by Sean Slater
Sleeves glared back at Felicia and his shoulders bulged as he strained against the handcuffs.
‘Better be calm there,’ Striker warned. ‘And while you’re at it, maybe you’d like to tell us where you’ve been the last twenty-four hours. You can start by giving us a list of places and times, then start working on some witnesses who can verify your story.’
Sleeves glanced back towards the house. ‘I was here.’
‘With who?’
For a long moment, Sleeves said nothing. He just stood there with his cold blue eyes focused on nothing. When he finally spoke again, there was an edge to his voice. A controlled anger. ‘Harry and Koda send you?’ he asked.
Striker shook his head. ‘No one sends me.’
‘I want money. One hundred Gs.’
The demand surprised Striker. ‘One hundred grand?’ He laughed softly. ‘Sure, no problem. Do you take personal cheques?’
Sleeves did not laugh. ‘One hundred grand. The information is worth more.’
‘How much more?’
‘How much do you value human life?’
Striker looked at Felicia, and she just shrugged. He thought it over for a moment, then stepped closer to Sleeves, purposely invading the man’s personal space. ‘How do I know you’re not full of shit, Sleeves? Or that you won’t screw us like Lucky Eddie did? Tell me something about Harry and Koda to get me started.’
The ex-Prowler looked back, unblinking. ‘Me and Chipotle . . . we did their burning.’
‘Chipotle? Who the hell’s Chipotle?’
Sleeves laughed bemusedly. ‘You don’t know a thing, do you?’
‘And what burning?’ Felicia asked.
But Sleeves did not answer her.
‘One hundred grand and I will open up your eyes,’ he said. ‘But be forewarned, you aren’t going to like what you see.’
Seventy
With Sleeves handcuffed and in Felicia’s custody, Striker snuck away to check out the basement suite. The moment he walked down the concrete stairs and opened the door, the lack of floor space became immediately apparent.
The suite was nothing more than a studio – one room consisting of a small fold-out couch and a kitchenette that didn’t even have a proper stove but a simple hotplate and a microwave. Oddly, the place looked not only clean but immaculate. Barely lived in. There were no weapons to be seen and no sign of drugs or drug paraphernalia.
No scale, no packaging products, no drugs score-sheets.
The only thing of interest Striker found were some empty packaging for Duracell D-size batteries and some broken down cell phone pieces – parts that could be used to make a detonator, no doubt, but also a hundred other things as well.
Evidence-wise, it left him with nothing.
Frustrated and a little mystified by the scene, he left the suite. When he returned to the lane where Felicia had Sleeves handcuffed and seated on the ground, Felicia gave him a curious look. ‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Shit outta luck,’ Striker said.
Sleeves looked up from his seated position. ‘What were you doing back there? You go in my suite? You need a warrant for that.’
Striker ignored the man and jotted down his findings in his notebook. As he did this, Felicia returned to Lakewood to get the undercover cruiser. Once she was back, Striker told Sleeves to stay put or else, then moved closer to Felicia, where the two were out of earshot.
‘So what you think?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Who knows if he knows anything? Besides, we’ll never get a hundred grand from Source Handling. Not even with some proof of return. You know how stingy they are. We’d be lucky to get ten Gs.’
Striker nodded and looked back at the ex-Prowler. ‘He knows something. I believe that wholeheartedly. But he has no intention of telling us. That’s why he demanded a hundred grand – he knows we can’t get it. He’s playing a game. But why? What does he really want?’
Felicia had a tight expression masking her normally pretty features. ‘I feel uneasy. I mean, we can’t just let him go. He might be responsible for the bombings.’
Striker nodded. ‘I agree. But what evidence are we going to hold him on? There’s nothing tangible on him and nothing in the suite—and I mean nothing. So what you wanna go on? Circumstantial evidence? Similar fact? I’m sure defence counsel would love that.’
Felicia didn’t smile. ‘He’s dangerous, Jacob. What if he is our guy? What if we let him go and he sets off another bomb and it kills more people? I don’t want that on my conscience. This guy has no filter – he’s killed a kid before.’
