Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

She’d barely finished speaking when Koda exited the washroom. He walked slowly, gingerly, right up to the table. Placed his hand against the edge. Stabilized himself. ‘These goddam pills . . . I don’t feel so well.’

Harry looked at Striker. ‘We finished our little masquerade?’

Striker acted as if he hadn’t heard the comment and pulled the laptop across the table. ‘Why don’t you give me the names of these real estate business partners you were talking about, Chad, and we’ll run them through the system.’

The man’s eyes took on a lost look. Scared. Confused. Tired.

‘He needs rest,’ Harry said.

Striker nodded slowly, then muttered ‘fine’ and closed the laptop. ‘Go get some rest then, Chad.’ He handed the man his business card. ‘Email me the names of your Hong Kong associates and these law suits, and I’ll check it out. And call me if anything else comes to mind.’

Koda took the card and nodded. Then Harry stood up and the two men left the coffee shop. The door slammed hard behind them.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Well? You get the tracker installed?’

She smiled. ‘We’re in business.’

He let out a relieved breath. ‘Thank God. You took so long, Harry started asking questions. You had me worried there.’

She held up her palms. They were clean. ‘Had to get the grime off my hands first; otherwise they’d know.’ She opened the flap of her coat, pulled out the handheld GPS tracker, then pressed the On button. Seconds later, a small map appeared across the LED display and a car icon blipped. The icon was already heading south on Glen Drive.

Calculated speed: 100 kilometres per hour.

‘Holy shit, they’re flying,’ Felicia said.

Striker smiled at the sight.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling we’re about to find out what they’re looking for.’

Sixty-Two

The lung compressor in the corner of the room made a soft shu-shush sound as the bomber stood motionlessly at the foot of the bed. Dressed in a pair of ordinary blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and sporting a pair of large mirrored sunglasses that covered up most of his face, he stared at the man before him.

He’s lost so much weight . . .

The thought pained him. He moved slowly around the bed until he was at the side, and there he delicately traced his fingers down the man’s arm. There was hardly any tissue there now, any meat. It was bloody awful. They were so thin. Child thin. The full-sleeve tattoos looked like deflated balloons.

Shu-shush, the compressor continued.

He continued tracing his finger up the man’s arm, all the way to his chest. So many bumps of scar tissue mottled the skin. On his arms. His chest. His neck and face and head. This, along with his own similar tattoos, was all they shared any more – scar tissue. He had it too. All over his body. Scars and scars and scars.

Little physical memories.

He leaned closer to the man. Whispered, ‘I might not be back. Maybe not ever . . . But know this: I’m making things right.’

The man on the bed showed no response that he had even heard the words, showed no response that he was even alive; he only breathed through the assistance of the lung compressor, and that rhythmic shu-shush sound continued to break the silence. It filled him with a sorrow so deep that his lungs ached, for he knew full well the outcome of a basilar artery stroke. Of locked-in syndrome. Every voluntary muscle of a person’s body failed, and yet the patient remained awake and aware. It was a living hell.

There were no delusions here.

None at all.

But there is always hope, Molly would say.

You can never give up, Molly would say.

We just need to have faith, she would say.

But Molly had not come with him. Like she never came. And there was no loving God up there, watching over them. Or if He was there, He sure as hell didn’t care.

No, there was no hope. There was no faith.

Not any more.

Hell, maybe there never had been.

Shu-shush.

His black cell rang. He picked up.

‘The GPS is done,’ Molly said. Her voice was tight, strained.

He said nothing back.

‘Installed and activated,’ she said.

Still, he said nothing.

He hung up the phone. He brushed his hand through the hair of the man on the bed. Kissed his forehead. Smelled his pungent body odour. Said, ‘I love you . . . I love you so much.’

And then the tears finally came – big salty drops, rolling down his cheeks and onto his lips, forcing him to flee the room altogether from what may well have been the final goodbye.

Shu-shush.

Sixty-Three

As Felicia drove their undercover cruiser eastward in pursuit of Harry and Koda, Striker sat in the passenger seat and continued going over all the various connections in his mind. The link between Koda and Sharise Owens was clear. But the link between Koda and Keisha Williams still felt vague.

