He hated this place.

Surprisingly, Rosalyn’s memory hit him the hardest. Maybe it was because she’d been so good to him over the years, ever since Amanda’s death, or maybe it was because Striker was the godparent to her children. Probably, it was because the memory of Rosalyn was the freshest – she’d passed away just four months ago.

Not a long time for the grieving process.

‘You okay?’ Felicia asked.

Striker blinked and looked at her. He realized he’d stopped walking and was standing there, looking down at a family that was seated in the waiting area. A little boy around six, a little girl near eight, and their father. It reminded him of Mike Rothschild and his children, Cody and Shana.

‘I should have been there this week,’ he said softly.

Felicia shook her head. ‘Where?’

‘Helping Mike and the kids move into their new home. I promised. But this goddam job – it just kills every plan you ever make . . .’

‘Mike understands that, Jacob. He’s a cop.’

‘Maybe he does. But Cody and Shana don’t.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘They’re six years old, Feleesh, and all they know is that I’m the godparent who never shows up for anything. Not for the move. Not when he took them sleigh riding at Whistler last Christmas—’

‘You were a little busy saving people from The Adder, Jacob.’

‘—and not tonight for the barbecue. Hell, I’m lucky I even made their mother’s funeral, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’

Striker broke away and approached the triage nurse. She was pretty. Long brown hair and big doe eyes. She looked dead tired – a fact that didn’t surprise Striker in the least. Nurses had just as bad shift schedules as cops. Given the fact it was now going on five-thirty p.m., the nurse was probably nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift. Who knew, maybe she was already working overtime.

She looked at Striker as if she had been warned he was coming, and offered him a wary smile.

‘Hello, Detective,’ she said.

Striker tried to be cordial. ‘I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens.’

‘Sharise?’ The triage nurse narrowed her eyes, then looked back at the large whiteboard behind her. ‘Just . . . one moment, please.’ She disappeared into the back, and when she returned five minutes later, an uncomfortable expression marred her pretty features. ‘I’m sorry, Detective. But there’s been a bit of a mistake here . . . Dr Owens isn’t in – and she hasn’t been all day.’

Striker let out an exasperated sound. ‘I just called down here.’

Felicia sensed his mood. She placed her hand on his forearm and took over the conversation. ‘We were told she was in surgery when we called—’

The nurse frowned. ‘Oh, that was probably the new girl you spoke to. She’s just learning the system and probably got confused by the whiteboard. You see, we have two Dr Owens at this hospital – one’s a trauma surgeon, the other’s a paediatrician.’

Felicia nodded. ‘So what you’re telling us is Dr Sharise Owens is not in today?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. She was supposed to be . . . but she’s missed her shift.’

Felicia asked, ‘Has anyone tried to make contact with her?’

The nurse nodded earnestly. ‘Oh yes, I have myself. Several times. But she’s not answering her cell phone.’

‘Is that unusual for her?’

‘Yes. But to be fair, Dr Owens worked an extended shift yesterday – almost twenty hours – so we figured she’d just gone home and crashed straight through. It does happen with the doctors from time to time, and it’s been a crazy day.’

Striker moved closer to the glass partition. ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Uh, ten years, I guess. Maybe eleven.’

‘And has Dr Owens worked here all that time?’

‘She’s been here for about seven of them, I believe.’

He nodded. ‘So in all those years, how many times has she no-showed for work?’

The girl’s cheeks reddened as she thought it over. ‘Well, not once, really. At least not that I’m aware of.’

‘Can you describe Dr Owens for us?’

The girl gave him an odd look. ‘Describe?’

‘Does she have high, prominent cheekbones?’

The girl nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes. And Dr Owens is very fit. She used to do those Ms Fitness pageants every year. And she’s also done the Ironman race in Kelowna three times. Finished in the top twenty.’

Striker thought it over. ‘Do you have a photograph of her in the computer? Or in her personnel file? Something we could see?’

The girl nodded. She typed the woman’s name into the computer and an image came up on the screen – a black woman with long, straight hair that tucked around her ears and had been dyed a lighter shade of brown. The bones of her face were well defined and her teeth looked near perfect. Capped, maybe. She was attractive and appeared confident. Strong.

‘I’ll need a copy of this,’ Striker said.

The girl looked uneasy. ‘Is . . . is everything all right?’

Striker barely heard the words. He was too busy staring at something else, and when he saw it, his stomach knotted up.

Behind the front counter, a woman was busy sorting through some medications. She was Asian, with thick red lipstick and a round pudgy face. But neither the woman, nor her medications, were what concerned Striker.

It was her uniform.

He pointed her out to the nurse. ‘Is she a doctor?’

The girl looked over. ‘Yes.’

‘Tell her to come here.’

The girl gave him a nervous look, but did as instructed. When the Asian doctor approached the front desk, the wired look in her eyes made Striker think she must’ve been on her thirteenth cup of coffee this shift. ‘You requested to see me, Officer?’

Striker only nodded. ‘Yes. Turn sideways.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Turn sideways. Please.’

The woman gave him a queer look, but turned.

There, on her shoulder, stitched into the side of her uniform, red on white, was the image of two snakes wrapped around a long staff, with wings extending from each side. The symbol was a caduceus – the ubiquitous emblem of the medical community. And the sight of it told Striker everything he needed to know.

He pointed the emblem out to Felicia and spoke gravely.

‘I think this may be it,’ he said. ‘What your witness saw on the woman in the barn – the winged tattoo.’

Twenty-Eight

Dr Sharise Owens did not have a private practice. So before leaving the hospital, Striker and Felicia demanded to see her office. The room was located at the other end of the facility, several floors up. When they finally reached it, Striker found himself disappointed.

The office was small and sparse. The only books that lined the shelves were medical texts. And all of the patient folders and tapes were stored in archives. A cursory search revealed nothing but standard stationery in the desk drawers – Workers Compensation Board charts, the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia templates, and numerous other forms from Medical Service Plan. Nothing significant.

Nothing that could lead them anywhere.

Striker turned on the computer and was happy to see there was no password protection lock. On the screen were three folders:

Patient Reports.

Research.

And Miscellaneous.

He went through all the folders and saw no surprises. In the folder marked Patient Reports, there were over a hundred names. Striker scanned through them, saw nothing that stood out, and emailed himself the list. In the folder labelled Research, there was a string of articles on new surgical techniques. And in the Miscellaneous folder, there were a few links to pro-choice websites, but nothing more.