Snakes & Ladders (19 page)

Striker looked over. ‘What do you mean, hmm?’

‘There was an actual CAD call created for Larisa’s place, just this morning.’

‘This morning, or yesterday morning?’

Felicia looked up. ‘
This
morning.’ She read through the call. ‘It was made by Car 87. Bernard Hamilton. So not only did they run her but they went right out there to Larisa’s place.’

‘They actually attended the residence?’

‘Yeah, they’re listed as On Scene.’ Felicia scanned the call. ‘The narrative is basically a shell. There’s no information in it. Just a time arriving on scene and then clearing.’

‘What kind of call was it?’

‘A Check Well-Being.’

‘Does it actually show them arriving on scene? By GPS?’

‘Yeah, the time was logged.’

Striker frowned. That was the second CAD call created by the mental health car for Larisa Logan. And in just two days. It bothered him, mainly because Bernard Hamilton was not that dedicated a man. If he had attended Larisa’s place twice in two days – and at such an early time this morning – there was a good reason for it.

He considered just calling Bernard and asking him outright, but the man could be a snake. Striker wanted to do some of his own digging first, and he wanted to speak to the man in person, not over the phone. Face-to-face meetings always told cops more.

So much communication was non-verbal.

‘Where to?’ Felicia asked.

Striker cranked the wheel and hit the gas. ‘Burnaby,’ he said. ‘We’re going back to Larisa’s house. I have a feeling we’ve missed something.’

‘I’m liking Bernard Hamilton less and less,’ Striker said as he drove across the Boundary Road perimeter and entered the City of Burnaby. ‘And I never liked him in the first place, so that says a lot.’

‘Maybe he’s just respecting Larisa’s privacy,’ Felicia suggested.

Striker cast her a hard glance. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Feleesh. Bernard Hamilton does nothing that doesn’t serve his own purpose. We’re out here trying to save this woman, and he knows that. Yet he’s done nothing to help us. If anything, he made things harder.’

He drove up Willingdon, turned east on Parker Street, and made his way down to Larisa’s rancher. Seeing it felt odd. The last time he’d been here, it had been night, deep and dark. Now, in the soft hue of the nine o’clock morning light, with pale blue sky backing the lot, the entire place looked different. The vinyl siding was actually painted a dark blue colour, not grey, and the slab of stucco above the vinyl was an off-cream colour, dirtied and worn from time. Inside the front room, the window drapes were pulled shut.

Striker looked at this and frowned.

‘Did Car 87 make entry?’ he asked.

Felicia skimmed the computer. ‘The call says no.’

‘Then she’s been home.’

He climbed out of the car and felt his shoes slip on the frosted asphalt. When he reached the sidewalk, Felicia got out, too. They hiked up the cement walkway to the front alcove, where Striker hesitated.

The door wasn’t closed, like he’d originally thought; it was open a crack. Before leaving last night, he had made sure the door was closed and the entire place locked.

‘Be ready,’ he told Felicia.

When she nodded and took her position on the left, Striker knocked on the door. Three solid knocks.

‘Larisa!’ he called out. ‘It’s Detective Striker from the Vancouver Police Department. It’s Jacob. Are you home?’

When no one answered, he pushed the door open and looked inside. The moment he did, the winter wind picked up and pushed the door all the way open. What he saw surprised him.

The place had been torn apart. Looked damn near ransacked. All the coats had been removed from the closet and were lying on the floor, pockets pulled open. All the drawers to the hutch had been pulled out, with the contents of each one dumped on the kitchen floor. And in the living room, all the cushions from the sofa had been torn off and the underside felt cut away.

‘
Someone
made entry here,’ Striker said. He drew his pistol and stepped inside the foyer; Felicia did the same. Three steps later, he stopped.

‘Take the rear,’ he said.

‘Outside?’

‘Yeah. If someone’s in here, they’re going to fly.’

An uncertain expression formed on Felicia’s face. ‘We should get another unit here, Jacob. A dog, maybe.’

‘There’s no time.’

‘But—’

‘I can clear the place, Feleesh, just take the rear.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You need two people. It’s not safe.’

