The Guilty

by Sean Slater

  Felicia did. ‘Son-of-a-bitch – Sleeves?’

  ‘Yep. The biker Kolt mentioned.’

  ‘There’s our connection then.’

  Striker flipped back through his notebook and tried to connect the dots of information. ‘Owens and Williams are killed in two separate bomb blasts, but both women are connected to Chad Koda. And Koda is connected to Harry. Now we know that Koda and Harry are being blackmailed, so it’s all one continuous chain.’

  ‘And you’re thinking the blackmailer might be this biker, Sleeves?’

  He nodded. ‘Fits the MO. The guy has organized crime connections. Kolt said he’d done electrical torture before, back east during the biker wars. And now we have him connected to this business Harry and Koda are checking out . . . It fits the bill.’

  Felicia clucked her tongue as she thought. ‘He is a member of the Satan’s Prowlers,’ she noted.

  Striker read through the computer details. Most of it was typical information – affiliations with other criminal organizations; associations with other known criminals; and a long list of charges and suspected involvements in various other crimes.

  But when Striker clicked on the man’s entity tab, something else stole his attention. Under the Remarks section, in big red capital letters was a warning:

  Satan’s Prowlers Enforcer – Sergeant-at-Arms.

  ‘Hey, Feleesh, look at this. He’s the Sergeant-at-Arms.’

  She looked at the screen, and her voice took on an excited note. ‘He’s the one Harry and Koda were talking about.’

  Striker nodded, then performed another computer search. He ran Sleeves through the Canadian Police Information Centre, requesting a full search of his recorded criminal history and anything connected in the Criminal Name Index. Within seconds, the system came back with a perfect hit:

  Brice Burns.

  Alias: Sleeves

  Violent, Armed and Dangerous, Escape Risk.

  Also listed was his 175-centimetre height, his 80-kilogram body weight, and a string of scars, marks and tattoos – his right arm had two dragons fighting over a golden butterfly; his left arm had several naked women bound in chains.

  ‘Charming guy,’ Felicia said.

  Striker said nothing and read on.

  The man’s history was extensive. He had a file in the Federal Penitentiary System, a Known Offender number in the DNA database, and a list of crimes going back decades.

  Striker searched for a known address, but there was none. In fact, only two addresses were listed – the PO Box for the Matsqui Federal Penitentiary, and the address of the Satan’s Prowlers’ clubhouse, which was located on Charles Street.

  Felicia sighed. ‘It’s always one step forward, two steps back.’

  Striker had had enough of the delays.

  ‘Head out east,’ he said. ‘Just above Fellows Road.’

  ‘Fellows? But no one lives there but—’

  ‘Vicenza Montalba,’ Striker said.

  The look on Felicia’s face was one of disbelief. Vicenza Montalba was the head of the East Van Chapter of the Satan’s Prowlers Motorcycle Club. He was a man who was hated by cops, respected by criminals, and feared by his enemies. He was a man who had been damn near untouchable for thirty years. Vicenza Montalba was rich. Powerful. Menacing.

  And well known for being anti-police.

  Felicia let out a strangled laugh. ‘What are you gonna do? Just walk right up there and ring his bell?’

  Striker smiled back at her.

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  Fifty-Seven

  Vicenza Montalba’s house was a modern square structure, made entirely of white concrete and ten-foot-high tinted windows that were rumoured to be bulletproof for everything up to and including a .300 Winchester Magnum round.

  The residence was situated across the Vancouver border, just above Fellows Road on Edinburgh, a relatively unknown strip that overlooked the blackish waters of the Burrard Inlet, and beyond that, the green hills of the North Shore mountains.

  It was a beautiful view. A peaceful area.

  Probably because Vicenza Montalba demanded it.

  Striker parked out front and stared at the house. The rooftop patio, complete with green vegetation and an outdoor terrace with hot tub, was again shielded by a wall of clear bulletproof glass. Atop the walls were numerous security cameras – set there more for the police than enemy gangs – and in the driveway were two Jaguar sedans, a Mercedes coupe, and two black Land Rovers. Brand new.

