The Guilty (30 page)

‘Is there any other way?’

Striker smiled. ‘That’s my girl.’

He radioed the plainclothes car and told them to cover off the south and west positions. Once everyone was set, he dialled the number Lucky Eddie had given them. Punched in three 8s.

And they waited.

Not five minutes later, the door to the suite opened and the target emerged. Sleeves looked identical to the description listed in the police database: 175 centimetres and a wiry 80 kilos. With
blue eyes and short black hair. He wore torn-up blue jeans and a filthy white hoodie with red blocky script that spelled one word:

SNAFU.

Striker recognized it. It was sarcastic military slang for
Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.
He keyed the radio.

‘Target’s out,’ he said.

Sleeves crept slowly up the back steps, his head snapping left and right like a weasel watching for snakes. With one hand tucked deep under the front of his hoodie, he beelined across the
overgrown lawn towards the rear lane. When he stepped past the threshold of the carport, Felicia swung into his path, gun out.

‘Vancouver Police! Don’t move.’

Sleeves startled. Stepped back. Spun about.

Raced for his suite.

Striker cut him off at the door. With all his might, he threw a solid right into the man’s cheek. Felt the snap of the punch all the way into his shoulder. Felt the follow-through. Ended
up slamming his fist into the porch post.

Sleeves made no noise. He just jerked left, then collapsed onto his stomach. He tried to roll left, but Striker dropped one knee on the man’s back, pinning him to the ground. The
ex-Prowler started to slide his hand down near his waist, and Felicia stuck her gun in his face.

‘Bad move, asshole.’

Sleeves stopped moving. Glared up at her with his hollow blue eyes. ‘Your badge isn’t a shield.’

‘Be quiet,’ Striker said as he cuffed him.

He drove the man’s face into the grass and searched around his waist and torso. After a long moment, he frowned. There was nothing on the man. No baggie filled with paper flaps of meth. No
gun, no knife. Not even a canister of pepper spray.

He stood up. Told Sleeves not to move. And neared Felicia.

‘Lucky Eddie screwed us,’ he whispered.

She gave him a questioning look.

‘There’s no way this guy was leaving without a weapon, not when the entire Prowlers gang is after him.’ He thought it over. ‘That triple-eight code we punched in . . . it
was the wrong one, I’ll bet. A fucking warning.’

Felicia scowled and looked at Sleeves. The ex-Prowler was looking right back up at her. But his stare looked somehow detached, as if he were not really there. His face was drawn and gaunt. Then
he blinked, and it was as if his mind had returned to his body.

‘Take off these cuffs,’ he said.

Striker said nothing. He just walked over, leaned down, and grabbed the man’s arm. When he lifted Sleeves up, the man went easily. He was surprisingly light. But when Striker spun him
around for a better look, he could also see that the man had corded muscle on him – thin and taut like guitar strings.

‘Release these cuffs,’ he said again. ‘Or charge me.’

‘I’ll decide when and who I charge,’ Striker replied. He took a long look at the ex-Prowler and saw small cut marks on his face. The one on his right cheek was from where
Striker had punched him, but the one on the left looked relatively fresh. Thoughts of the exploding glass from the toy store flooded Striker’s mind.

‘Nice cuts,’ Striker said. ‘You new to shaving or something?’

Sleeves said nothing for a long moment, and when he looked back, his eyes were alert. Full of assessment. ‘You almost broke my jaw,’ he said. ‘I’ll remember
this.’

Striker wrote down the time and acted like he didn’t much care.

‘You have nothing,’ Sleeves said.

Felicia spoke next: ‘You got a bench warrant.’

A look of dark amusement flickered on the man’s face, there for a second and then instantly replaced by that distant emptiness. ‘You assaulted me over a traffic ticket? Sounds like a
reportable breach of the Police Act to me.’

Striker looked up from his notebook and spoke plainly. ‘There won’t be any reports made to anyone, Sleeves. What’s going to happen is this: you and I are going to
cooperate.
I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them. And then, maybe, I won’t throw your ass in jail.’

‘You’re gonna lodge me in jail? For what? Unpaid parking tickets? Go ahead. I’ll pay the fines.’

Striker smiled at the man. ‘It’s not the money you should be worried about, Sleeves, it’s the
time
.’

‘What time? I’ll be out in an hour.’

‘Exactly. And that gives me plenty of time to call Vicenza Montalba, and for him to then contact some of his business associates. I mean, think about it: they’ll know
where
you’ll be released, and they’ll know
when
. . . Suddenly, you’re not too hard to find any more. And from what I hear, Montalba’s not too happy with you.’

Sleeves said nothing. His face remained expressionless, his eyes once again giving a strange detached stare, as if he was no longer there with them, but somewhere else.

Striker leaned closer, looked at the numerous scars on the man’s face and neck. ‘I heard you were using your own product, Sleeves. Probably to cover up the pain. I heard you blew
yourself up good a few years back. That true?’

The man said nothing.

Striker made a tsk-tsk sound. ‘Using. That’s a Prowlers no-no, ain’t it, Feleesh?’

She grinned. ‘Almost as much as selling meth after being excommunicated.’

Striker raised a hand in deference. ‘I forgot about that one. That’s an even bigger no-no.’ He turned back to Sleeves. ‘Man, you really like to push the envelope,
don’t you? Are you trying to die young?’

For the first time since being taken down, the ex-Prowler met Striker’s stare, and he spoke plainly.

‘I’m not afraid to die.’

He spoke the words so calmly and assuredly that Striker believed the man.

‘Just because you don’t fear death, doesn’t mean you’re stupid enough to throw your life away. So what’s it going to be, Sleeves? Cooperation or a Prowler phone
call?’

For a long moment, Sleeves said nothing. He just stood there and stared back, his hollow blue eyes pointed in Striker’s direction, but his thoughts clearly a million miles away. He moved
his jaw back and forth, as if trying to get the joint back in place. It made soft clicking sounds.

‘What do you want from me?’ he finally asked.

‘Information,’ Striker replied. ‘Like, what is your connection to Sharise Owens and Keisha Williams?’

‘I’ve never heard of them.’

‘Let me refresh your mind. Owens was a doctor. Williams was a toymaker and an accountant. They were both women in their forties. Black.’

‘Never heard of them.’

Striker changed his line of questioning. ‘Harry Eckhart and Chad Koda.’

This time, Sleeves’ eyes filled with recognition – or was it wariness? His jaw tightened and a dark wild look filled his eyes. ‘So that’s what this is about – the
explosion at Koda’s house.’

‘So you know about it?’

‘The whole city knows.’

Felicia stepped closer. ‘The whole city may know about it, Sleeves, but you’re the one with a history of bombs.’

‘Wasn’t me.’

‘Like it wasn’t you who set the bomb that killed that little boy back east?’

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.’

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.’