The Guilty by Sean Slater Read Free Book Online

we’re checking into right now.’
    The words didn’t appear to offer Campetti any comfort.
    Striker took the bracelet back and placed it in the evidence bag. He then gave Felicia the nod to leave.
    ‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said to Campetti. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
    A nervous expression still covered the jeweller’s face. He stood up as they opened the door. ‘If you need anything, just call.’
    Striker said he would, then closed the door behind them. Once in the hall, Felicia cocked an eyebrow at him.
    ‘St Paul’s Hospital?’ she asked.
    Striker nodded. ‘Time for a doctor’s appointment.’

Fourteen
    ‘Run her,’ was the first thing Striker said when they got back to the car.
    Know who you’re dealing with
: it was a standard rule he always went by – one learned from his first sergeant, once mentor, and now best friend Mike Rothschild.
    Information was the key; it opened new doors.
    Felicia ran the name Sharise Owens through the database. A few seconds later, the laptop beeped and the feed came back. On the screen was a list of names. There were three entities for Sharise
Owens. Two of them lived in the City of Vancouver, and one resided in Squamish.
    Felicia clicked on the first entity, saw a date of birth that equalled eighty-six years of age, and ruled the woman out. She then clicked on the second name – age forty-two – and the
entity popped up on the screen. Felicia pointed at the information in the Particulars section. ‘Look what it says right there. Trauma Surgeon. St Paul’s Hospital.’
    ‘Check if there are any tattoos listed.’
    Felicia did. Frowned.
    ‘None,’ she said.
    Striker wrote down all the listed telephone numbers. While Felicia read through the rest of the documented history, Striker began calling.
    The first number, listed as
Cell,
was no longer in use. The second number, listed as
Home,
rang three times and went straight to voicemail. Striker left a long message. The
third number, labelled
Work,
was the number for St Paul’s Hospital. Striker called it, and was soon transferred to the nurses’ station.
    ‘It’s Detective Striker,’ he explained, ‘with the Vancouver Police Department’s Homicide Unit. I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens. She’s a trauma surgeon
there.’
    The nurse’s tone gave away her weariness. ‘One second, Detective.’
    For a moment, the line clicked and Striker was stuck listening to pop music. John Secada or Marc Antony – he wasn’t sure. Then the line clicked again and the nurse returned.
‘I’m sorry. But Dr Owens isn’t in just yet.’
    ‘When does she get in?’
    ‘Her shift starts at eleven.’
    Striker looked at his watch.
An hour and a half
. ‘Do you have another number I can reach her at?’ When the nurse made an uncomfortable sound, Striker read off the numbers he
already had. ‘Are there any others?’
    ‘No, those are the same ones we have here.’
    ‘Does she hang out with any of the other doctors or nurses?’
    The woman made a doubtful sound. ‘Dr Owens doesn’t really socialize with anyone – she’s a very private person . . . but I’ll ask around for you.’
    ‘I’ll wait.’
    ‘Just give me a minute, Detective.’ After another long moment, the nurse came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, but no one has seen her. And the only emergency contact we
have is her cell phone number.’
    Striker found that odd. ‘No family or friends?’
    ‘None.’
    He let out a long breath, debated in his mind. ‘I need her to call me the moment she arrives.
The moment
. Understand?’
    ‘Yes, yes of course.’
    He gave the nurse his cell number, hung up, and then turned to Felicia.
    ‘I’m shooting zeroes here. Anything on your end?’
    She looked up from the laptop. ‘No. Same here, I’m afraid. The woman has no known associates. Not even one family member. From what I can tell, she’s the only daughter of
deceased parents . . . I say we flag her.’
    Striker agreed. Flagging was the