  Striker pointed at them. ‘Remember, crime doesn’t pay.’

  Felicia just grinned back, and the two got out.

  As they approached the front gate, the nearest security camera let out an audible whir and panned down on them. Striker took out his badge, held it up for the camera to see. He pressed the intercom button. Seconds later, a man’s voice came through the speaker.

  ‘Can I help you, Officer?’

  ‘We’d like to speak to Mr Montalba,’ Striker said.

  ‘And this is regarding?’

  ‘That’s between me and him.’

  There was no response for a moment, but then the black steel gate clicked open and Striker and Felicia stepped inside the lot. Like the outer lands, the inner yard was immaculate. A Japanese rock garden took up the bulk of the yard, with its circular designs running around a waterfall and a cherry blossom tree.

  Striker and Felicia used the bridge to cross over the koi pond. When they reached the other side, the front door opened and a man stepped out to greet them.

  Striker recognized him immediately.

  Vicenza Montalba looked as far removed from the biker lifestyle as was Gandhi from an Outback steakhouse. Sporting a pair of pressed slacks, an off-white dress shirt, and a gold silk tie, he looked more like a stockbroker ready for the Wall Street grind than the leader of an outlaw motorcycle club. His thick greying hair was kept short at the sides and was parted in the middle, and when he smiled, he appeared more fatherly than fiendish.

  Striker started the conversation low. He introduced himself and his partner, then got down to business.

  ‘Does the name Sleeves mean anything to you?’

  For a brief moment, the fatherly look on Montalba’s face fell away and there was turbulence in his dark eyes. ‘I know the name well. Mr Burns was disassociated from our club quite some time ago – as I’m sure you’re well aware.’

  Felicia nodded. ‘Mind if we ask why?’

  ‘Let’s just say he wasn’t keeping up with club protocol.’

  Striker nodded. ‘Meaning he was using his own product.’

  Vicenza Montalba smiled. ‘I have no idea what product he was using, but I can tell you this, Detective. Mr Burns was nothing but a problem for our club. He had, shall we say, an addictive personality. He was extremely violent. And he brought our club a lot of negative press and unwanted attention. He was relieved from his position by me and removed from the club list. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘It does,’ Striker said. ‘This guy is of special interest to us right now on other unrelated matters.’

  ‘What kind of unrelated matters?’

  ‘Delicate matters – the kind you don’t want being tied to your motorcycle club. Believe me on this one. We’ve been trying to locate Sleeves, but aren’t having the greatest of luck. You got any idea where he is?’

  Vicenza Montalba shook his head and let out a long breath. ‘We have no idea where Mr Burns currently resides.’ He fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to Striker. ‘If you get any information on the man, I would appreciate a phone call.’

  Striker took the card, flipped it over in his hands, played with it. ‘Something tells me that would be unwise.’

  Montalba offered no reaction. ‘Mr Burns has made an awful lot of enemies, Detective. A lot of people are very angry with him.’

  ‘How angry?’

  Montalba only smiled.

  ‘Have a nice day, Detectives,’ he said. ‘I hope you find your m
an.’

  Fifty-Eight

  The bomber and Molly stood in the murky greyness of the control room and went over their list one more time. Cooking explosives was never an easy thing to do, and it would be made even more precarious by the fact they’d be using an open-flame method here in the small confines of the command room. Without a fume hood. Or even a proper filtration setup.

  There was no choice. It had to be done.

  Evaluate. Act. Reassess.

  List of supplies in hand, the bomber moved slowly across the room. He sat down on top of the steel table, rolled up his overalls, and removed his leg. The prosthesis was the latest greatest thing – a carbon-fibre shell with an inner plastic mould.

  He hated it.

