The Guilty

by Sean Slater

  The news stunned Striker. He had never heard of this.

  He thought back to ten years ago. That was right about the time he’d taken one of his leaves of absence from the police department in order to deal with his wife Amanda’s growing depression problems. They’d left town for a bit. Gone down to Arizona for some family support.

  Recollections of a bombing just didn’t come to mind.

  He looked back at Sang and shook his head. ‘This file just gets stranger and stranger by the minute.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the strangest part yet. The woman and her daughters that Sleeves killed – they were Chipotle’s family.’

  Upon hearing the news, Striker sat back in his chair and stared at nothing in particular. He closed his eyes and tried to process the ramifications of what Sang had just told him. Finally he sat forward again. ‘I’m a bit confused here. I looked all through Sleeves’ history and he’s never been charged with any of these murders.’

  Sang took one of the coffees, added four sugars.

  ‘There’s a reason for that,’ he said. ‘Almost no one talks in the biker world, so getting witness statements is damn near impossible. The bomb that went off at Chipotle’s house and killed the wife and daughters, it was planted by Sleeves.’

  ‘But how do you know?’ Felicia asked.

  Sang made an uncomfortable face before saying, ‘Intel from one of our own. We managed to get a guy inside. On a different matter entirely. But this is what he heard, the talk around the club.’

  Striker didn’t question the agent’s identity. That was information Sang would never divulge.

  Felicia pointed to the dates on the computer screen. ‘Ten years ago, huh? Interesting. Right after the bombing, Sleeves disappears for almost an entire year – he goes right off the radar.’

  Striker suggested, ‘Maybe the gang told him to lay low. Maybe he went into hiding.’

  But Sang shook his head. ‘No. The reason he disappeared is because he blew himself up in the explosion. Pretty bad too. Scars all over his hips and back and arms. Damn near obliterated himself.’

  ‘Too bad he didn’t finish the job,’ Felicia said.

  Striker pulled the laptop over and ran Carlos Chipotle through the system. He frowned at what he saw.

  ‘The bomb call’s not in here.’

  Sang nodded. ‘It happened just across the Vancouver border in Burnaby. So it’ll be a federal file. The RCMP. Mounties.’

  Striker ground his teeth because it was just so typical. The biggest problem with modern-day policing was the lack of free and open communication – different databases, privatized cases, invisible files. Hell, some reports existed only on paper.

  For an investigator, it could be maddening at times.

  Striker looked at Sang. ‘You’ve got access to Fed paper, right? Can you do a search for us? Get us a copy of the murder file on the Chipotle family?’

  Sang stood up from the table. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  Striker and Felicia waited. Soon, ten minutes turned into twenty, and twenty turned into thirty. But Sang eventually returned. In his hands was a hard copy of the report. To Striker, it looked like the holy grail. And upon seeing it, a few drops of his frustration ebbed away.

  ‘Thank God,’ Felicia said.

  ‘This is just the investigative summary,’ Sang warned. ‘It’s brief.’

  Striker didn’t care; he was happy to have anything. He took the report from Sang, and he and Felicia began poring over it.

  The file was straightforward. The murder of the Chipotle family was believed to be a gang-sanctioned killing. A bomb had gone off in the Chipotle basement, killing the wife and two daughters. Carlos – the obvious target – had been in the garage at the time, and as such, had narrowly escaped a fiery death.

  Then he had gone missing.

  In the report, two things caught Striker’s eye. One, Sleeves was never mentioned. In fact, he was not even entered as an entity, much less a suspect in the bombing. And his name did not appear in any of the text pages.

  Second, and almost impossible to ignore, was the associated file number at the bottom of the last page. It was a Vancouver Police Department file number – for an investigation into the police-involved shooting death of Carlos Chipotle, which had happened sometime later the same day.

  Felicia looked at the number. ‘Well, Chipotle didn’t go missing for very long.’

  Striker said nothing. Carlos Chipotle must have fled the scene, he rationalized, and gotten into a gunfight with police. But where and when and how? Striker read the date and realized that the homicide report would likely be in paper form only. He felt a strange swirl of excitement and frustration all at once.

