Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Sixty-Six

It was the bomber’s suggestion they split up.

He and Molly needed certain ingredients to begin the cooking process, and buying too large a quantity of these particular products would bring unwanted attention. As a result, he decided to hit the sporting goods stores and camping supply warehouses while Molly went to the local hardware shops and pharmacies.

Now, as he walked down the aisle of Henan’s Sporting Goods store, the PA system droned on through static-filled speakers:

. . . and please be sure to take notice of our centre aisle today, Shoppers, where we have many reduced prices on all your sporting necessities . . .

The clerk on the microphone had a strong guttural sound to his voice. It washed over the bomber insidiously and submerged him in the past. And suddenly he was back there in the war again. In Afghanistan. And it was no longer the store manager on the PA system, but one of his men, yelling for him to take cover, Goddammit, TAKE COVER!

His heart raced, his mouth went dry.

How long had it been?

Ten years? Ten months?

Time meant nothing any more.

He stopped walking and closed his eyes. Forced it all out. Focused on the mission, for that was where sanity existed. Peace was hell, and hell was peace. It had been that way for him. Ever since the incident.

Half in this world, half fighting through the past, he floated through the store. Aisle six had the stove supplies, which meant hexamine. And aisle four had a large number of wet-weather fire-starters, which meant magnesium. He loaded up on both, then proceeded to the checkouts.

As he stood there, waiting for his turn at the till, he picked up one of the packages of hexamine. Even though it was wrapped in plastic, the gritty smell always leaked out – that gassy, waxy stink.

He brought it to his nose and sniffed.

At the same time, someone in the lumber section started up a circular saw. Its high-pitched screech of steel slicing through wood filled the air, and a bone-numbing coldness splashed through his body.

Against his wishes, he mind-rioted. Flashed back in time. And suddenly, the doctor was there again. Looking down on him. That tall stork-like figure, telling him There were some unforeseen issues, young man . . . Complications.

And then the nurse with the dark eyes and the paper hat was there too, sticking him with her needles, yelling for the orderlies to Hold him down, Goddammit, HOLD HIM DOWN!

And he was begging for them to stop.

Screaming for them to stop.

No more surgeries!

Please, no more surgeries!

‘NO MORE SURGERIES!’

And suddenly, the image – the recollection – was gone, vanished like his hope had vanished all those years ago. And there was just a young cashier standing there, looking back at him through wide, timid eyes.

‘Sir?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’

He looked around in bewilderment. The checkout . . . He was standing at the checkout . . .

The checkout.

‘I-I’m sorry,’ he tried. But his throat was tight and dry and felt like it was bleeding. All that came out was a croak.

He opened his wallet. ‘How . . . how much?’

‘Uh, one hundred and seventy-nine dollars. Even.’

He dropped four fifties on the counter – cash, always cash – grabbed his bag of supplies and retreated from the store. In behind him, that god-awful scream of the circular saw continued. Sawing, grinding, chunking through the wood like it was bone.

‘Your change, sir. Your change.’

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t care.

Wasn’t listening.

He just needed to get away from there as quickly as possible. Before the past returned once more.

Before another memory swallowed him whole.

Sixty-Seven

Striker amended the CPIC flag they’d put out earlier to include new warnings:

Threat to Police.

And Explosives Expert.

Once done, he sat back and looked at Felicia. They were at a crossroads now. They had a decision to make – return to performing surveillance on Harry and Koda, or go their own way in locating Sleeves.

Striker spoke his opinion first. ‘I’m getting tired of the cat and mouse game with Harry.’

‘Me too,’ Felicia admitted. ‘But they know this guy better than we do.’

‘That may be true,’ Striker said. ‘But, like us, they have no idea where he’s hiding. I mean, think about it – they were calling Ibarra themselves looking for an address. They’re in the same position we are. Besides, we have them tracked, so we can always follow the GPS’s history later – it’s recorded.’

