‘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.

Twenty

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.

‘You need to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth to live here,’ Striker noted. ‘This is wealth.’

Felicia didn’t respond, she just kept reading through the files. Finally, she made an ugh sound and slapped the laptop.

‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Striker said.

‘It isn’t good,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been researching this Erich Ostermann guy the entire way here. And aside from driving like an idiot, the man is a five-star human being.’

Striker put the car into Park. ‘Lay it out for me.’

So she did.

‘According to all the files I see here, Erich Ostermann is a psychiatrist well-respected in his profession. He’s won numerous awards for Clinical Leadership and Outstanding Community Support. But his real claim to fame is that he’s the doctor who started EvenHealth.’

‘EvenHealth . . . I’ve heard of that.’

‘You should have. It’s everywhere. Essentially, it’s a platform for equal access for marginalized people who are suffering from mental health disorders.’

‘So it’s treatment for the poor.’

‘Exactly. And Dr Ostermann is the Grand Poobah of the whole thing. EvenHealth is his brainchild.’ She read on. ‘So he works privately in his own practice as well as for the government-subsidized Riverglen Mental Health Facility out in Coquitlam.’

‘Busy man.’

‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘Ostermann further donates time to the Strathcona Mental Health Team – which is where we were earlier, down on Heatley Avenue – and works in the more impoverished areas of the city, mainly the projects on Raymur Street and Hermon Drive.’ She looked over at him. ‘All in all, it’s the résumé of a reputable and amazing man.’

‘Who works with a lot of mentally ill people,’ Striker added. ‘Some of whom are very violent.’

Felicia met his stare. ‘You think the guy you fought with might be one of his patients?’

‘He might be a lot of things.’

Felicia said nothing back; she just flipped through the electronic pages, then let out a bemused laugh. ‘Christ, Ostermann even donates to the PMBA.’

That made Striker pause. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘I wish I was, but no.’

He grimaced. The PMBA was the Police Mutual Benevolent Association. Money from the PMBA went to helping out cops who were down on their luck, and towards special police projects that would have been otherwise fiscally impossible. Inspector Laroche was heavily involved with the PMBA, too. Striker wondered if he and Ostermann had ever crossed paths.

Felicia closed the laptop. ‘All in all, this lead is feeling more and more abysmal.’

Striker reached over and re-opened the laptop. ‘A résumé means nothing. Colonel Russell Williams was commander of our country’s largest air force. He was a highly decorated officer and a good husband for nineteen years – but that didn’t stop him from killing innocent women while wearing their bras and panties.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe nothing. That’s the way it is. And at this point, no one is accusing Dr Ostermann of anything – he’s just a Person of Interest. But I will tell you this: how he answers our questions will tell us as much as what he tells us. Will he be honest, or will he lie? That’s always the question.’

Striker put the car back into Drive and drove up to the gates. He hit the intercom, and they waited for the response.

‘Hello?’ a woman finally asked.

Striker shoved his badge up to the camera lens that was built right into the stone wall and spoke loudly.

‘Vancouver Police,’ he said. ‘We need to speak with Dr Erich Ostermann.’

Striker and Felicia were allowed into the house by the doctor’s wife. Striker gave her the once-over, taking his time as he did so. Lexa Ostermann was a beautiful woman. Thick straight hair the colour of honey fell down past her shoulders, framing a face of creamy skin and deep brown eyes. When she offered him a smile, Striker felt her magnetism pull him in. It was impossible not to feel it. Even in her mid-forties, Lexa Ostermann was elegant and breathtaking – no doubt the perfect trophy wife for her husband’s professional parties.

She met Striker’s stare. ‘Right this way, Detective.’

She led them from the entrance hallway to a small library. The room was dark – wooden walls, wooden floor, and wooden shelves. Soft golden track lighting lined the ceiling. In the far corner of the room, next to the bay window, sat a gas fireplace. Lexa Ostermann flicked the button on the wall, and flames shot up behind the glass.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Be comfortable. The doctor will be with you shortly.’

Striker detected a slight accent. ‘Czech?’ he asked.

She smiled at the comment. ‘Let’s just say European. It sounds more modern.’ She reached out and touched his shoulder. ‘I must say, though, I am impressed, Detective. You have a good ear.’

‘I have a good many things.’

She smirked. ‘I’m sure you do.’ When Striker said nothing back, she touched his shoulder again and continued talking. ‘I came over here when I was very young. I’m surprised you heard my accent at all – most people don’t.’

‘I’m not most people.’

She laughed again. ‘I can see that.’

‘Will your husband be here soon?’ Felicia cut in.

‘My husband . . .’ Lexa Ostermann nodded slowly and the smile fell from her lips. ‘Of course.’ She turned around and walked out of the library. At the doorway, she stopped, fidgeted with her hands and turned back to face them. She looked directly at Striker and the confident look in her eyes seemed to fade. She suddenly seemed smaller and weaker. Concerned.

‘Is . . . is everything all right, Detective?’ she asked.