  ‘Every lead turns into two more,’ he said.

  Felicia also noted the date. ‘Archives?’ she asked.

  Striker didn’t have time to answer her question; his cell phone rang. He looked at the screen, saw the name Niles Quaid on the display, and hoped to God they had discovered something pertinent. He answered the call.

  ‘Niles, what you got for me?’

  The man’s voice was tight, his tone low.

  ‘Sleeves is gone,’ he said. ‘We lost him.’

  Seventy-Seven

  Harry and Koda pulled into the parking lot of the A&W burger stand and left their undercover cruiser parked by the north wall. Once out of the car, Koda began pacing the lot. His hands trembled as he popped another T3 into his mouth and chugged back some Red Bull. Harry took a long look at the can, then at Koda, and shook his head.

  ‘You’re already jittery enough,’ he said. ‘You really need to drink that shit?’

  ‘I’ll drink what I drink.’

  ‘I still don’t think you should come. Given all that’s happened.’

  Koda threw the can on the ground. ‘I told you, I’m fucking coming.’

  Harry offered no response. He just gave his SIG Sauer a firm tug and made sure the pistol was snug in its holster. Then he opened the back of the police car and grabbed his second piece, a smaller snub-nose forty-cal he’d seized off a gang member at the Pink Palace strip club two years ago. He tucked it in the back of his waistband, then draped the tail of his coat over the butt. He turned to Koda. Smiled. Offered the man a sense of calm.

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen, Chad,’ he said. ‘We’re just here to find out what really happened back at your place . . . and to negotiate.’

  Koda grabbed a second can of Red Bull from the car and picked at the stitches on his nose.

  ‘Got to be ready for anything,’ he said.

  The parking lot off-ramp led to the north alley of Hastings Street. Together, Harry and Koda walked down to the roadway, then crossed Semlin Drive to the Hing-Woo warehouse. The doors were closed and locked, just like before, and the lights were out. Everything was quiet. They circled the building into the rear lane and waited under the overhang of the loading bay.

  Koda opened the can of Red Bull. ‘Smells like goddam soy sauce back here.’

  ‘It’s a Chinese food warehouse.’

  ‘Fucking stinks. Always fucking stinks around here – where the hell is that rat anyway?’

  ‘He’ll come. He needs money. Now relax.’

  Koda turned on him. ‘You fuckin’ relax – it wasn’t your goddam house he blew up! Your ex-wife he killed! He’s coming back on us, man. I keep telling you.’

  Harry eyed Koda carefully. ‘You let me do the talking, Chad.’

  Koda drank some more Red Bull and mumbled under his breath. Harry did not react. Ignoring the man, he took out his cell phone and dialled the number his brother Trevor had given him back in Source Handling.

  Sleeves answered immediately.

  ‘What?’ came the response. Out of breath.

  ‘Where are you?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Close by.’

  Harry closed his eyes. ‘Where is close by, Sleeves?’

  ‘I’m on Hastings Street.’

  ‘Well, we’re in the loading bay. Like we
said.’

  ‘I know. I can see you.’

  The line went dead.

  Harry didn’t like the sound of that. He swept his eyes around the alley, searching for possible bombs, and saw nothing. He looked at Koda and said, ‘Be ready.’

  Then they waited.

  A minute later, Harry spotted saw the small, wiry outline of the man called Sleeves. He was at the west end of the lane, and he did not move. He took a long moment to scan his surroundings, then slowly, cautiously, moved forward, checking out every nook and cranny as he went. When he reached the loading zone, his eyes found Koda’s face, then his scar.

  He smiled darkly. ‘Nice zipper – I got one in my pants.’

  Koda trembled. ‘I should fucking kill you—’

  Harry intervened. Placed a hand against Koda’s chest. Firm. Decisive. Controlled. ‘We’re here to talk. Nothing more.’ He looked back at the ex-Prowler. ‘Right, Sleeves?’

  The grin left the man’s face. ‘You sold me out.’

  ‘No one sold anyone—’

  ‘Hundred grand. That’s what it’ll cost you.’

