The Guilty (31 page)

‘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.

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.

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 short 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.’

‘Don’t even start.’

‘I never realized acronyms were such a turn-on for you. Did I mention I work for the
VPD
.’

‘Stop it.’

‘In
MCS
.’

‘It’s not funny, Jacob, this guy gives me the creeps.’

‘My favourite sandwich is a
BLT
.’

Felicia let out a frustrated laugh. ‘Joke all you want, chowderhead, but I’m pretty sure I saw this guy in
Silence of the Lambs
.’

She’d hardly spoken the words when the manager returned. He splayed his hands and nodded vigorously. ‘Sorry for the delay, folks, but that was a close one, boy. Just averted what was
damn near a catastrophe.’

‘A veritable Chernobyl, I’m sure,’ Felicia said dryly.

Striker had had enough of the tour and he stepped forward. ‘This facility really is impressive, but what we need to see are your personnel records.’

The wide grin slipped from the manager’s face and was replaced by a defensive look. He sucked in his upper lip and half his moustache disappeared. ‘Personnel records? Oh boy . . .
company’s pretty strict with that stuff. You got a warrant?’

Striker said nothing; he just gave Felicia a glance.

She stepped closer to the site manager and placed her hand on his forearm. Gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘We understand the need for sensitivity. Believe me, we do. But this wouldn’t be
for court purposes – it’s merely investigative. And it would save me
hours
of work. You’d be doing me a really big service here.’

The defensive look on the man’s face fell away. ‘Well . . . all I’m saying is we’d have to keep this
confidential
.’

Felicia smiled. ‘Of course. We wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Minutes later, Striker and Felicia stood in the records office as the manager sat in front of them and navigated through the computer system until he was in the Human Resources folder. He
brought up the plant personnel records. ‘Everything’s electronic nowadays, Detectives.’

Striker read the names, one by one. When he saw the Bs, he put a hand on the manager’s shoulder. ‘Stop right there.’

On the screen was the name Striker was looking for: Brice Burns.

Sleeves.

Felicia saw it too. ‘He was on the payroll.’

Striker got the man to check the Cs as well and found an entry for Carlos Chipotle.

Felicia smiled. ‘We got them both here.’

Striker asked, ‘What were these guys’ roles at the plant?’

The manager read the date. ‘Wow, we’re talking a long time ago here.’ He clicked on a sidebar tab and a mini window popped up. ‘Says here they were both Level 3
Operators.’