The garage door was up, and I stood in the opening and watched the tiny wisps rise from the puddles in my driveway as I sipped the coffee. I could feel the hot sun baking my forearms as I stepped outside. Carla rolled into the driveway on her brother’s sport bike. The front wheel came to a stop about an inch from my boots. I wondered where her bike was.
“Out of the way. We need to talk, and I really don’t want anyone seeing this bike in your driveway.” She spoke through an open helmet visor. Guess she wanted her bike seen here even less than I did.
I moved, and she eased the gixxer inside. I punched the button on the control box on the wall, and the door slid down. Being seen with me wouldn’t help her career. Being seen with her could be a little more complicated for me. The club knew who she was. This wasn’t the time for me to be hanging with cops.
“So, what have you got?” I asked as she leaned the sport bike over on its side stand behind my Harley.
“Some good news, maybe. Inspector MacIntosh may not file charges against you.”
She took a step toward my cut hanging on its hook beside the workbench.
“So far no one knows about that.” She pointed at the Stallion patch. “If you don’t put it back on, we may be able to get you back on the job when this is over.”
“I’m not sure I want to go back.” I didn’t want to get into that discussion. “You sure about MacIntosh? He looked like he was set to hang my badge on his trophy wall. I gave him everything he needs and then some.”
“He can’t look too eager. You lost your brother, and the media have gone ape shit. They are already saying the Pope should make Greg a saint. Hard to fire the hero brother of a saint. The chief is leaning on Superintendent Surette, too.” She ran her finger along the outer edge of the Stallion patch as she spoke. “He thinks he can get her on our side and she’ll keep the inspector quiet. He even asked me to write out what MacIntosh had done to help Greg and Blair during the attack. I told him what I saw you do while MacIntosh was hiding in that elevator. He is really pissed. He’s still in your corner, Cam, so don’t screw it up.”
“So why are you worried about your brother’s bike being seen in my driveway?”
“Because the chief told me, all of us, to stay away from you until we catch the shooter. He doesn’t want you doing anything he can’t undo. Like this.” She slapped the patch. I let it slide.
“Anything on the shooter?” I asked.
“We have a lead. Looks like the Russian mob was gunning for Blair.”
“The Russians?” I didn’t see that coming.
“Yes. MacIntosh brought it to the briefing yesterday. Blair had the file on that big ecstasy bust at the port. Cost them millions. Apparently, the tip came in the morning before the shooting.”
“They knew Blair was a target?” Rage flared inside. I’d kill MacIntosh.
“No, no. The tip came from some snitch in Vancouver. No one thought the target was on this coast.”
I wanted to believe it. A Russian hit was something I could live with. I’d still hunt down the shooter, but at least Greg’s death wasn’t my fault. Blair’s bust was big by any standard. More than two tonnes packed into a container, seven-million pills worth a fortune on the street. That had to hurt the Russians.
“I don’t know. Losing product in a bust is part of doing business, even to those guys,” I said.
“Used to be. Maybe things are changing. Hope not. Anyway, right now MacIntosh has all resources focused on it. It’s the only thing we have.”
She looked at me. We both knew that was a mistake. No investigation should take a single focus. Not this early. Not ever.
We burned up a half hour kicking around the Russian angle. Trouble was, it fit perfectly, and it didn’t fit at all. We needed more information. Carla leaned against my bike, half sitting in the saddle, her boot on the front peg as she sipped her coffee. I sat on the workbench. Seeing her on my bike felt good.
“Anything on the Escalade?” I asked.
“We got a break. Someone boosted one from long-term parking at the airport a couple of hours before the shooting. Description fits, right down to the black-and-chrome rims. Sounds like the one MacIntosh saw. Might get lucky with video surveillance from the airport.” She walked over to the table where I keep the coffee machine and poured herself another cup.
“There was a black Escalade torched out in Herring Cove Saturday night. Might be the one.” I watched her turn.
“What? How do you know that? Are you working this thing? The chief will freak.”
“I’m going to work it, Carla, just like you would.” I pointed to the gixxer. “What if that had been your brother we were trying to save Saturday night? You saying you’d sit it out?”
“I can’t imagine what this is like. If it had been my brother, I just don’t know. I’m afraid if you find the shooter, you’ll take him out.”
“Maybe I’ll give him the first shot.” We both knew it was a lie.
“Tell me about the car.”
“It can’t come from me.”
“I know, I know. The chief won’t have any idea.”
“I don’t give a shit about the chief. I can’t have the club find out I’m talking to a cop about it.”
She looked at me, and I saw something shift. A subtle change of light in her eyes, and then it was gone.
“That’s right. I’m just another rat worried about his own ass.” We were standing on opposite sides of my Harley now, a little over a metre apart. The border marked two sides of the law.
“Damn it, Cam, that’s not fair. That’s not what I was thinking. It just sounded strange hearing you talk like that. You’re not that guy anymore.”
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever stopped being that guy. You can run, but you just can’t hide. A familiar sound rattled the garage door, a string of small explosions. I knew the sound of Gunner’s bike gearing down. Running or hiding was out of the question. Carla looked at the door and then at me, fear in her eyes.
