have a photo of her on file,’ the Sarj offered. ‘Jpeg. Give me your cell and I’ll Bluetooth it to you.’
Striker handed him his iPhone and the Sarj sent him the photograph. ‘This is the latest picture we have.’
‘It’s appreciated,’ Striker said. Before leaving, he met the Sarj’s stare one more time. ‘This is a really delicate issue for us. You call me if you hear anything about her, okay, Sarj? And I mean anything.’
He nodded. ‘You and you alone.’
The Sarj stood up from the desk, rounded it in his socked feet, and started for the door to usher them out. At the wall, he stopped and stared at the photograph of Larisa Logan. ‘She was such a good person,’ he said. ‘And we all miss her. But over time, she just kind of . . . faded away. It’s not right.’
Striker just nodded and left the office.
On the way back to the car, the Sarj’s words bore into him. The man was right. Larisa was a good person, and she had suffered a terrible tragedy. At a time when everyone should have stood up and been counted, they had all stepped back into the shadows. In essence, they had all failed her.
Him included.
Felicia looked over as they approached the car. She offered him a soft smile. ‘You okay there, Big Guy?’
Striker barely met her stare. ‘She became a goddam missing person, and no one noticed. Not even me.’
He climbed inside the vehicle and slammed the door shut.
They headed for Car 87 headquarters, the Vancouver Police Department’s Mental Health Team. Striker was determined to see if they had any files on Larisa Logan.
He was betting they had.
Thirty
‘That’s odd,’ Felicia said as she read through the computer reports.
Striker drove eastward into the fast lane of West Broadway Street and turned south on Main. ‘What’s odd?’ he asked.
‘Larisa Logan’s already been run through the system this morning. Real early, too. Actually, there’s a CAD call for her from yesterday. And Mandy Gill as well.’
This piqued Striker’s interest. ‘Run? By who?’
She read through the electronic pages. ‘Car 87.’
‘Who’s in the car today?’
‘Hold on, it’s slow in coming . . . okay, here it is. Well, that figures. Just your favourite person in the whole wide world – Constable Bernard Hamilton.’
‘Bernard, huh.’ The words left a bad taste in Striker’s mouth. ‘So he gets off work real late last night, and already he’s out this morning, running people. Our victim and Larisa, no less.’
‘We worked late last night, too,’ Felicia replied. ‘And we’re out early this morning.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Striker explained. ‘We need to be out this early. We’re in the middle of an investigation here. Car 87 works regular hours unless something big comes up. So the question here is, what’s going on that made Bernard get off his lazy ass for once?’
Felicia made no response, and Striker thought about it as they drove on. The question felt heavy in his mind.
As they passed 29th Avenue, Striker looked at his watch. It was quarter to seven now, and the Thursday morning rush-hour traffic showed it. Cars were already lined up bumper to bumper all along the main drive, but at least they were moving. The sun was rising in the east, barely breaking up the heavy darkness of the night with a slash of light grey.
They sped up and drove down 41st. When he reached their destination, Striker pulled over and stared at the old house in front of him. It was an old heritage home, three levels, and beautiful with big white shutters and a double door in the front. To most people, it looked like a private residence. But anyone in policing knew the truth. This was the headquarters of Car 87 and the rest of the psychiatric nursing team. They had arrived.
Striker parked the car. Without a word, he climbed out and made his way towards the front door. Bernard Hamilton was somewhere inside the house, and Striker wanted to speak to the man.
Bernard had a few questions to answer.
The double front doors of Car 87 headquarters were always locked for security reasons, so Striker had to be let inside. His knock was answered by the very man he was looking for. Bernard Hamilton pulled open the door, saw them, and put on a wide smile that didn’t move the rest of his face.
‘Striker,’ he said. ‘Felicia. Good morning. You’re certainly up early.’
‘Same can be said of you,’ Striker replied.
He gave Bernard the once-over. As usual, the man had dressed with flair. The dress shirt he wore was made from pastel red silk – a hideous floral pattern – and the accessory band he used to braid his ponytail matched.
Striker stepped inside the foyer without an invitation, and Bernard automatically stepped back. As Striker turned around, he bumped into a pile of boxes on the floor. Each one had a label and a date on it. He looked at them.
‘Macy’s Day Sale?’ he asked.
‘We’re relocating,’ Bernard said. ‘Out east with everyone else.’
Striker nodded. He recalled hearing something about that. He turned the conversation to more immediate matters. ‘You research Dr Ostermann yet, like we asked?’
Bernard said nothing for a moment, but looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and then turned his head
towards the den area where three women – all psych nurses Striker had never seen before – were having coffee and going over files from the previous night. ‘Perhaps we should take this discussion elsewhere.’
Striker didn’t much care. ‘You got an office?’
‘Right over here.’ Bernard showed them the way, then ushered them inside. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’
Striker didn’t argue the point, and Felicia nodded eagerly. When Bernard turned the corner and was gone from view, Striker shut the door and gave Felicia a hard look.
‘Good old Bernard doesn’t seem too happy to see us,’ he noted.
Felicia agreed. ‘You see that smile he gave us at the door?’
‘More plastic than a Ken doll.’
Felicia laughed at that, and Striker looked around the office. On the wall was a picture of James Dickson – a well-known cop who had received the Officer of the Year award for his work with the sex-trade workers in the Downtown East Side. Next to the computer, which was locked, sat a pen and clipboard. On it was a piece of white paper with two lists written down. On one side were Bernard’s accomplishments and commendations. On the other side was a list of all James Dickson’s achievements, leading up to his Officer of the Year award.
Felicia saw this, too, and laughed.
‘He wants to be cop of the year,’ she said.
Striker nodded. ‘No big secret there. Bernard always has. Too bad the guy doesn’t get it.’
‘Get it?’
‘Yeah, get it.’ Striker turned to face her. ‘The cops who win that award are never trying to win it. They get it, ’cause they’re good cops and they do a good job, and eventually they get recognized for it. It’s not a checkbox list.’
Felicia looked at the list one more time. ‘You never know. Bernard might get it; he is pretty ambitious, after all.’
‘Well, let me know when he does. I’ll start playing Russian roulette with six bullets.’
The door opened, and Bernard Hamilton walked in. He handed them both a cup of coffee, each with sugar and powdered cream, and they both thanked him for it. Felicia sipped hers; Striker just held the cup.
‘So: Dr Erich Ostermann,’ he said immediately.
