He called up CPIC, the Canadian Police Information Centre, and got Dr Sharise Owens flagged on the system as a Missing Person and a Person in Danger. While he did this, Felicia called Sue Rhaemer at Dispatch and got her to notify the hospitals, ferries, airports and borders once more.

After a long moment, she hung up.

‘Done,’ she said.

Striker said nothing. He just put the car into Drive and got going.

Sharise Owens’ home address was just two miles away.

Fifteen

Striker and Felicia headed just around the bend for Beach Avenue, where Sharise Owens lived in an apartment overlooking the sandy stretch of English Bay.

They made it there in five minutes and took the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. The doors opened into the hallway, directly across from the suite, and Striker wasted no time. He took up his position at the side of the apartment door, waited for Felicia to parallel him, and then knocked three times. When no one answered, he looked down the hallway at the neighbouring suite.

‘Maybe there’s an onsite manager,’ he said.

Felicia shook her head. ‘I already checked. These are privately owned suites, and the concierge is offsite. We’ll have to call him.’

Striker frowned at that. They had reason to believe the woman was in danger. She wasn’t at work. She wasn’t answering her cell. She wasn’t answering her home phone.

‘I’m kicking it in.’

‘We should at least try to get the concierge.’

‘Just be ready.’

‘Jacob—’

Striker leaned forward and gave the door a solid kick. The entire structure bowed inwards, but held. A good lock, a better frame. Seeing that, he turned around and gave the door three solid donkey kicks, landing the heel of his shoe between the door handle and frame. On his third attempt, the entire structure burst inwards and the shrill cry of an alarm filled the air.

‘Security system works fine,’ he said, and drew his pistol.

Felicia swore in frustration but did the same.

They made entry and began clearing the suite. As they worked from room to room, two things became immediately obvious. One, Sharise Owens was a wealthy woman. Everything was top end, from the imported Kuppersbusch appliances to the genuine Persian carpets and teak floors.

The second obvious detail was that, if Sharise had been kidnapped, no struggle had taken place here. The woman clearly took pride in her home, keeping everything in its place, from the fanned-out Oprah magazines on the coffee table to the folded laundry in her closets.

Everything was immaculate.

By the time they finished clearing the residence, the alarm had stopped blasting. Felicia holstered her piece. ‘This is a dead end.’

‘So far it is,’ Striker responded, his ears still ringing. ‘Let’s do a detailed search – see if we can find anything relevant.’

‘Fine. I’ll start with the kitchen.’

Striker nodded. That left him with the bedroom and the office area. He got right to work, searching through drawers and scavenging through the closets. But in the end, the bedroom yielded nothing. He grabbed the phone and hit the callback feature to see what number had last called the Owens residence. It was him. He hit redial to see the last number dialled. It was St Paul’s Hospital.

The time of the call was late last night.

No leads there.

Felicia called out from the other room. ‘No evidence in the kitchen or living room. I’ll search through the den.’

Striker yelled back okay and went into the office. On the shelf, in two long rows, were a series of micro-tapes and compact discs. Striker examined them. Each tape and disc said ‘copy’ on the cover, and was followed by a description:

Arlington, Jonas – fractured pelvis, Motor Vehicle Accident.

Booth, Amy – punctured lung, Workplace Accident.

Chavez, Ricardo – appendix removal, Cause Unknown.

The list went on.

There were many tapes and discs, all appearing to be audio files of past surgeries Dr Owens had performed. Eleven years’ worth. Striker was impressed. Most doctors kept reports, but it appeared that Dr Owens went a step further.

The woman was meticulous.

He put back the tapes and finished his search. When he approached the computer, he saw that the screen was black. He moved the mouse and a password request appeared. Having little personal knowledge of the woman, he didn’t even hazard a guess. Instead, he sat down, opened the drawers, and started rifling through the files.

Most of it was ordinary bills with some tax information slips and the odd photocopy of a medical certificate or diploma. An old address book was relatively unused. It had the numbers of two other doctors listed in it, but nothing else. Striker called them both, but neither of them had seen or heard from Dr Owens in weeks.

After a long moment of searching, the alarm went off again. Striker gave up and returned to the living room. Already two of the neighbours – both middle-aged women, both cupping their hands over their ears – had come to investigate the alarm. Normally, they would have appeared nervous, even timid, but standing with them was a patrol cop – a tall Slavic-looking guy Striker had never seen.

Striker took out his badge and showed the cop and the neighbours. ‘Detectives Striker and Santos.’ He asked the women if they’d seen Dr Owens lately. Both ladies began chirping like a pair of overexcited hens, but in the end the result was the same. Neither woman had seen Sharise Owens since yesterday morning.

It was no good.

Felicia exited the den and joined them. She looked at the two women, then at the patrol cop, and then at Striker. She shook her head and spoke above the high-pitched alarm. ‘You find anything?’

‘Yeah. Another zero. You?’

‘Zero plus zero equals zilch.’

Striker frowned. The lack of progress and the alarm was getting to him. He moved into the hall, away from the drone, and pulled out his phone. He tried calling Dr Owens’ cell one more time, and was yet again directed to voicemail. He hung up.

Before leaving, he explained to the patrol cop what was going on with Dr Owens, then asked him to guard the suite until members of the City Maintenance Crew arrived to fix the door, or until Owens returned. The constable agreed, and Striker and Felicia left the scene under his care.

Back in the car, Striker scoured his notebook, hoping to see something they had missed. But the more he went over things, the more he ended up back where they had started.

‘We need to know how Owens’ bracelet got down by the docks,’ he said. ‘Even if she turns up okay, it’s too coincidental.’

Felicia shrugged. ‘For all we know someone stole it.’

Striker hadn’t thought of that. ‘Any history of thefts or robberies in PRIME?’

Felicia did a search. ‘No . . . but this is interesting – she was arrested once.’

Striker closed his notebook and looked at her, surprised. ‘Really? For what?’

‘For refusing to leave an anti-abortion rally.’ Felicia read through the report. ‘Interesting. She was fighting with the protesters.’

‘I guess that makes her pro-choice.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Look here. She was also arrested a few more times. At different rallies. Who knows? Maybe this entire call could be a pro-choice thing.’

Striker let out a groan. ‘Abortion activists? That’s the last thing we need. It would be a political nightmare.’

He leaned closer to Felicia to read the screen and smelled her musky perfume and perspiration. She smelled good and, like always, her scent calmed him a little. He focused on the computer, on the entity known as Dr Sharise Owens, then spoke.