Striker took out his notebook and searched for the phone number of Keisha Williams’ brother, Gerome. When he found it several pages back, he dialled the number. It rang but once, and the man answered. A sadness resonated in his tone, and Striker felt for him. He asked how the children were coping and if the Victim Services Unit had been helpful. The grief in Gerome’s voice made it clear that nothing was helpful right now. So Striker got down to business.

‘Keisha was the owner of the Toy Hut, was she not?’

‘Well, Keisha owned the business,’ Gerome said. ‘Not the actual building.’

‘Had making toys always been something she loved to do?’

‘Oh yes. Always. We didn’t have much money as kids. Our parents were broke. So Keisha used to make us things. She was always good at that, and I think the happiness it brought me made her feel better too.’

‘So she made toys all her life?’

‘Yes, sir. Mostly from wood. She was good with wood.’

‘And she did this as a career? All her life?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. She only opened the Toy Hut about ten years ago.’

‘What did she do before that?’ Striker asked.

‘She was a chartered accountant.’

Striker was surprised by this. ‘A chartered accountant? . . . Forgive me, Gerome, but I don’t get it.’

‘Get it, sir?’

‘Keisha and the children lived in social housing. She owned second-hand clothes. She looked in all ways like she was – well, for lack of a better word – poor.’

‘She was poor. The family just got by. Especially after her husband died – Chester had no life insurance, you know.’

Striker shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but this doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why stay poor? If Keisha was registered as a chartered accountant, why didn’t she work as one?’

Gerome sighed. ‘You tell me, Detective. That was one of the things we used to fight about, Keisha and me. I always told her, “You and the kids got no money. Why don’t you go back to your old job? You can buy a place for you and the children.” But every time I brought it up, it just created more and more distance between us. Like whenever I told her to get rid of that Solomon guy.’

‘Did she work for a company?’

‘No. Was all private stuff, much as I know.’

‘And where does she keep her records?’

‘I dunno,’ Gerome said. ‘I been going through her stuff myself to see if she had any insurance for the children, but I ain’t found nothing so far. If she’s got records, they ain’t here, I can tell you that.’

Striker thought it over. ‘Did something bad happen in the distant past? Something that made her quit her career as a chartered accountant?’

Gerome let out a long breath, one filled with tension. ‘I honestly don’t know, Detective. She just upped and quit, and that was pretty much that. The topic was off limits around here. She made that pretty clear to me, clear to everyone. Lord, I’ll never know.’

Striker said nothing else on the matter. He just thanked Gerome for his time and told him to call if the children were in need of anything. Then he hung up and relayed what he had learned to Felicia.

‘Something must have happened,’ she said. ‘Why else quit a good job like that and live in poverty? It doesn’t make sense, even if she loved the other job. I mean, she had children to think about, right?’

Striker thought the same. Something must have happened.

Something bad.

Sixty-Four

Striker and Felicia continued tailing Harry and Koda out into the suburbs.

‘Not too close, not too close,’ Striker said.

Felicia gave him a cool look. ‘They’re two blocks east and one block north of us, Jacob. Unless they can see backwards and through the walls of the houses, we’re fine.’

Striker frowned. He couldn’t help the concern.

‘We have to be perfect here, Feleesh. Harry and Koda might chalk up our first meeting in the yards to a fluke, but one more lucky meet like that and they’ll know we’re tracking them. We need to maintain some distance until we figure out some of the other areas they’ve been searching. Then we can run the addresses and look for some connections.’

‘Fine, fine.’

Felicia slowed down another ten K per hour, if only to appease him, and Striker watched the screen of the BirdDog tracker. They navigated deeper into the suburban area of Riley Park, and soon found themselves on James Street. After three more blocks, the car icon on the tracking display stopped moving altogether and the speed read: 0 km/hr.

‘They’ve stopped,’ Striker said.

Felicia pulled over to the nearest kerb. ‘They on Quebec?’

‘Yeah. Right across from the softball centre.’

Her face took on the faraway gaze of deep thought. ‘What else is there?’

‘Just houses.’

‘Maybe they’re at a red light or a stop sign.’

Striker shook his head. ‘They’re mid-block. Just wait them out.’

They gave it another full minute. When the icon didn’t start moving again, Striker said, ‘I’m getting out and going on foot.’

He shouldered open the door and ran southward down the lane. Two blocks later, he slowed down and started peering in between the houses, one by one. Halfway down the lane, he caught sight of the old undercover police cruiser.