“It’s Gunner,” I said.
“Will you be okay? Will we?” She had that why-did-I-leave-my-gun-home look. Probably the same look I’d had in the parking garage. The banging and popping stopped as Gunner’s bike slowed to a crawl near my house. The sudden growl of an engine under load told me he was pulling into the driveway now.
“He’s my brother, Carla, we’ll be fine. Just act pissed off about the patch. He thinks you’re my ol’ lady. He’ll figure you’re out of line, and it’s my place to set you straight.” I pulled my cut over my shoulders.
“I won’t have to act. The patch has to go, Cam, you know it. Now tell me about that Escalade. Who burned it, and where?”
“If I help you, are you going to return the favour?” The engine grew louder as the bike approached the garage door, and then the sound died with a muted cough. I figured we had maybe thirty seconds before he would open the side door of the garage and walk in. He never entered my house through the front door. Last few years, he rarely entered it at all.
“Jesus, Cam, you can’t blackmail me. Give me what you have, and we’ll find the guy. I’ll pull the car apart myself. I’ll find trace.”
“That’s the deal, Carla, take it or leave it.”
“Fine. I’ll let you know what I find. Now where is the damn thing?”
“It may be missing a few parts; I’ll help you with that when I can. For now, check out the spot near the cliffs out by Hospital Point.”
“The cable station?”
“Yes, about a kilometre north of there where the old service road is.”
“Yeah, I know it.”
“Well, what’s left of it, should be there.”
The side door of the garage opened, and Gunner walked in, a broad smile on his face. It was gone as soon as he recognized Carla.
She pulled my face to hers, kissing me quickly on th
e lips.
“You know how I feel. Now open the door. I’m leaving.” She nodded at Gunner and pulled her helmet over her head as she straddled the sport bike. I raised the door and watched her roll the bike into the sunlight. I knew the kiss was for Gunner’s benefit, just selling the ol’ lady thing. Meant nothing, meant everything. I watched as she pulled away.
“Hey, little bro, what’s a cop doing in the house?” Gunner walked up beside me to watch her go.
“She’s trying to convince me I’m making a mistake. I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again.”
“No, you won’t. Nomad or not, that comes from a club officer.”
“What did you find out?” I didn’t like him telling me what I could or couldn’t do, but there was no point in arguing.
“Not enough. Not yet, anyway. T. J. called this morning. Says he talked to the guys who stripped it. They say no one was at the warehouse when the thing got dumped. We’re going to have to get Williams to chase this down.”
“The prospect? He’s a moron.” Jimmy Williams was a psychopath and a narcissist. He’d make a good fit with the other Stallion patches. But he was also an idiot. There was no way I would depend on him when it came to tracking Greg’s killer.
“He’s a dumb cunt, yeah, but the Litter Box Boys are scared shitless of him. He puts out the word, they’ll find out who dumped it faster than we can.”
“So what do we do? Sit here and wait?”
“Nope. Fire it up. I gotta make a cash pickup in the South End, and then we hit the house. Yves is there to see you, so let’s ride.”
We rolled down Gottingen Street into the North End after Gunner’s pit stop for club cash at a Stallion-owned pool hall. Heading into the North End through Gottingen is like moving through a gateway from one Halifax to the other. On the south end of Gottingen, we passed the squat brick bunker of police headquarters. It sits in the shadow of Citadel Hill. The fortress built by the cops and the fort built by Cornwallis keep the poverty of the north from flowing into the moneyed neighbourhoods in the deep south. We slipped through a set of lights and into the gay village with its trendy shops and restaurants. The breeze played with the ribbons of a faded rainbow heart woven into a fence. A tribute to a popular social activist who’d been beaten to death in the middle of Gottingen. I remembered that foggy morning, the blood on the street, the fear in the gay community. Remembered how quickly the fear left, replaced by hope and love, even forgiveness. I’d never seen that after a murder, before or since then.
We rode a few blocks further north where bloodstains are just part of the pavement. No heart-shaped tributes dangling here, no candles, no flowers, no hope, and definitely no forgiveness. A hard-core twelve-year-old slinging rock on a corner flashed the handgun symbol as we approached. His baggy pants hung lower than the usual street style; he had no hips to catch them.
That’s where the cruiser lit up in my rear-view. I eased the bike over to the side of the road and saw a second cruiser slide to a stop at the curb on the opposite side of the street just ahead of us. The little dealer grabbed his pants as he scrambled into the Uniacke Square housing project. I knew what was happening. My Nomad patch was new on the street and had to be checked. Guy behind me spotted it, radioed it in, and was told to do the traffic stop to see who was wearing it. The second car was cover. Like we were about to start a shootout on Gottingen Street in the middle of the day. I was pissed. I’d forgotten what it felt like on this side of the law. Powerless.
I got off the bike and put my helmet on the seat as the cop behind me stepped out of his cruiser. I looked across the street. Two cops stood outside that cruiser, one staring at Gunner, who still sat on his bike with the engine idling. He looked back at me, gave them the finger, and took off for the clubhouse. The three cops grabbed at their guns as they watched, but no one pulled. They turned their attention to me. They all knew the familiar Halifax rocker Gunner was wearing. It was the Nomad patch they were after.