‘Never proved.’
‘We fucking know he did it.’
To hear Felicia curse was unusual. Striker could feel her tension. But so what? He agreed with her morally, but legally what could they do? He took a moment to call the Road Boss and fill him in. Inspector Osaka sounded exhausted from all the chaos of the last two days, and Striker had little doubt the man was being grilled constantly by Acting Deputy Chief Laroche.
‘I want to put surveillance on Sleeves,’ Striker said.
‘I’m sure you do,’ Osaka replied. ‘And so do I. But Strike Force is already working on the kidnapping in District 4.’
‘What kidnapping?’
‘It’s unrelated – an overseas thing from Hong Kong. But a ten-year-old girl is involved and it’s life or death. They’ve even called in Property Crime for this one – I don’t have a team to spare.’
Striker nodded absently. ‘I wasn’t aware of all that.’
‘Why would you be? You’ve been going crazy on the bombings – speaking of which, I’ll be expecting a full status report later on.’ Osaka sighed. ‘It’s been a real bad couple of days in Vancouver. Normally, I’d just request support from the Feds, but Special O’s way out in the valley today on a gang hit.’
Striker searched for a different solution. He looked down the alley at Niles Quaid’s undercover cruiser.
It gave him an idea.
‘How about this?’ he said. ‘I got Niles Quaid here in a plainclothes car. He spent four years in Strike Force, and he was the Road Boss for half of those. Why don’t we get him and his partner to do some makeshift surveillance for now?’
‘And if they’re spotted?’
‘So what? If Sleeves thinks he’s being watched, so much the better. He’ll be careful not to do anything stupid. It’s better than nothing.’
Osaka said nothing for a long moment. When it had been so long that Striker thought they might have been disconnected, the inspector okayed the plan, but there was uncertainty in his voice. ‘Overtime’s approved, Striker. Just keep me informed. I mean it – I got Laroche on my ass every minute of the day right now.’
‘Strange. I didn’t think he was your type, sir.’
Osaka let out a small laugh, one that sounded more like released tension than humour. ‘Just keep me informed.’
Striker said he would and hung up the phone. He then relayed the information to Felicia. Seeing that she was satisfied with the approach, he set everyone up for the operation.
Once done, Striker walked back over to Sleeves. He stood him up and removed the man’s handcuffs. The ex-Prowler said nothing. He just headed for the stairs, limping noticeably on the left side. Halfway there, he stopped. He turned, took a long hard look at Striker, and probed into him with those cold blue eyes of his.
Striker met the man’s stare.
‘Keep moving,’ he said.
And Sleeves continued down the stairs.
Striker watched the man close the door and disappear from sight. There was a dangerousness about him, something that put Striker on edge. Even more so than most murderers he dealt with. When Felicia walked over, she stared at the suite and shuddered. Her words echoed exactly what he was thinking.
‘That guy gets a one hundred on the creepy scale.’
Striker couldn’t have agreed more.
Blue eyes had never looked so dark.
Seventy-One
&nb
sp; Harry took the elevator up to Source Handling.
Source Handling was a small section, consisting of nothing more than a few desks and the mandatory coffee machine with a tray of sugar packets and nondairy creamers. The unit’s assigned detectives were responsible for investigating the validity of all anonymous tips brought in through the CrimeStoppers programme, and for maintaining and safeguarding the information of police informants, agents, and for all their related restitutions.
Harry walked in through the front door and spotted Trevor sitting at his desk. The man was impossible to miss. Standing almost 200 centimetres and weighing in at 136 kilos, Trevor Eckhart had received every possible gene from their father’s side of the family. Harry had taken after their mother’s side, and that included the icy-blue eyes and high blood pressure problems.
‘Trevor,’ he said.
His brother looked up. Trevor had a large head, and when he smiled his unusually full beard and moustache made his mouth look small. ‘Harry! Good to see you, man. How’s the family?’