The Crown Vic was parked in front of a small house. The place looked old, was square in shape and covered with water-stained stucco. It had probably been built back in the late 30s or early 40s. Out front, the foliage was out of control. The lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in years, and the garden was nothing but weed and crabgrass. Standing in the small alcove were Harry and Koda. They were talking to a thin brunette with a narrow face.

Striker looked her over. The woman’s hair looked unnaturally black, like a bad home-dye job. She was wearing a red-and-white checked apron which she kept absently smoothing out, and there was a small boy clutching her side.

He was maybe four years old.

Harry and Koda asked the woman several questions, and all the while a nervous expression lingered on the woman’s face. Several times, her eyes flitted to the long fresh wound running down the centre of Koda’s face and forehead, and at one point the boy pointed at it. She quickly yanked his hand away and gave him a reprimand, before looking back with an expression of embarrassment.

After a long moment, the two men said goodbye and returned to their vehicle. Koda was raving about something while Harry just looked straight ahead, his face communicating nothing.

Striker watched them talk heatedly in the cab, then drive down the road until they were out of sight. When he was sure they were long gone, he turned his attention back to the house.

The woman was still standing in the doorway, looking down the road where they had gone. That nervous, embarrassed look still covered her face. Seconds later, she scooped up her little boy and carried him inside the house.

Striker wrote the address down in his notebook, then added: ‘mother and son (4 years old)’. He put the pen away and his cell went off. He answered.

‘They’re moving again,’ Felicia said.

‘Run this address: 5311 Quebec Street. See what comes up.’

‘Hold on . . .’ Striker heard her typing. ‘Okay, got it. Let’s see here . . . nothing in PRIME, but the Motor Vehicle Branch has a listing there for a woman named Theresa Jameson. Should be about one hundred and seventy centimetres and fifty-one kilos. Brown hair, blue eyes. No criminal record whatsoever.’

Striker listened to the description. It matched the woman from the doorway.

‘Hair’s a bit off,’ he said. ‘But it looks dyed. Just hold tight for now. I’m gonna check her out.’

‘Be fast – I don’t want to lose them.’

Striker crossed the street and marched up the sidewalk. The closer he got to the house, the more run-down the lot appeared. Weeds had pushed through the cracks in the concrete walkway, and thick tree roots could be seen burrowing into the house’s foundation – a major structural problem. Add in the water damage to the exterior walls and the place was a rebuild at best.

Striker walked up the front steps and knocked. The moment the door opened, the fresh smell of baked muffins filled the air. Bran, for sure. Apple too. The woman who answered the door was the same one he’d seen moments earlier talking to Harry and Koda, only now she was holding a bowl of white icing.

‘Theresa Jameson?’ Striker asked.

‘Yes.’

Striker pulled out his badge and offered her a smile. ‘Detective Striker, Vancouver Police Department.’

‘I just spoke to two cops, not a minute ago.’

Striker put the badge away. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we’d already been by to talk to you.’

‘Yes, you just missed them.’

Striker made something up. ‘Were they here on the mischief call?’

The woman looked confused. ‘Mischief? Uh, I’m not sure. They were more concerned about who lived here now, and how long me and the kids have been living here.’

‘Oh,’ Striker said. ‘Did they take a written statement?’

‘No.’

He sighed onerously. ‘That figures. No problem though. I’ll just make some quick notes and put in a page for you – save you the hassle later on. What exactly did you tell them?’

The woman transferred the bowl of icing to her other arm. ‘Uh, just that we’d been living here almost three years now, and that no one rented any rooms from us.’ She frowned as she spoke. ‘Then they started asking me if I had any gang connections. Or if any of my kids did. It kind of scared me, to be honest with you.’

‘Did they mention anything specific?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Any gang names? Any surnames?’

She shook her head. ‘No, no. They didn’t.’

When the young boy appeared at her side again, he looked up at Striker and clutched at his mother’s apron. Theresa Jameson put the mixing bowl down on a small table just inside the doorway and scooped up the boy, cradling him in her arms. As she did so, she met Striker’s stare, and suddenly she looked smaller and more diminutive than before.

Scared.

‘Should I . . . should I be worried here, Detective?’ she asked.

Striker offered a warm smile.

