She reached out and touched his face. Striker grabbed her around the waist and gently pulled her close and gave her a long soft hug. He buried his face in her hair. Breathed in. Smelled that familiar vanilla scent.
She felt so, so good. He never wanted to let go.
Felicia pushed him back softly. ‘Jacob, people are looking.’
‘Let them look,’ he said. ‘Hell, let’s give them a show.’
She laughed at that, then winced. ‘My ribs.’
When he finally pulled back from her, her cheeks were slightly red from blushing and she stood there looking awkward. Striker wanted to kiss her. Right there in the hospital.
But something else broke into his mind. He turned his eyes from Felicia to the rest of the unit and saw that each and every bed was already filled with someone he didn’t recognize. He frowned.
‘Where the hell is Dr Ostermann?’
Felicia frowned. ‘The good doctor checked himself out as quickly as he could. I told him to wait here for us, that we would need a written statement from him and all that, but he kept saying he was worried about his staff – it seemed like a line to me.’
‘A convenient one.’
‘Either way, he took off outta here once he was done. When the nurse was checking me over. He left.’
Striker didn’t like it. Honest men didn’t run. And he didn’t buy the fact that Ostermann was worried about his staff. For one, he didn’t seem like that kind of boss. For two, they’d already told him everyone was fine. He was about to comment on it when his cell went off. He looked down at the screen and saw the name Jim Banner displayed. He picked up.
‘What you got for me, Noodles?’
‘How’s Felicia?’ he asked.
‘She’s okay, she’s right here with me.’
Noodles let out a relieved sound, then got right down to business. ‘I managed to pull another print off the fridge in unit 305,’ he said. ‘A palm print.’
‘It comes back to Mercury, right?’
‘Actually, it comes back to no one.’
This startled Striker. Mercury was a soldier. His prints were on file. ‘You mean the print wasn’t good enough?’ he asked.
‘No, I mean the print doesn’t belong to Billy Mercury.’
Striker felt his mood darken a little further. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘That’s it.’
‘Then I’ll get back to you later.’
Striker hung up the phone and relayed the information to Felicia. She didn’t seem concerned one way or the other. ‘A thousand people might have been in that suite,’ she said. ‘We never knew for sure if the print belonged to the suspect. Obviously, it doesn’t.’
Striker said nothing; he wasn’t so sure. He stood there, brooding, and thought of everything from the bad print to the way Ostermann had run out of the hospital. And the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. After a long moment, he met Felicia’s stare again.
‘You done here?’ he asked.
‘I was twenty minutes ago.’
‘Good, then let’s go find Dr Ostermann . . . The man has a lot of explaining to do.’
The moment they were back in the cruiser, Striker started the engine and Felicia turned on the heater. The sun was still out, but just barely. It was half-past five, and the oncoming winter evening was invading everything in its path.
While the car warmed up, Striker brought Felicia up to speed on everything that had happened while she was being escorted to the hospital – everything from Laroche’s accusations of Officer-Created Jeopardy to the conflicting evidence he’d found inside Billy Mercury’s apartment. When he was done with the debrief, his mind felt more settled. More focused.
And specific facts stuck out.
He looked at Felicia. ‘So with the exception of the Risperidone – which is an antipsychotic, by the way – every other medication Billy was on is the exact same as those for Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan.’
She nodded absently as she thought this over. ‘But is that because they’re cookie-cutter referrals, or because each one of those patients suffered from the exact same disorder? Maybe those medications work most effectively in that combination.’
Striker bit his cheek as he thought. ‘That’s not what bothers me. What does is the preference of the drug type.’
‘I don’t follow.’
He explained. ‘There’s over a thousand types of mood stabilizers out there, but our victims and our bad guy were on the same type. And the same type of antidepressant as well.’
‘So? They were also all in the same programme.’
‘And therein lies the problem,’ Striker said. ‘Dr Ostermann is the one who runs the therapy group, this SILC or whatever the hell it’s called. And yet, with the exception of Billy, the one who’s providing all the medications is Dr Richter. Why is that?’
‘Is it really all that important?’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no. But this much is certain: Dr Richter is one of the main connections here – to Mandy and Sarah through their medications, and to Larisa through the counselling.’
‘And Billy?’
‘Indirectly through the Mapleview Clinic. With Ostermann. And all their rehabilitative programmes.’
Felicia nodded. ‘And no callback from Richter yet?’ she asked.
‘No, and I’ve left several messages. But in reality it’s only been twenty-four hours.’ Striker thought this over. ‘Maybe, in the end, there’s a logical answer to Richter and Ostermann being involved.’
‘There is. It’s called counselling,’ Felicia said.
Striker raised a hand defensively. ‘I’m not completely discounting their validity here, I’m just . . . analysing things. Carefully.’ Striker looked out of the window, at the sun which was now slowly falling in the west, into a darkening blue skyline. ‘There’s something else, too.’
‘What?’
‘The gun Mercury used. Dispatch broadcast that it was taken from one of the fallen officers.’
‘The unit on scene said that.’
Striker nodded. ‘Well, that was a mistake. It wasn’t even a SIG Sauer. Maybe a nine mil.’
Felicia nodded. ‘Then let’s trace it.’
Striker agreed. He got on the phone and called Noodles, hitting Speakerphone as it dialled. The technician answered on the second ring. ‘Shipwreck,’ he said.
‘The gun,’ Striker replied. ‘You have a chance to check it yet?’
‘Sure. It’s been almost two hours since the shooting, so the entire scene has been photographed, the body autopsied, the gun tested for ballistics – and oh yeah, I also discovered the cure for cancer.’
Felicia laughed at this; Striker did not.
‘I need the results on that gun, Noodles. And I need them quick.’
The man just laughed sourly. ‘Can’t run it through the registry anyway, if that’s what you’re thinking – there’s no serial.’
Striker cursed. He should have figured as much. ‘They filed it off?’
‘Filed and acid burned.’
‘Really?’ Striker thought this over. He said goodbye to Noodles and hung up the phone. Then he turned in the seat to face Felicia. ‘Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?’
‘What part?’
‘The whole thing. Billy somehow obtains a gun—’
‘Nothing surprising there. The guy was in the army. Did time overseas. He could probably get a rocket launcher, if he wanted one.’
‘Fine, fine, I’ll give him that. But then he files off the serial numbers and acid treats the metal.’
‘So?’
‘Two questions: one, would someone as delusional as Billy Mercury be focused on doing something like that in his current mental state? And two, why would he bother getting rid of the serial numbers in the first place? Did he think we’d never guess his identity? It was a suicide mission. He went toe-to-toe with us in a gun battle. Does it make sense from a psychological perspective?’
Felicia shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’m not a psychiatrist.’