Felicia remained uncertain, and Striker pressed her:

‘If Harry and Koda find Sleeves before us, we’ll go after them. But right now, this feels like a case of the blind leading the blind.’

Felicia only shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t mind leaving them so much if we had an idea where we could find Sleeves. But we don’t.’

‘Actually we do.’

Felicia gave Striker a wary look. ‘We do?’

He smiled knowingly.

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

They drove from Cambie Street HQ to the Grandview-Woodlands area, with Striker telling Felicia of his plan. Once there, they parked at the corner of Lakewood and Dundas, in a partially hidden lane. From here, the car was almost invisible from the main drive, and yet the entrance to Roebuck’s Convenience Store was in plain view. Striker knew the store well; it had been robbed a dozen times over the years, and it was a common area for low-end drug deals to occur.

Which was why they were there.

‘So we’re looking for Lucky Eddie,’ Felicia said.

Striker nodded. ‘Today, he will be Unlucky Eddie.’

She let out a small laugh. ‘Why him?’

‘He’ll lead us to Sleeves.’

‘I still don’t see how.’

Striker explained: ‘Because District 2 is almost entirely crack cocaine based. Not many dealers here sell meth. And the few who do sure as hell can’t afford to buy it in large quantities. But Lucky Eddie can.’

Felicia followed the logic. ‘And you’re thinking Eddie’s wholesaler will be Sleeves?’

‘I’m betting on it.’

Felicia nodded. ‘One problem though. Meth may not be the drug of choice in District 2, but it’s rampant in the downtown core. I can list dozens of dealers who are able to buy large quantities down there. So maybe Sleeves is selling there too.’

Striker shook his head. ‘No way. Anyone selling meth in District 1 has to buy their drugs off one of the groups affiliated with the Satan’s Prowlers – and that can’t happen here. Sleeves has been cut loose by the gang. And even he’s not stupid enough to be selling in Prowler territory. It would expedite his death sentence. And besides that, he doesn’t need to. He can lie low here and still make a profit.’

Felicia continued poking holes in the theory. ‘Granted. But they also sell tons of meth in District 3.’

Striker nodded. ‘An area which is controlled by the Seven Nations Gang, the Chinese Scorpions and the Viets. Sure, Sleeves could be selling there too. But if he was, do you think the other gangs would put up with it? – some punk who’d been excommunicated from the Prowlers selling in their area?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Definitely not. They’d have taken action against him immediately. And I’ve read nothing about that in the Overnights. Have you?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

Striker continued: ‘District 2 is the low end, the free-for-all, mainly because it’s a crack cocaine district. That’s what sells here, crack. The meth is just an afterthought – but afterthought or not, Sleeves needs somewhere to sell his product. My bet is he’s doing it here.’

‘Which means he needs a legitimate street trafficker,’ Felicia said. ‘A guy who has the street cred to move decent amounts of product but isn’t a total junkie himself.’

‘Which means Lucky Eddie.’

‘Who won’t be so lucky today.’

Striker grinned. ‘Bingo.’

When Felicia still looked uncertain, Striker prodded her. ‘Tell you what, I’ll make you a bet. If I win, you have to give me a full body massage tonight; if you win, I’ll give you one.’

‘Sounds like you win either way.’

Striker laughed. ‘And you say I have an ego.’

Felicia just smiled at him.

Then the wait began.

It didn’t take long. Lucky Eddie was an easy man to spot, mainly because he suffered from Marfan syndrome. Because of this, he was almost 200 centimetres tall and had unusually long arms and legs. When Striker saw the outline of a tall stickman lumbering up to a much smaller individual behind the convenience store, he knew they had found their man.

‘Beautiful,’ Striker said.

Felicia saw it too. ‘He’s making a deal right now.’

‘Hold on.’

Before Felicia could respond, Striker hit the gas. They cut across the main drive of Lakewood and came to a screeching halt behind the convenience store. The swerve of the car and the cry of the brakes caused Lucky Eddie to jump back in surprise, and he dropped his collection of baggies in the process.