‘Only at your gardener costs.’

Sixty-Five

‘We need to learn the history of that house and the people that live there,’ Striker said when Felicia picked him up again on Quebec Street. ‘There’s a reason Harry and Koda stopped there, and it looks gang-related.’

‘Just buckle up,’ she said. ‘They’re making ground on us.’

She hammered the gas.

They continued following Harry and Koda with the BirdDog tracker and several kilometres later caught up to them. Once again, the target vehicle stopped, though this time at the White Spot restaurant on Main Street. Striker was not surprised. The White Spot was a cop favourite; it had a central location and none of the cooks there would spit in your food.

‘They’re gonna be a while,’ Striker said. ‘Let’s head for the Gang Crime Unit, see what they have on this Sergeant-at-Arms biker we keep reading about – Sleeves.’

Felicia shifted irritably. ‘We should stay and watch these guys – what if they leave?’

Striker waved a hand dismissively. ‘We should head to GCU.’

A cross look took over Felicia’s face. ‘Don’t do that to me.’

‘Do what?’

‘Wave your hand like my opinion doesn’t matter.’ She shook her head. ‘Sometimes you can be so damn . . . condescending.’

Striker looked back, surprised. Once again he’d managed to piss off Felicia without even trying. It was a bad habit of his, he knew, taking the lead and giving orders rather than working in tandem. And all too often he came across as bossy, even though he didn’t mean to. He tried to be fair, always. But ultimately, the niceties didn’t matter. He was the lead investigator of their partnership and the most senior detective of the unit. And that meant one thing:

All the glory, all the blame.

He tried to smooth things out.

‘Look, all I’m saying is I know Harry. Personally. He’ll take an hour and a half to eat his lunch. He always does. Besides, the BirdDog will tell us if they leave. If it goes off, we’ll turn around. We can always catch up to them if we need to.’

When the look of irritation fell from Felicia’s face, Striker softened his voice and spoke again.

‘The thing is, every minute counts right now, Feleesh. And I just don’t want us wasting ninety of them watching Harry and Koda stuff their faces. Besides, you just know Koda’s gonna get food in his goatee – who wants to see that?’

Felicia let out a small laugh, then nodded, if only to appease him.

‘Fine, Jacob. GCU it is.’

Striker felt relieved. To do otherwise would have driven him nuts. As far as he was concerned, the Gang Crime Unit was not only their next best bet, it was a critical part of the investigation. The GCU had their own offline-database, which was unavailable to other units. They would definitely have hidden files on the Satan’s Prowlers and – if they were lucky enough – this Sergeant-at-Arms, Sleeves.

Striker and Felicia headed for the Bunker.

Like most of the Special Operations squads, the Gang Crime Unit was located in the Bunker, an old warehouse in District 3. And like the primary headquarters at 312 Main Street, the building was a giant concrete block that was old, outdated, and slowly falling into ruin. The only part of the building that wasn’t outdated was the new model security system; cameras stuck out against the crumbling walls of the facility like shiny quarters on a grey sidewalk.

On the second floor, Striker led Felicia down the threadbare carpet, in between the flaking walls of paint. On a blue-painted door at the end of a long, dark corridor was a white wooden sign with red block lettering:

GANG CRIME UNIT.

The door was electronically locked, and the keypad was coded for GCU members only.

‘You got clearance?’ Felicia asked.

‘Yeah, this,’ Striker said, and raised his fist.

He rapped hard on the wood, three times, and moments later the door was opened by the very man they were looking for – Delbert Ibarra.

Inspector Delbert Ibarra was one of the few Mexican members of the department and an old friend of Striker’s. The two men sometimes went camping together. Once the inspector in charge of Strike Force – the city’s best surveillance team – Ibarra was now in charge of the entire Gang Crime Unit. The men and women working under Ibarra said good things about him, and that didn’t surprise Striker in the least.

Ibarra was a good man. He put people first.

‘Shipwreck, Felicia,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. I hear you two are working on the bombing.’

‘Yeah, lucky us,’ Felicia said.

Striker stepped into the room, forcing Ibarra to move back. ‘We need your help on this one, Del. I got some nasty suspicions this could all relate back to one of the gangs you’ve been monitoring – the Satan’s Prowlers.’

Ibarra raised an eye. ‘Vicenza Montalba?’