‘Good, they’re doing good,’ Harry replied. But the tone of his voice gave away his mood.
Trevor sat back from the keyboard. ‘What’s wrong? Is someone sick or something?’
Harry said nothing for a moment; he just looked around the room for Clara Sykes, the other detective who worked in the unit. When he didn’t see her, he asked, ‘Where’s your work wife?’
Trevor didn’t smile. ‘She’s off today. What’s going on, Harry?’
He closed the office door. ‘I need the address for a guy who’s been coded.’
‘Your guy?’
When Harry didn’t respond, Trevor shook his head. ‘Jesus, Harry, you’re really pushing me into a corner here.’
‘This isn’t about work, Trevor.’
‘Even worse then.’
Harry felt his face flush red. And for the moment, he found it hard to meet his brother’s eyes. Trevor had always been a good cop. A man of integrity. And it pained Harry to have to ask him for this favour.
But there was no choice.
‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to; you know that. But this . . . this is becoming a safety issue. For me, and for Sandra and Ethan.’
‘A safety issue?’ Trevor got up and locked the office door. When he returned to the computer, he said, ‘Give me the name.’
Relief and shame flooded Harry. ‘Gang name is Sleeves. Real name is Brice Burns. List him between thirty-six and forty. I need a contact number, or an address. Something.’
Trevor ran the name through the system. A few minutes later, he had the code. He then went to the safe and grabbed the corresponding file. From it, he took the front page, then jotted down a number.
‘This is the only number the guy has,’ he explained. ‘A cell. And just so you know, it’s a police cell. So the moment you call it, not only will he know it’s the police calling, but there’ll be a record of it – so you’d better have a good reason why you’re calling him and an even better way of explaining how you got the number in the first place, because you sure as hell never got it from me.’
‘Understood.’
‘I’m going to purge the file the moment you leave.’
Trevor handed the paper to Harry. When Harry reached out to take the paper, Trevor didn’t let go. Harry frowned.
‘Trevor,’ he started.
But his brother cut him off. ‘I don’t know who this Sleeves guy is, Harry, but he’s got a lot of warning flags on the system.’
Harry said nothing.
‘He was coded a long time ago,’ Trevor continued. ‘Years, in fact. And he was disassociated because of violent crimes.’
‘Then why does he still have the police phone?’
‘Because he’s listed as Under Threat. I don’t know why. But as long as that’s there, there’s an onus on the department to cover him because he was coded. Be careful here, Harry. Be very, very careful here. This is a really bad guy you’re dealing with.’
‘I get it.’
Trevor finally let go of the paper, albeit somewhat reluctantly. When the two brothers met stares again, Trevor’s hard expression finally cracked, and his voice softened. ‘What else can I do for you, Harry?’
Harry looked back at his brother, and he remembered so many of the times that Trevor had been there for him. During their parents’ divorce. Following the death of his son. And the end of his marriage. It was like Trevor had always been the big brother, the responsible one, helping him out of jams.
It shamed him.
‘Just be there for Sandra and Ethan,’ he said. ‘If something bad should ever happen to me.’
Trevor’s face paled.
‘Something bad? Harry, what’s going on here? Jesus, what the hell are you talking about?’
But Harry said nothing else. He just thanked his brother for the help, then left the room and closed the door behind him.
Seventy-Two
They headed for Burnaby, where the lower mainland’s largest incinerator was located. Once there, Striker turned onto Penzance Drive and drove down the steep decline until the gravel road became dirt and river mud. The lower road fronted the Burrard Inlet, where gusts of mill steam clouded the view of Mount Seymour Provincial Park.
Felicia pointed to a row of smokestacks and enormous conveyor belts in the distance. Each one stood six or seven storeys high, and spewed out a flow of whiteness.
‘Is that the pulp mill?’ she asked.
Striker nodded. He pointed to one smokestack that stood separate from the rest. It was thicker, higher, enormous. ‘That’s where we’re going – the incinerator . . . I think that’s where Sleeves and this Chipotle guy he was talking about did all their so-called burning for Harry and Koda.’