  Harry held up his hand. ‘We’ll talk money later. But first, there are some ground rules. Rule one: You take the cash, you leave town, and you never come back. Rule two: You never contact either one of us or our families again. Rule three: You never demand money again; this is a one-time payment. And Rule four: you never breathe a word about this to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, nothing ever happened – and I mean nothing.’

  Sleeves’ eyes turned hard. ‘The payment just went up. Two hundred grand.’

  Koda took a half-step forward. ‘Are you completely insane?’ he spat.

  Sleeves was unmoved by the man’s emotional state. ‘Either you pay, or I’m sure Striker will – with a little help from Crown Counsel.’

  Koda’s face flushed until his stitches looked like black train tracks on red desert sand. He threw his can of Red Bull on the ground and balled up his fists. ‘You twisted little fuck! You think we’ll be the only ones going down? We’ll all be fucked!’

  Harry made no verbal reply, for he understood the situation perfectly. If Sleeves went to Striker, it would mean jail time for all of them. And jail time for Harry would mean the death of his family.

  It was unacceptable.

  Harry drew the snub-nose from the back of his waistband.

  Took aim.

  Pulled the trigger.

  In one quick moment, a sharp blast of thunder filled the laneway, echoing off the tall walls of the warehouses around them. The bullet caught the ex-Prowler in the stomach. Sleeves let loose a spit-filled gasp, wobbled where he stood, and then collapsed to his knees on the cement pad of the loading bay. His mouth dropped open, his eyes turned wide. He touched his stomach with his hand, pulled it away, and stared at the redness that now also spilled from his hoodie.

  ‘You shot . . . you shot . . . you fucking shot me!’

  Harry stepped forward, took aim once more, and pulled the trigger again. Sleeves’ head snapped backward, and blood and brain matter exploded all over the cement behind him. His body slumped to the left and landed on the loading bay with a soft, almost-inaudible thump.

  For a moment, everything was quiet.

  Then Koda sucked in a deep gasp of air.

  ‘Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy FUCK!’ He gaped at Harry, then spun and looked all around the lane. ‘The noise, the noise, the noise – we gotta go!’

  Harry paid him no heed. He stepped up to the fallen man, took aim once more, and blasted off two more rounds.

  One for each kneecap.

  ‘Satan’s Prowler style,’ he said.

  Then he turned and exited the alley.

  Seventy-Eight

  The rush-hour grind of Hastings Street was bad, and it was further bogged down by the road construction which seemed to be taking place at two-block intervals. Everywhere Striker looked there were men and women wearing orange reflective vests, sweating from the nonstop summer heat and exhaust fumes. He drove past two of them, all the while scanning every main street and alley they crossed.

  ‘You see Sleeves anywhere?’

  ‘No.’ Felicia cursed. ‘How the hell could they lose him?’

  Striker made no reply. He was trying to focus on the situation at hand and not to let the frustration swell up on him. The plainclothes unit had lost visual continuity of Sleeves back at William MacDonald Elementary School. The ex-Prowler had cut through the school grounds and failed to exit on the other side. The area had since been cleared, with negative results.

  Sleeves was gone.

  Striker turned south on Victoria. Less than a half-block later, Felicia looked down at the BirdDog tracker and made a hmm sound.

  ‘Interesting,’ she said.

  Striker cast her a glance. ‘What?’

  ‘Your plainclothes friends lost track of Sleeves somewhere around the elementary school, and look at this’ – she held up the handheld tracker – ‘Harry and Koda are just a few blocks away.’

  Striker studied the screen. ‘They’re back near Semlin again – at the old chop shop, I’ll bet. The Hing-Woo.’

  Felicia nodded. ‘Maybe meeting Sleeves.’

  Her words ignited him. Striker cranked the wheel, hit the gas and raced around the Franklin Street bend. He turned up Semlin, stopped out front of the Hing-Woo warehouse, and hopped out with the handheld tracking device in hand. When Felicia joined him, he approached the front door of the warehouse and tried the handle.

  Locked.

  He went to look through the iron-barred window, paused. Sniffed. Then looked at Felicia.