Striker jumped out of the car, grabbed Eddie by the arm, and slammed him over the hood of the cruiser. As he handcuffed him, Eddie’s customer ran frantically across the park towards Wall Street.

Striker smiled at Felicia. ‘Where’s the loyalty?’

She looked down at Eddie. ‘This will definitely affect your customer approval rating.’

Lucky Eddie said nothing, he just stared back at them through dark eyes that communicated nothing. Striker gave the prisoner a cursory search, clearing the man of knives and guns, and then pulled him off the hood. In behind them, Felicia picked up four dropped baggies, each one containing roughly twenty pills. She held them up and looked at their contents.

‘It’s jib. Maybe some E too.’

Striker nodded: Crystal meth and ecstasy. He turned to Lucky Eddie and smiled. ‘Well, this certainly is a dilemma we find ourselves in.’

Eddie’s posture sagged. ‘You gonna book me or not, Striker?’

‘Striker? Wow, you remember me. How thoughtful. And here I thought you’d forgotten.’

‘You almost ran me over last time too.’

‘Almost – that’s the key word.’ Striker took one of the bags from Felicia. ‘Let’s see, what charges have we got here? Possession. Trafficking. Evading Arrest. And the last time I checked, you were also out on bail, were you not? So there’ll be a breach here somewhere too.’

‘It’s like a smorgasbord of charges,’ Felicia said.

Striker nodded. ‘And I’m still hungry.’

Eddie scowled at their banter, then looked away. ‘So what? Charge me. I’ll be out in two months – max.’

‘Oh, you’ll be out today,’ Striker replied. When the drug trafficker looked at him sideways, Striker added, ‘It’s your lucky day, Lucky Eddie – I don’t want to arrest you.’

There was a long pause, then Eddie asked, ‘What’s the catch?’

‘I need some information – an answer to a very important question. One which I know you have . . . Where is Sleeves hiding?’

Recognition and surprise filled Eddie’s eyes. But there was also something else there. Fear.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Actually, you have heard of him. In fact, you’re dealing for him right now.’

‘Then book me.’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Sure, I could do that – or I could take a different approach here. You see, my partner and I just had a conversation with Vicenza Montalba.’

Eddie flinched at the name, and Striker continued.

‘Vicenza Montalba is none-too-happy with Sleeves right now. Now if you want, we could always pay Montalba another visit, let him know who’s got the balls to sell for the very guy Montalba excommunicated from his criminal enterprise.’

Eddie said nothing but his face hardened.

The reaction made Striker smile. ‘Yeah, I think Montalba would deliver a slightly different sentence than the courts, don’t you, Feleesh?’

She grinned. ‘I’d say Life . . . in some form or another.’

Eddie licked his lips. ‘This is bullshit, man, this is fucking bullshit!’

Striker lost the smile. He gripped Eddie’s collar and got right in his face.

‘I’ll tell you what’s bullshit, Eddie. I got two innocent women murdered and a personal friend of mine who’s been targeted by some fuckin’ whack-job bomber. You get it? That is fuckin’ bullshit. All the cards are off the table on this one.’

Felicia nodded in agreement. ‘The moment you target a cop, there are no rules.’

Eddie’s eyes took on a distant look. ‘I never targeted no—’

‘We’re not messing around here,’ Striker said. ‘Time is critical. And every minute that goes by endangers a cop’s life more. So here’s the deal, Eddie: we know you have an address for Sleeves. You give it to us, and we let you go and never say a word about this again. You don’t cough it up, and we’ll charge you with everything I can think of – and then I’ll call Montalba myself.’

Eddie looked back, deadpan. ‘I call bluff.’

Striker fished the business card Montalba had given him out from his wallet. He held it up for Eddie to see.

‘We’re talking a cop’s life here, Eddie. Your scumbag rights don’t count for shit.’ He took out his cell and began dialling. ‘The moment this call is answered, the deal is off.’