In the outlaw world, the Nomad patch means one thing. In law enforcement, another. My fellow cops get most things only half right when it comes to clubs. Nomads are one part elite Stallion soldier and one part idiot savant. We are homeless because no charter wants to claim us. Mostly just guys who, for one reason or another, can’t handle the club politics that are part of charter life. But point us at a target, that’s different. The Nomads are the special forces in the Stallion world, called in to clean up the mess if it involves putting down a full patch or bombing a rival clubhouse. That’s the only thing the police care about in a Nomad patch. If a cop in any city spots one, it usually signals trouble. The cop behind me walked up and stopped short. His hand touched his gun butt. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It was the same uniform who’d worked the yellow tape at the Gardner scene.
“Hey, Barber, thought I told you not to reach for that gun unless you planned to use it.”
“Sorry, Detective, I just…umm, are you undercover here?” His voice lowered to a near whisper. “Should we check your papers?” Poor guy didn’t know whether to take a piss or wind his watch. Then again, neither did I. I couldn’t ride around under the patch in my own city without word reaching the chief. Just hadn’t thought it would be so quick.
“Tell you the truth, Barber, I think you did exactly what you were told to do when you radioed this in. You know who the new patch is. Think you can report that without seeing my licence? I got a meeting to get to.”
“Okay, sure, but what about the other guy? Who was that with you?”
“You get the plate?”
“No, I was keeping an eye on you.”
“Well, I have no idea who that was, so I guess you let one get away. Now, my papers are in order and my bike is legal. Do you want to do that dance, or do I go?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, I’m sorry if I screwed up an undercover op.” He signalled the two across the street and walked away, thinking he was a fool. He’d be feeling much better later in the day when word spread that he was the first cop to find out I’d turned. The story would grow with the telling, and he’d get more than one free beer out of it.
I fired up the bike, feeling like maybe I was the fool. I’d put the patch on to avenge Greg. So far, all it was doing was destroying my career and chasing away a woman who seemed to care about me. I wasn’t even sure how long I’d be wearing it. Yves Laroche coming to town probably wasn’t good news for me. He was the Nomad president. The patch on my back was his to pull, and I was his to kill.
I rolled into the compound, slipped my bike in next to Gunner’s. Jimmy Williams was on his toes, reaching up with a soapy sponge, trying to wipe the mirror sitting just above the apes on Grease’s Springer. The bars stretched a good twenty-one inches above the headlight, and he was a good four inches short of pulling it off.
“Maybe you should stand on the front tire,” I said as I walked over. He stuffed the sponge back into a bucket of water and began wringing the water and soap out of it without looking at me. I kicked the bucket. The water sloshed up into his face. The adrenaline was still climbing as I thought about the chief. I needed to lash out. It only felt good for a half second before I realized I needed Williams.
“Gimme the fucking sponge.” He handed it to me, and I cleaned the mirrors and the top of the bars. He stared in disbelief as I did it. I tossed it back into his chest. It hit with a wet splat as the soap splashed up into his face. “Fucking clown.” I needed him, but I couldn’t let him think I was lowering myself.
“You talk to Gunner?”
“No. He just went in.” He busied himself with the sponge, refusing to make eye contact.
“Well, we need you to get some information.”
“Sure, what do you need?”
“Your boys torched an Escalade Saturday night. You got any idea who in your crew dumped it at the warehouse first?”
“No, no,” he said as he lifted the sponge and made
a move to soak down Grease’s tank.
“Find out. Do it fast. One more thing.” I waited for him to quit the shit with the sponge. He looked up.
“Yeah.”
I grabbed the front of his vest. It was wet and hard to hold onto.
“That thing at The Bank. The fight with my former partner. If it turns out your boys went looking to finish it with guns, there’s gonna be a lot more wet work than you can do with that sponge.”
“No way. Glen and Phil—that was something I stopped as soon as it started.”
I slapped him across the side of the head. Harder than I should have.
“What your boys do is on you. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He locked eyes with me for the first time. Then looked away quickly.
I headed in to meet with Yves. My adrenaline was easing down into a more manageable range. Abusing prospects was the best anger-management therapy.
I felt the phone in my jeans vibrate as I walked into the clubhouse. I pulled it out, looked at the display. Had to be a record for street intel reaching the top.
“Chief,” I said.
“Neville, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” No rank again, no Cam, either.
“Finding my brother’s killer. How about you?” There was no way he was taking control of the conversation.
“Goddamn it. I told you to stay away from this. Are you wearing a patch? Tell me that’s not true.”
“Needed some clout, Chief. You took away the power of the badge. This’ll do.” I stopped in the hallway just inside the clubhouse door. I didn’t want anyone inside hearing this conversation.
“Jesus Christ. You lost the badge when you lost control. I had to take it. You’ll get it back. Just let things cool down. Don’t burn that bridge now.”
“You told me I couldn’t work the case. What good is the badge if it can’t bring justice to Greg and Blair?” The adrenaline was off the scale again. I’d have to go back and slap Williams around.
Disposable Souls Page 32