Striker said nothing for a moment, he just met her stare, saw that her mind was made up, and he nodded.

‘Okay, together then, but now.’

She nodded.

They moved throughout the house, calling out police presence as they went. What they found in the kitchen and bedroom was no different to what they’d found in the living room. It had been torn apart – drawers opened, cupboards searched, and everything dumped on the floor. Left on the ground was everything from money and jewellery to papers and underwear.

In the office, the filing cabinet had been emptied. Everything had been rifled through, yet nothing had been damaged.

It was a
search
, not a mischief.

Striker made a mental note of what they saw, room by room.

They cleared the entire place. Made sure no one was still there, hiding in one of the closets, or in the crawl space. They even checked the attic. Then, when they were certain no one was left in the house, Felicia called Dispatch and had a call created for a Break and Enter.

She hung up and looked around at the mess of the living room. ‘It doesn’t look like anything’s been taken,’ she noted. ‘You know, this might not be a Break and Enter. This might be more of Larisa’s mental breakdown.’

Striker met her stare. ‘You think Larisa did all this?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe. Who knows what her state of mind is right now? The house was a pigsty when we got here yesterday. Cupboards were open then. Papers left lying about. Clothes everywhere. Today is the same, only worse.’

Striker shook his head. ‘Not this. This is different.’

Felicia just looked around and studied the room. ‘I’m playing devil’s advocate here. But you’ve got to admit, she’s been doing a lot of weird stuff lately.’

‘Someone else was here, Feleesh. And whoever they were, they were looking for something
important
.’ He moved through the living room and studied the contents dumped out of the drawers. On the carpet, in the middle of the floor, was an open DVD case. It caught his attention.

It was empty.

He looked around, saw no disc, then moved back to the office. On the floor in the office were more empty cases. He looked all around the room and again could not find the missing discs.

‘He took the DVDs,’ he said. ‘The DVDs are the only thing I can see missing.’

Felicia looked around the place, then frowned. ‘Lots of things don’t add up here, Jacob.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like Larisa running, for one. I mean, I can see her running from a home invader, or even the psychiatric ward, but not from
us
. Think about it. You’re her friend; she was calling you. Asking for your help. So why not just come forward to the police if she knows something? Why run?’

Striker put his pistol back into its holster as he thought this over. Larisa running. Bernard acting all strange. Coming to her place. Twice, in fact.

A sinking feeling hit him in the chest.

‘I got an idea why,’ he finally said.

Despite the bad traffic and icy road conditions, they made the drive from Larisa’s house in Burnaby all the way down to the Main Street headquarters in less than twenty minutes. Once on scene, they parked out back in the east lane – only rookies parked out front; that was where every complainant waited for the next poor patrol guy to appear.

They walked past the annexe and into the main building, then took the stairs up to the third floor. The concrete walls were painted a God-awful yellow colour. It was supposed to make the building brighter, more cheery, but there was no colouring up this place. It was one huge, depressing slab, and the paint looked like piss.

Striker had always hated it.

He reached the third floor. This was the primary information area. Records. Crown Liaison. CPIC – the Canadian Police Information Center. Transcription. And of course, Warrants.

Striker fished the key from his pocket. All the other doors in the building had been upgraded with the swipe-card system, but not here. This door still used the old-fashioned lock and key, and half the time, the lock was buggered. Striker slid the key in, fiddled with the lock, then yanked the heavy door open.

Inside, the floor was covered with brown threadbare carpet. Matching this were tinted brown windows on every wall. Above their heads, bare fluorescent tubes hummed in the cold winter air. Felicia squinted against the glare of one of them and cursed. ‘The quicker they demolish the building, the better,’ she said. ‘Why the hell are we here anyway?’

‘To see Lilly.’

‘Lilly? That old battleaxe? God, why?’

‘Confirmation.’

Before she could ask more, Striker walked ahead, circling Records and bypassing the other units, most of which were nothing more than ramshackle cubicles with inkjet-printed signs:
TRANSCRIPTION. CPIC. CROWN.

As always, the entire floor was busy with people running this way and that, and the never-ending sound of keyboard clicks and phone trills filled the air. The floor was run entirely by women, and the high-pitched chatter of female voices was like backdrop music.