He put it on speakerphone, and the line began to ring.

One, two—

‘Okay, okay, o-fucking-kay!’ Eddie snapped. ‘For God’s sake, man, Montalba will kill me!’

‘That’s the general idea.’ Striker put the cell away. ‘Now where can we find him?’

Eddie let out a long breath, then relented. ‘House up on Lakewood. Right behind the 7-Eleven. White, with boarded-up windows.’

‘He lives there?’

‘He stays there with some girl. When he’s doing business. Calls it the bunker.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I dunno, man. Serious. He never tells no one ’bout it. He’s paranoid.’

‘Who’s the girl?’

‘I dunno. Some chick. She’s a freak. Never comes out, never talks to no one.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘Creepy, if you ask me.’

Striker changed the subject. ‘I want his cell number too.’

‘Sleeves ain’t got no cell.’

‘All dealers have a cell.’

‘Well he never gave the number to me. He got a pager instead. Like I told you, he’s friggin’ paranoid, man.’

‘Because he’s got too many enemies,’ Felicia said.

Eddie just shrugged like he didn’t much care. ‘Look, I don’t make no rules. This is just how it is. I call that number, punch in three 8s, and Sleeves brings more product. Same amount every time – twenty dime-bags . . . We got a thing going on here, him and me.’

‘Where do you meet?’ Striker demanded.

‘Men’s room,’ he grumbled. ‘Pandora Park.’

It was not surprising. Pandora Park was a shithole.

Striker took out his notebook, got Eddie talking, and wrote down Sleeves’ address. Once done, he called for a jail pick-up. The wagon arrived five minutes later and Striker shoved Eddie inside the compartment. The drug dealer immediately began whining.

‘We had a deal, Striker – a deal!’

Striker turned to face him. ‘I said no charges, Eddie, and there’ll be none. You’ll be released in an hour or so – after we catch Sleeves.’

‘Just let me go. I won’t tell him! I won’t say shit! Honest—’

Striker slammed closed the wagon door. Gave the driver the thumbs up. And the diesel engine chugged loudly as the driver headed west.

Striker returned to the undercover police cruiser. Moments later, they were driving south on Lakewood, heading towards East Pender Street. Destination: Sleeves’ hideout.

It was only a kilometre away.

Sixty-Eight

‘This Sleeves is a real sicko,’ Felicia said.

Striker drove as Felicia read through the paperwork. A few blocks later, she looked up from the copies of the confidential files Ibarra had given them back in the Gang Crime Unit. The one she was currently reading was an Intel file from back east, on the death of a seven-year-old child; the boy had been a casualty of the biker wars in Toronto.

The suspect in the bombing was Sleeves.

Seven years old.

It gave Striker a dark feeling.

‘Insufficient grounds to charge or even detain,’ Felicia continued. ‘In fact, all these files are only Intel.’ She read on. ‘They never found any empirical evidence linking Sleeves to any of the bombings. It was all circumstantial.’

‘Is it the same MO as the Toy Hut?’

Felicia frowned. ‘There’s no forensic detail. Just source material. We’d need to get the actual report.’

‘Great. Add it to the list.’

Striker had never dealt with the Toronto Police Department before. Didn’t even know if they were on the PRIME system. It was yet another task they’d need to perform. He slowed down as East Hastings Street came into view. They were getting closer to Sleeves’ basement suite now.

Felicia leaned back from the laptop.

‘Something odd here,’ she said. ‘Sleeves has a record a mile long, a charge or two for every year – except for a twelve-month period where he just plain disappears off the system. Not one report on PRIME or LEIP or PIRS. Nothing.’

‘Check the Coronet system. Maybe he was in jail.’

‘I did, he wasn’t.’

‘Something must have happened,’ Striker said. ‘Guys like him don’t take holidays. Maybe he was out of the country. Or in hiding.’

