So much had already been done, and so much was still required. Already, he had flagged the entire family – Gabriel, Lexa and even Dalia – on all the different systems: on PRIME, CPIC, and with even Customs and Interpol. He was taking no chances with this one.
The Adder could not escape again. He was a serial killer. And serial killers never stopped killing until one of two things happened – either they were caught, or they were killed.
Striker kicked the blankets off his legs and stood up. The first thing he did was grab his iPhone from the charger and read the screen. There were no new calls, and that was disappointing. He’d been hoping for something – for anything – from Larisa Logan.
But nothing had come in.
He dialled the number for Central Dispatch and was pleased to hear Sue Rhaemer’s voice: ‘CD.’
‘Shouldn’t you be off by now?’ Striker asked.
‘I already was,’ she groaned. ‘Got called in early. We’re short. The flu’s going round again.’
‘Anything on the file?’
‘Did I call you?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Then there’s your answer.’
Striker ignored her testiness and nodded as if she could see him. ‘Keep me informed, Sue.’
He hung up the phone, then left his bedroom and did the usual grind. He checked on Courtney, who was still fast asleep in her bed, then put on some coffee and swallowed some Tylenol for his injured hand, then he woke Felicia. By the time they had both showered and poured a cup, it was just after six a.m. and the morning was still dark.
‘You ready?’ he asked her.
She offered him an eager smile. ‘We’re gonna find him today. I can feel it.’
He hoped she was right.
A half-hour later – after picking up another coffee, this time a traditional Timmy’s brew – they were back at the Ostermann mansion. The sun was still asleep, the air was cold and the morning sky a deep purple smear. To Striker, it felt like they had never left the crime scene. Only now there was a patrol guard posted outside the front and back of the house. He badged the guard – some young kid he had never seen before – and went inside.
They went straight to Dr Ostermann’s office. The room had already been photographed by Ident, and during the subsequent search, all sorts of files and folders of interest had been boxed as evidence.
Striker pointed to the farthest row of boxes. They were all ready-made cardboard containers, each with the case number written in thick black felt on the sides.
‘You take that row,’ he said to Felicia. ‘I’ll take the one over there.’
Felicia sipped her coffee, then made her way over.
Striker opened up the closest box and leafed through the paperwork inside. There were mounds of the stuff. Everything from paid bills to case studies to back-ups of patient files. And Striker now wished they’d brought a thermos of coffee for the day.
They were gonna need it.
As Striker went through the boxes, he made sure he kept everything in order. Nothing was more frustrating as an investigator than realizing something you’d already read was now a critical piece of evidence, but you had no idea where you’d left it. It was a lesson learned once, and learned hard, and never repeated.
The process was slow and time-consuming. By the time Striker got to the fourth box, he considered running down the road to grab them both yet another cup of coffee. He was about to suggest it when Felicia made an interested sound.
He looked over. ‘What ya got?’
‘Look at this,’ she said.
She held up a thin white file folder. On it was a printed label with the words: Jonathon McNabb. But when she opened up the file, there were no patient reports, only a list of credit cards and bank accounts. Attached to the inside back cover was an envelope. Felicia opened it and pulled out several pieces of identification: a BC driver’s licence, a social insurance number card, even a birth certificate.
The picture on the driver’s licence showed Gabriel Ostermann.
‘Let me see that,’ Striker said.
He took the driver’s licence from Felicia and scrutinized it. Everything was done in perfect detail, from the writing on the front and back of the card to the authentic-looking hologram on the front.
‘Are they fakes?’ Felicia asked.
Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘These are pretty good. They might be legit.’
‘So then is Gabriel Ostermann’s real name Jonathon McNabb, or is he using someone else’s identity?’
‘Call your guy at the credit bureau. Will he be in yet?’
Felicia nodded. ‘They’re on eastern time.’
Less than two minutes later, she hung up the phone and gave Striker the nod. ‘Victim of identity theft,’ she said. She pulled another file out of the same box. The name on this file was Eleanor Kingsley. When she opened up the folder, everything inside was the same as in the last folder – credit card applications, bank accounts, gas cards, and more. Attached to the back of the folder was another envelope. From it, Felicia took another stack of identification cards. Only this time the face wasn’t Gabriel Ostermann’s, it was Lexa’s.
‘Run the name with your contact,’ Striker said.
She went through the process again. Two minutes later, they had another confirmed hit. Eleanor Kingsley had reported over seventy-eight thousand dollars in charges to credit cards she had never requested or received.
Striker saw the pattern.
‘They’re stealing everyone’s identities,’ he said. ‘And then taking them for every damn penny they can get from their credit. Bankrupting them.’ He looked at the box Felicia was holding. It was thick with folders. Probably contained more than fifty.
‘Look for Mandy Gill and Sarah Rose,’ he said.
It took Felicia less than thirty seconds to find both, and when she took the IDs from the two folders, it was the same thing all over again – only this time Lexa was Sarah Rose and Dalia was Mandy Gill.
Felicia couldn’t believe it. ‘My God, they’re a one-family crime ring.’
Striker looked at the row of boxes behind her and thought of all the file folders in each one. Eleanor Kingsley alone had been ripped off for more than seventy grand. Here they had boxes and boxes of file folders. Hundreds of victims.
The money count was mind-boggling.
Seventy-Nine
It was over two hours later, at quarter after nine in the morning, by the time Striker and Felicia left the Ostermann house. With them they took three cardboard boxes, jam-packed with file folders.
All possible victims of identify theft.
When they reached their vehicle, Felicia opened the trunk and Striker dropped the boxes inside. He closed the trunk, then took a moment to pull out his phone and call Courtney. She had an appointment booked with her OT this morning, and Striker wanted to make sure she attended.
The phone rang three times, then went to voicemail.
‘Get up, Pumpkin,’ he said. ‘I’m already at work and you got an appointment with Annalisa this morning. Ten o’clock, and don’t be late. I love you.’
He hung up the phone and went to put it away, but it vibrated against his hand. He looked down at the screen, expecting to see Courtney returning his call, but all he saw was a red number 1 over his phone icon.
A missed call.
He read the number and recognized it as Kirstin Dunsmuir’s. Which piqued his curiosity. The woman was a pill, and colder than a popsicle enema, but no one could question her work ethic. She had probably been at the lab all night long.
Fitting for a Death Goddess.
‘That was the medical examiner who called,’ he said.
Felicia made an ugh sound. ‘I don’t do Kirstin Dunsmuir before lunch.’