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:

Pharmasave.

Prescription number: 1079880 – MVC.

Quantity: 50 tablets.

Dispensary date: Jan 28th.

‘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:

I, Parminder Sanghera, have been informed of the possible threat to the life of Dr Erich Ostermann, and deny Detective Jacob Striker of the Homicide Unit of the Vancouver Police Department the medical information requested (prescription history of Mandilla ‘Mandy’ Gill), with full understanding of the possible consequences (loss of life) involved.

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.

Nineteen

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.