The lots became large and more secluded. Driveways were flanked by tall rows of old-growth cedars, and most of the mansions were barely visible behind the gated driveways and high stone walls. Every house had a veranda that stared out over the cold deep waters of the strait below.
Striker looked out over those waterways. They appeared like polished black stone, matching the cloudless night sky. Beyond them was the city of Vancouver, all lit up and busy. Just another weekday night in a city buzzing with night life.
He drove slowly down the long swerving slope of hill, until he spotted the address they were looking for on the left. A small driveway compared to the others, almost hidden by the trees.
‘It feels so secluded out here,’ Felicia said. ‘Like we’re out in the middle of nowhere – yet the city’s just a ten-minute drive away. It’s beautiful.’
‘And costs a fortune. That’s why only doctors and lawyers and celebrities live here.’
He turned the car up the driveway and stopped on a small, round parking area. They got out. The house before them was not as plush as the others but, in this neighbourhood, ‘not plush’ still meant worth millions.
Out front, the alcove lights suddenly turned on and the front door opened. Standing in the doorway was a woman of maybe thirty years, dressed in a sombre black dress jacket and matching skirt. She had soft brown hair that was long, but tied up in a bun. A strong but pretty face. And confident eyes that held Striker’s gaze without a moment’s nervousness.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I’m Dr Richter. I’ve been expecting you.’
Moments later, after they were all inside and introductions had been made, they moved into a small sunken den that overlooked the pool area outside and, beyond that, the cliffs over the strait. On the coffee table was a bowl of ripe mandarin oranges. The smell of them filled the room.
Striker sat down in a leather EZ Boy recliner, directly across from Dr Richter, who took the loveseat. In between them, on a matching sofa, sat Felicia.
‘Nice place,’ Striker offered.
Dr Richter tucked one leg under the other and smoothed out her skirt. ‘It’s my uncle’s,’ she replied. ‘The rent is good and he lives just across the street, which is perfect for me since I’m away much of the time. He keeps an eye on things for me.’
‘Were you away yesterday?’ Striker asked. ‘I left you several messages.’
‘Yes, and I apologize for not getting back to you sooner. I hadn’t bothered to check my messages since the day before. And then, all day long, I was flying back from New York.’
‘Conference?’ Felicia asked.
Dr Richter shook her head. ‘I have family out there. I visited a little bit, did the mandatory social thing. But I was really there to assess the area. I’m considering opening a private practice there. The money is triple what I can make here, and the taxes less than half.’
‘That’s quite a difference,’ Felicia remarked.
‘It’s a difference of fifteen years – retiring at fifty versus sixtyfive.’ Dr Richter gave them both a quick look, then spoke again. ‘I didn’t get into this profession for the love of psychiatry,’ she said bluntly. ‘I entered this field to make a lot of money, to retire young and still enjoy life.’
‘And yet you choose to work for EvenHealth,’ Striker pointed out.
‘Yes,’ she admitted, as if not making the connection.
He explained. ‘They’re government subsidized, and Dr Ostermann has built his reputation on helping out the poorest of patients. I’m sure the government don’t pay anywhere near what the private practices pay – especially in this area.’
‘They don’t,’ Dr Richter replied. ‘I’m not working at EvenHealth for the money, I’m there for the experience. Dr Ostermann’s name reaches to far places. Plus, I wanted to see how he had put together the programme. My goal in New York is to start my own private programme with doctors working for me. That’s where the money is.’
Striker found the woman interesting. Blunt and brutally honest, but interesting. Charming, even. He pulled out his notebook and leafed back through the pages until he came to what he was looking for.
‘You prescribed medications to some patients,’ he began. ‘Exact same kind and dosage.’ He reached out to show her what he had written in his notebook; she read the names and medications listed on the page.
‘These patients, were they part of EvenHealth?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Enrolled in the SILC classes.’
Dr Richter made an ahh sound. ‘The group sessions. Social Independence and Life Coping skills.’ She smiled. ‘One of Dr Ostermann’s ten-step programmes. It is aimed primarily at bipolar patients, for the most. A few of the patients have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Lexapro and Effexor are common treatments for this. They more often than not work extremely well, especially when taken together. For any more detail than that, I’d have to check my files.’
‘You don’t recognize your own prescriptions?’ Striker asked.
Dr Richter laughed bemusedly. ‘Detective, please. Between my work with EvenHealth and the other clinics, I’ve treated over seven hundred patients in the last year. Each one of them is on as many as ten different medications. That’s seven thousand medications in total. Do you honestly think I remember them all?’
‘Sounds like mass production.’
‘It sounds like money,’ she said brazenly. ‘I’ve already told you, I never joined this profession for the long hours and the constant lack of progress, I joined it to make money. Cold, hard cash. And I intend on being retired on a beach in Jamaica by the time I’m forty.’
Striker ignored that. ‘I’m less concerned about the medication types and more concerned about the patient names,’ Striker said. ‘Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan, in particular.’
Dr Richter said nothing for a moment. Her eyes took on a faraway look and her face remained expressionless. In that moment, she looked older. And much more experienced. Clinical.
‘I have a vague recollection of the group,’ she finally said. ‘And I’m not overly comfortable discussing them, especially not without perusing the file first – remember, I was only a fill-in for the group when Dr Ostermann could not be present.’
‘Larisa Logan,’ he pressed.
Dr Richter gave him a cold look, but then spoke anyway. ‘Her, I do remember. She was a Victim Services worker, if I recall correctly.’
‘She was,’ Striker confirmed. ‘Her family was killed in a car accident. She suffered a breakdown.’
‘Yes, I remember Larisa Logan. She was a kind and genuine person. I felt for her.’
Striker doubted that, but said nothing.
‘Larisa is missing,’ Felicia interjected. ‘And we’re desperate to find her – not for any criminal reasons, but for her own safety.’
Dr Richter’s face took on a confused look. ‘I don’t understand, why are you here talking to me?’
Striker blinked. ‘Are you not her doctor?’
‘No. Not at all. As I already explained, I was only an interim doctor for the SILC classes. I never worked with any of the patients during private sessions – there’s no money there.’
‘Then who was Larisa’s doctor?’ Felicia asked.
‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’
Striker leaned forward in his chair. ‘Let me get this straight here. Other than the odd fill-in day here and there, you never worked with Larisa?’
‘Of course not. She was Dr Ostermann’s patient, and his alone. He was quite . . . possessive of her, really. His own personal project.’
Striker looked at Felicia and saw the tightness of her expression. He steered the conversation back to other matters – whether Dr Richter had ever used any experimental medication on the patients, whether she had any connections to the army, and whether she ever did any work at Riverglen Mental Health Facility.