  He slid off the liner and let the appendage air. As good as the gel covering was, it always stunk like hot rubber and it made his skin raw. Even worse, the more he walked on the artificial leg, the more he felt every internal screw and rod and butterfly clip shred through his meat. All that steel, always grinding inside.

  It was even worse when he tried to run.

  ‘Your leg okay?’ Molly asked.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  She looked at him for a long moment, her round face anxious. ‘It doesn’t look fine. It’s awfully red.’

  ‘Everything’s brilliant, okay? Tickety-fuckin’-boo.’

  Molly gave him a long furtive stare, as if she had seen this mood many times in their shared past, and said nothing. She looked back at their supply list. Cleared her throat. ‘Don’t forget the filters. No need to poison ourselves in the process.’

  The bomber just nodded. He was about to ask if she preferred charcoal or carbon when he stopped. Something was vibrating in the pocket of his overalls. When he realized it was the phone – the red cell – a sick feeling came over him.

  Only one person had that number, so he answered immediately.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  He listened to the woman speak.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I understand.’

  He hung up the phone and the sickness in his belly intensified – into a feeling so bad it almost matched the darkness of his head. He looked at Molly, who was now frozen in place and staring back at him without expression.

  ‘We need to see him, Molly . . . You need to see him.’

  ‘I . . . I can’t.’

  He looked back at her. Stared hard. Though her face remained frozen and without emotion, there was fear in her eyes. He could see it. And he found the moment so terribly odd. For all of Molly’s faith, and despite all her training, and regardless of all the dangers and horrors she had faced these last few years, it had changed nothing in the woman. There would always be the remnants of that scared little girl in there, no matter how hard she tried to kill it.

  ‘There’s not much time left,’ he told her.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You owe it to him.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  He just stared at her. Now there were tears rolling down her cheeks, leaving little faint trails on her skin.

  ‘Not like this,’ she said, ‘. . . not like this.’

  He turned away from her. Stared ahead at nothing. And once again, he was hit by a series of memories that had happened somewhere, somehow, sometime in a past that was surely his own. The ball of yarn was fraying a little bit more with each passing day.

  Molly looked at him through desperate eyes. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

  He didn’t answer, didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Instead, he reached out and grabbed the gel liner of his prosthesis and its outer casing.

  It was time to put himself back together again.

  Fifty-Nine

  Striker and Felicia sat in the parked car with the engine running. With no other option available, they put an All Points Bulletin out for Sleeves, flagging him on every critical database, be it police, border, or other emergency personnel services. When Felicia was done, she leaned back in the seat.

  ‘Well, the wait begins.’

  ‘Wait nothing,’ Striker said. ‘We’re getting ourselves a BirdDog.’

  They headed for Cambie Street Headquarters.

  BirdDog was the nickname cops used for a variety of manual tracking devices. Unlike the modern GPS devices, which were often built right into the vehicle, the BirdDogs consisted of two parts – the main unit, which sent out a signal and could be attached anywhere, and the handheld tracker unit, which acted as a receiver.

  The cost per unit was high, but what did that matter? Trackers were a necessary part of most investigations. The department needed them. In all, the VPD owned thirty BirdDogs, and the devices were available for anyone involved in a legitimate file. But there was one important catch – the use of one required a tracking warrant. Otherwise any information gained was inadmissible in court.

  Striker and Felicia didn’t have a warrant, and for Felicia this was an issue. ‘I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to write up a warrant,’ she said as they stepped through the front doors of Cambie Street Headquarters.

  It was the third time she’d brought it up.

  Striker frowned. ‘And I’m just saying it’s a waste of time. We don’t have enough hard evidence to get one yet. And even if we did, I’m not wasting three hours writing one up when we can be out here investigating.’

  Felicia shook her head. ‘They’re going to fry us in court on this one.’

  ‘Like a piece of bacon,’ Striker admitted. ‘But I’ll worry about it later.’

  Before Felicia could say more, Striker moved on.