When they reached Warrants, Striker spotted Lilly. As always, her hair was brushed too high and she had plastered on too much make-up – a common occurrence that seemed to be worsening with every new-found wrinkle on her face.

They reached her cubicle, but Lilly ignored them and kept typing. When Striker cleared his throat and asked, ‘Still happy as always, Sunshine?’ she looked up with a pissed-off expression covering her face. Then, as recognition filled her eyes, she stopped typing and smiled.

‘Well, I shoulda known trouble was coming. Got my period first thing this morning.’

‘So I’m off the hook then?’

Lilly snorted more than laughed, and Striker moved up to the cubicle. He pushed the drop-off bins out of the way and leaned his arm on the top of the counter. Lilly glanced at the drop-off bins and scowled.

‘Knock those off and I’ll knock you off,’ she said.

Felicia crossed her arms in irritation, but Striker just smiled, amused.

Lilly was an old-timer up here. Pushing sixty-five, she had long since passed the eighty-factor quota required in order for her to retire with a full pension. Still, she hung around in this dingy office, chugging away like an old diesel engine that refused to break down.

In the harsh, artificial light of the office, her face looked tired. Her eyelids drooped down over her cold blue eyes and her hair, which was sometimes dyed brown or even red, had grown long enough to show grey roots.

‘What do ya want, Shipwreck?’ she asked.

‘Warrants. The freshest you got.’

When Lilly gestured to the bin, Striker made an
uh-uh
sound. ‘The freshest, Lilly. And not just the criminal ones – I want them all.’

She made a weary sound, then struggled to her feet. ‘You’re always work,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’ She grabbed her cane – required ever since her hip surgery – and wandered off down the hall.

Striker watched her go and smiled; Lilly never changed.

‘God, she’s a miserable old witch,’ Felicia said.

‘Hey, be nice. That’s just Lilly.’

‘No, that’s just you – making excuses for everyone. Like you always do. She’s a hag, half the time. And she’s well past her retirement factor. Why doesn’t she just quit, for God’s sake?’

Striker turned to face Felicia. ‘Because she has nowhere else to go in her life. No kids. No family. And her husband died six years ago. Lilly doesn’t even have a dog. This is it for her. If she ever left here, what would she do?’

‘Get a life maybe. Take some personality classes.’

Striker said nothing back. Felicia was right, in part; Lilly could be grumpy and annoying and even overbearing at times. But the woman had a good heart. You just needed to know how to melt the layers of ice around it.

He was about to say more when Lilly came hobbling back. Her face was tight and her hip looked to be paining her. When she reached the cubicle she muttered, ‘Here,’ and slammed the pile of papers down on the counter. ‘Any fresher and I’d have to slap it.’

Striker picked up the pile and started paging through it.

‘What are you looking for?’ Felicia asked.

‘Larisa Logan.’ He handed her half the stack. ‘Get looking.’

‘In warrants? She may have issues, but she’s no crook, Jacob.’

‘I know that, Feleesh. Just look.’

Felicia said nothing more. She licked her thumb, then started paging through the different warrants. They were both halfway done when she made a surprised sound and held up one of the papers.

‘I got it. She’s right here.’

Striker put down the stack of papers he was sifting through and moved closer to Felicia. He scanned the top of the warrant and found the words he was looking for:
Form 21
.

He pointed this out to Felicia.

‘A Director’s Warrant?’ she said.

He nodded. Now it all made sense.

A Director’s Warrant was the medical equivalent of an arrest warrant. Essentially, it gave police the legal right – and the
duty
– to apprehend someone under the Mental Health Act. A Form 21 meant that a psychiatrist had ordered one of their patients to be returned to their care for further mental health assessment. Which, half the time, was politically correct jargon for imprisoning and medicating the hell out of them.

To Striker, the Form 21 signified one thing. It was proof that Larisa had gone over the edge – so far, that her own doctor believed she was now possibly a threat to herself or to others.

It made him deflate a little.

‘This is why she’s run away from us,’ he said. ‘She knows about the medical warrant. It’s why she wants our help but won’t come forward.’