She looked over at him. ‘Maybe we should call in the Emergency Response Team on this one.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Why not?’

‘First, they’re not needed – we’re not going in, he’s coming out. And second, the moment we bring in ERT, we lose control of the file. They’ll call in a negotiator, and the only one on right now is Acting Deputy Chief Laroche. And we’ve been over that before – Laroche is the last person we want involved with this file. If that happens, we’ll lose all ownership of the investigation. Not to mention everyone will know – and that includes Harry and Koda.’

Felicia persisted. ‘We at least need a cover unit.’

Striker agreed. ‘I’m fine with that. Let’s get one. But don’t forget, we’re not here to arrest Sleeves – we don’t have enough evidence for that. We’re just gonna put the heavy on the man.’

‘What about everything you overheard Harry and Koda talking about?’

Striker shrugged. ‘What about it? It’s already dubious; you even said that yourself. And it will be nothing but hearsay in court. Harry and Koda are sure as hell never gonna admit to anything. You and I both know they’re up to something here, be it a cover-up, revenge, or even their own personal investigation. But we got no real proof of that yet. We got to play this one smoothly.’

Felicia relented. She finished reading Sleeves’ CNI page – the Criminal Name Index – and a bemused laugh escaped her lips. ‘Here’s something we can use against him. He got a bench warrant for traffic tickets. We can threaten to make him pay his fines.’

A smile stretched Striker’s lips.

‘That is perfect,’ he said.

Felicia frowned at him. ‘I was only joking, Jacob. You don’t have to be sarcastic.’

But Striker kept smiling.

‘I’m not being sarcastic,’ he said. ‘Those aren’t just traffic tickets Sleeves has got – they’re wild cards.’

Sixty-Nine

Felicia put them out on a Violent Offender Check in the two thousand block of East Pender Street. The information Lucky Eddie had given them was straightforward. Sleeves was hiding out in the basement suite of a small house that sat just behind the 7-Eleven store.

White house. East end of Pender. North side.

The house was distinguishable because Sleeves had taped black plastic garbage bags over the bedroom window in order to block out the glare from the nearby street lamp.

Once Striker and Felicia had located the suite and the corresponding window, they went to the rear of the house in case Sleeves unexpectedly exited the premises. The position was adequate at best. With the midday sun blasting down from above, there was little shadow for concealment.

Striker got on his cell and called up Niles Quaid, a ten-year Patrol vet who was working the dayshift plainclothes car. Striker had known Quaid for years – he was a good cop who did good work and could keep his mouth shut. Over the phone, Striker filled him in on the situation, stressing that everything was off the record. Within five minutes, Quaid and his partner arrived on scene to assist.

Striker obtained an Ops channel from Dispatch, then they set up.

He and Felicia moved to the rear lane. While keeping cover behind the detached garage, Striker assessed the yard. It was small and open with nowhere that could be called proper cover. Even more problematic was the entrance to the suite. To reach it, one had to cross a long, open walkway, then descend a narrow set of stairs that were sandwiched in by two concrete walls.

‘It’s a perfect trap,’ Felicia said.

Striker agreed. There was absolutely no cover should a gun battle erupt.

With Sleeves justly paranoid and already on the lookout for gang rivals, Striker was concerned about the man shooting first and asking questions later. And judging from the various police files they’d read in the different systems, this had been his standard MO over the years.

‘He got any vehicles?’ Striker asked.

Felicia looked inside the garage. The window was dirty and hard to see through. She rubbed the pane clean with her elbow. Inside was an old Jeep 4x4 with a cracked windshield. The angle made the licence plate unreadable.

‘Might be his vehicle,’ she said. ‘I better take up a position here in case.’

Striker looked down Lakewood Street. ‘Fine. I’ll take the east side of the house, in case he takes off on foot.’

He gave Felicia a hard stare.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘No messing around with this guy. He’s too dangerous. Just take him down and take him down hard.’

‘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.’