  ‘You smell that?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘It’s . . . gunpowder?’

  Using one hand to hold the tracker, Striker drew his pistol with the other and slowly made his way around the building into the side lane, where the stink grew worse. Ten steps later, he saw someone sprawled out in the loading zone, surrounded by a brownish-red puddle. He stopped hard.

  ‘Heads up, Feleesh, we got a DB here.’

  She drew her pistol. ‘Copy. I got you covered.’

  Striker swept his eyes around the lane, checking for threats. But all he saw were some old wooden pallets. An empty loading zone. And some broken bottles of soy sauce in the corner.

  ‘Cover me to the west,’ he said.

  ‘Copy, west.’

  Striker approached the body.

  As he closed the distance, it quickly became apparent that half the victim’s face had been blown away from the gunshot. Both knees had also been shot out. Striker reached the body, leaned forward, and saw the hoodie – it was a dirty white colour with red block lettering across the front:

  SNAFU.

  ‘Ah fuck me, this is Sleeves.’

  Felicia came up beside him, gun nestled between both hands. ‘I’ll call it in.’

  As she got on her cell and alerted Dispatch, Striker scanned the lane one more time. When he saw nothing, he started west, then stopped. He looked down at the handheld tracking device and saw that the red-car icon representing Harry’s undercover Ford cruiser was still stationary.

  And it was right behind him.

  He turned around and approached the mouth of the lane, and saw no sign of Harry’s undercover cruiser. Not on the side street. Not in the laneway. And not in the vacant lot where the old car dealership had been torn down.

  For a moment he thought the GPS was buggered, or that the mount had dislodged from the vehicle. But then he looked across the way and saw the elevated parking lot of the A&W burger stand.

  Up there.

  Felicia got off her cell. ‘Patrol’s a block out.’

  Striker never took his eyes from the parking lot. ‘Put your back against the wall and hold the area, Feleesh . . . There’s something I need to see over here.’

  Seventy-Nine

  Harry cut through the front door of the A&W burger stand, trying to get his breath.

  Did that happen?

  Did that rea
lly just fucking happen?

  The words raged through his mind. His head felt light. He tried to slow his breathing. Tried to stop the trembling of his hands. But the shakes were hitting him hard now. Really hard.

  Did that really just fucking happen?

  Koda urged him on. ‘We gotta go, we gotta go, we gotta move!’

  Harry said nothing. In front of him, rows of people blocked the way. The line-up to the till was twelve deep. And all around him, most of the tables were already full of people eating hamburgers and French fries and onion rings. All he could smell was grease and vinegar and gravy.

  ‘Move, Harry, we gotta move!’

  Robot-like, on autopilot, Harry moved across the tiled floor and pushed his way through the east-side door that led to the parking lot. The thick glass made the door heavy, and when it swung open, hot humid air blasted in his face.

  He started for the car.

  Slowed.

  Stopped.

  Something tugged at the back of his mind . . . something Sleeves had said during their cell phone conversation:

  I’m on Hastings Street.

  It made Harry wonder: Why had Sleeves been looking for them up on Hastings Street when the meeting place was in the alley behind the warehouse? The more he thought about it, the more obvious the answer became – because Sleeves had seen their cruiser parked in the A&W parking lot.

  Up ahead, Koda was reaching for the vehicle.

  ‘WAIT!’ Harry said. ‘Don’t touch that car!’

  Koda stopped. Wheeled back. ‘Jesus, what now?’

  ‘We got to make sure it’s not rigged or nothing.’

  The thought of another bomb going off made Koda’s already-white face turn an even sicklier pallor, and he reared away from the vehicle.

  ‘You check it,’ he said.

  Harry offered no response. He approached the undercover cruiser, got down on his hands and knees, and looked beneath the frame. The search took little time. Seconds. And he found something. There, on the top of the leaf spring, was a device – though it was not the one Harry was expecting to see.

  He reached under, tried to pry it free, and broke the base of the device right off the mount. He looked at what he was holding and felt a coldness wash over him. Not a bomb, but something equally frightening – a Vancouver Police Department BirdDog.