‘But burning what?’
Striker smiled. ‘That’s the twenty-four-thousand-dollar question, ain’t it?’
Up ahead was a tall billboard sign:
Montreaux Waste-to-Energy Station.
Striker drove into the complex and spotted a roundabout. Here, several garbage trucks were lined up at an on-ramp that connected to a giant, bowl-like incinerator. He drove past them all and parked in front of the main office.
As they climbed out, Felicia asked, ‘What exactly does this facility burn?’
Striker shrugged. ‘Privately, they burn anything. Publicly, they burn whatever the provincial government sends them – all the non-recyclable trash comes here. As for police, this is where they burn all the old evidence from past files – ones the courts have already deliberated on.’
‘So you think that Sleeves was burning evidence?’
‘I’m betting on it.’
Felicia shook her head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?’
He gave her a confused look. ‘What do you mean?’
Her voice got tighter. ‘All this time I’ve been under the impression they were burning witnesses. You know, intimidating them. To stop them from testifying.’
Striker stopped walking and looked at her. ‘That crossed my mind too. And I wouldn’t put it past the Prowlers. But the more I think about it, the more this makes sense.’
‘Why?’
‘Because every time old evidence is destroyed, the Emergency Response Team has to escort the driver. It’s evidence after all, sensitive information. And the ERT team that’s always been in charge of evidence destruction is Red Team.’
‘So what?’
‘Remember what Osaka said – who was a sergeant for Red Team? Before he retired?’
Felicia thought it over, then got it. ‘Chad Koda.’
Striker nodded. ‘It’s a connection at least. Something to go on. I would have said something to you earlier on, but I’ve been working things out in my head as we’ve been driving here. And I’m still not entirely sure. Let’s see what we find.’
They got walking again and soon reached the main plant.
Within five minutes, they were being guided around the facility by the site manager, who was a s
hort man with a pudgy face and a crayfish moustache that overgrew his upper lip and disappeared into his mouth. He also had giant overgrown sideburns that would have put Elvis to shame.
‘I’d be glad to help,’ the manager said.
Striker offered the standard, ‘We appreciate your time.’
‘Right, right, right.’ The manager spoke the words to Striker, but his eyes lingered on Felicia – as they had since the moment she had introduced herself. It was a fact she noticed and was clearly uncomfortable with. ‘Just follow me, Detectives. I’ll steer ya right.’ The manager walked on stoically, constantly patting down the left side of his moustache.
When they reached the control room, the manager stopped walking and made eye contact with Felicia. He gestured to a line of technicians that were monitoring displays on the far wall. ‘This is my squad. The men I go to battle with every day.’
‘Great,’ she said.
‘They monitor burning times and heat levels – a process which is absolutely critical for plant efficiency. This incinerator gets up to fourteen hundred degrees Celsius.’
‘Sounds hot,’ Felicia said.
‘Oh, it’s hot, Detective. Real hot. Not many things are hotter – unless you want to take a trip to the sun!’
Striker grinned, enjoying the moment.
‘Felicia likes hot places,’ he said.
She cast him a look of daggers, but said nothing, and the manager continued talking. ‘Yep, when my squad here is done with the waste, there’s nothing left but metal and ash. We recycle the metals, of course; magnets in Conveyor Line 3 do that – they separate up to two tons a day, which makes us only the second plant in all of North America to meet the 14001 standard of the ISO.’ He leaned closer to Felicia and explained: ‘That’s recycle talk for the International Organization for Standardization. Green Planet stuff.’
‘You don’t say,’ she said.
‘I’m the emissions chief here. I got to be on top of things.’
Striker grinned again. ‘Felicia likes it when men are on top of things.’
She cast him another dark stare, and he smiled at her.
For a moment, the manager was diverted when one of his technicians requested some assistance. He pardoned himself and stepped away. While he was preoccupied, Striker moved closer to Felicia. ‘That was so interesting what he said about the ISO.’