  When they reached the sixth floor, they walked down the hall in search of Sergeant, David Connors – or Pooch, as he was better known. The man was a surveillance god, and he regularly taught his techniques not only within the Vancouver Police Department, but at the academy as well.

  Striker opened the door to Stolen Auto, and they went inside.

  The Stolen Auto section was small – nothing more than a thrown-together row of cubicles in the southeast corner of the building. Piled high in two of the cubicles and spread out against the walls were numerous types of electronic gadgetry – all bait for Theft From Auto projects.

  Sitting on the other side of the cubicles was the man they were looking for, David Connors. His long blond hair was braided back over his head, and the goatee he had been trying to grow for two years was still missing patches. Together, the braids and goatee made Connors’ head look too small for his body, which was a feat in itself because David Connors had the tiniest build that Striker had ever seen on a man.

  ‘Hey, Pooch,’ Striker said.

  Connors looked up and frowned. Pooch was the nickname his old patrol squad had given him years ago, since everyone said he looked like Dawg the Bounty Hunter – if Dawg had failed to reach puberty.

  It was a nickname Connors hated.

  ‘Shipwreck,’ he grumbled. Then he spotted Felicia. ‘Santos.’

  Striker grabbed a couple of chairs from a nearby cubicle and slid one over to Felicia. They sat down opposite Connors, and Striker started the conversation.

  ‘You seem to be in your usual bad mood, I see.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be? It’s my last day here before they transfer me out.’

  Striker hadn’t known the man was moving. It was unfortunate news. Connors loved Stolen Auto. It was his baby. And he was damn good at it.

  ‘So where are they sending you?’ Striker asked.

  ‘Police Standards.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  Both Striker and Felicia made a sour face. Police Standards was just another name for Internal – the place where cops were forced to investigate other cops. It was an assignment no one wanted.

  ‘Who’d you piss off to get sent there?’ Felicia asked.

  ‘Just God.’

  Striker grinned. ‘Well, I’ve got some more news to brighten your day – we come seeking favours.’

  Connors put down the camera he was fidg
eting with and looked up. ‘Well, now there’s a surprise. What do you need?’

  ‘BirdDog,’ Striker said.

  ‘Got a warrant?’

  ‘I need one I can use without the documentation.’

  Connors frowned. ‘Oh boy. I dunno, Shipwreck.’ He leaned back in the chair and interlocked his fingers behind his head. Made a clucking sound with his tongue, as if he was adding things up in his head. ‘What is this for?’

  Striker thought of Harry and Koda, and said, ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Connors looked away, said nothing.

  ‘I know the rules,’ Striker stressed. ‘But this is really important, Pooch. Otherwise I’d never ask.’

  Connors nodded slowly, then sat forward. ‘I got one of the older models left. You can use it – on one condition.’

  ‘That we don’t drag you into court?’ Felicia said.

  ‘No. That you never call me Pooch again.’

  Striker felt a grin come to his face. ‘How about pup?’

  ‘How about you get no device?’

  ‘Fine, fine. You win.’

  Connors reached under the desk and pulled out the unit. ‘Make sure this gets back to me when you’re done – and don’t you dare try using this as part of any criminal charge. Last thing I need is some other cop investigating me when I’m in Internal doing the same damn thing.’

  Felicia laughed. ‘Think about it, Connors – a breach of the Police Act would actually keep you out of Internal.’

  Connors looked at her and his face remained hard. ‘Am I smiling, Santos? I’m serious here. Don’t leave me with my ass in the air on this one.’

  Striker took the device from him and smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry, Connors,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep you covered. The last thing any of us want is to see you hanging with your ass in the air.’

  Sixty

  Having the BirdDog was only half of the solution. They still needed to locate Harry and Koda, and that wasn’t an easy task. Neither man was answering their phone. They weren’t back at the station. They had disabled their vehicle’s GPS system. And they were ignoring all radio broadcasts.