‘Not him specifically.’

Felicia nodded. ‘It’s kind of complicated.’

‘Come with me.’

Ibarra’s demeanour turned from relaxed to serious. He led them down the corridor, in between the rows of cubicles, to a small and secluded computer pod. There, he pulled over some chairs and they all sat down in a half-circle.

‘Now what do you got?’ he asked.

Striker spent ten minutes filling the inspector in on everything they had discovered, starting with the torture scene in the orange-lit barn and finishing with the links to a Sergeant-at-Arms with the Satan’s Prowlers – a man they believed to be Sleeves. He omitted his concerns about Harry and Koda. Once done, Striker leaned forward. ‘So why the gang name Sleeves?’

‘When you find the prick, check out his forearms. Nothing but tattoos – women chained to women.’

Felicia nodded. ‘So you’re aware of the man.’

‘Oh, I’m well aware. In fact his name has come up quite a few times today.’

That got Striker’s attention. ‘Today? Why?’

‘Harry Eckhart’s been calling, asking a lot of questions about the man. You guys working the same file or something?’

‘What did he want?’ Striker asked.

‘An address. For Sleeves.’

‘Did you give him one?’ Felicia asked.

‘Don’t have one to give.’ Ibarra splayed his hands as he explained. ‘Sleeves has been in hiding for quite some time now. Word is he’s been ousted by the gang for bringing them too much bad press, and for using his own product – though I hear he got himself under control again.’

‘What drug?’

‘Meth. For the pain.’

‘What pain?’

Ibarra splayed his hands as he spoke. ‘Sleeves blew himself up pretty badly a few years back. It’s a wonder he even survived.’

‘Where might we find him?’ Striker asked.

‘No one knows where he is. And from what I hear, that’s probably a good thing. The entire gang is looking for him – and they tend to deal with matters internally.’

Striker said nothing as he mulled this over. ‘Can you run two addresses through the GCU database for me?’ He gave Ibarra the addresses for Hing-Woo Enterprises on Semlin Drive and Theresa Jameson’s house on Quebec Street.

Ibarra didn’t touch the keyboard. ‘Don’t have to run the first one,’ he said. ‘It’s a food warehouse now, but a few years back it used to be one of the chop shops for the Satan’s Prowlers.’

‘Chop shop?’ Felicia asked. ‘You mean for high-end cars?’

‘For enemies,’ Ibarra replied. ‘Believe me, you didn’t want to be taken there. You always left slightly shorter.’ He grinned darkly. ‘As for the house on Quebec Street . . .’ He typed the address into the computer, then waited for a response. When he got one, he nodded slowly. ‘Ah, there you go. Up until about three years ago, Sleeves was suspected of living there. Rented the basement suite. But he’s been gone from there for a long time now. NFA.’

Striker sighed. NFA meant No Fixed Address, and it was about as much as he had expected.

‘Any suggestions?’ he asked.

Ibarra nodded. ‘Yeah, just one. Be careful with this guy. He’s a real weasel, Shipwreck. And a former nailer to boot.’

Felicia didn’t know the word.

‘Nailer?’ she asked.

‘A Prowler hitman. And he’s damn good at it. Almost single-handedly took on the Renegades during the biker wars back east.’

‘In Toronto?’ she asked. The shootings and bombings had made headlines all across the country.

Ibarra nodded. ‘That’s the one. It’s also the reason why the Prowlers transferred him out west – the heat got to be too much. Sleeves became a liability to the gang, especially after that little kid got killed.’

Striker remembered the incident. The little blond boy’s image was ingrained in everyone’s mind. The wailing mother. The following funeral procession. It was bad. ‘Car bomb, right?’

‘Two pounds of PETN. Under the driver’s seat. The boy was playing on the sidewalk at the time. Never had a chance.’

Striker tried to recall all the details.

‘I don’t remember them tying the bomb to anyone specifically,’ he said.

‘They didn’t,’ Ibarra replied. ‘The evidence was never there. But everyone knew who did it – the Satan’s Prowlers. Who else would it be? They were the only ones fighting with the Renegades back then. And the Prowlers had just the guy to do it – Sleeves.’

‘But why him?’ Felicia asked.

Ibarra looked at her like she was nuts.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘Sleeves is an explosives expert.’