Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Seventy

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.’

‘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.

Seventy-One

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.

Seventy-Two

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.’

‘Which means?’

‘They worked the forklift. Unloaded cargo.’

Striker smiled at that; finally, he was starting to see some light at the end of the tunnel. He looked at the screen and saw that the dates of employment were short – less than sixteen months in all. He pointed at the screen. ‘We need copies of all the Vancouver Police Department shipments that occurred on these dates, and we need them now.’

Striker looked up at Felicia and saw the excited expression on her face. It was clear she had made the connection too. They had now linked Sleeves and Chipotle and Koda to the burning facility – Sleeves and Chipotle by way of employee records, Koda by being the sergeant in charge of ERT’s Red Team.

They were finally getting somewhere.

Seventy-Three

Once Striker and Felicia pulled up out front of Main Street Headquarters, Felicia stuffed the burn records into a file folder, carried it with her, and the two of them hurried up the front stairs. Striker cut past the Public Service counter and adjoining Ident booth, where a woman was being fingerprinted.

He used his keycard to swipe in to the property office.

Striker found the clerk he was looking for. Larry Smallsy was a tall man with thinning white hair and John Lennon spectacles. Striker had known him for ten years and liked doing work with him because of two things: Smallsy was easy-going, and he operated within the bounds of common sense, not policy and procedure.

‘Larry!’ Striker called.

The property clerk, seated at his desk, looked up from a far-too-healthy looking bran muffin. ‘Hey, Detectives.’

Striker approached his desk. ‘I need to see sixteen months of your burn records from ten years ago, and I need them now.’

Smallsy said nothing. He just removed a bag of Wet Wipes from his desk, began cleaning the sticky bran crumbs from his fingers, and bobbed his head. Once his fingers were clean, he got up and wandered down the back corridor.

Striker gave Felicia a nod, and they followed.

As they went, Striker absently assessed the property office. The place was a dump. Crammed to the roof with box after box of old evidence, infested with cockroaches, and loaded with rat traps in every corner, the place screamed of disrepair.

It matched the rest of the downtown station.

Felicia sniffed loudly, then made a face. ‘Everything smells damp and mouldy down here, Smallsy. And there’s no room to move. It’s a wonder you can even do your job.’

‘Yeah, well I’m Larry friggin’ Potter,’ he said. ‘I keep everything organized.’

Up ahead, Smallsy stopped at a long counter that was fronted by numerous shelves of archives. From the uppermost row, he pulled down three ledgers. When he laid them down on the counter and opened them up, Striker saw that the pages of the books were more yellow than white, and coffee stains decorated the edges. He looked at the headings of the books. They were all the same:

Evidence Transfer – Montreaux Incinerator.

Striker grabbed the file folder from Felicia. From it, he removed a wad of papers. He placed them down on the counter top, next to the ledger. He ran his finger down the pages, one by one. When he came across the corresponding date, he stopped. Compared. And found discrepancies.

Felicia made a surprised sound.

‘The weights don’t match,’ she said.

Striker saw it too. The weights logged in at the burning facility were less than the ones shipped out from the property office. In fact, not only were the weights short, but they weren’t even close – off by thirty kilos.

‘That’s far too much to be human error,’ he said.

‘And far too regular an occurrence,’ Felicia added. She scanned down the list. ‘What were they transporting?’

Striker pointed to the alphanumeric code in the ledger’s rightmost column.

24701 – MHC.

He explained: ‘The first five digits are the police file number. I’m not entirely sure what the last three letters mean.’

Because the report was so old and could not be brought up electronically, Felicia had to attend Archives. When she returned with the folder and opened it, she was surprised to see how short the report inside it was.

One page, half full of writing.

It stated that a transfer had been done from 312 Main Street to the Montreaux incinerator. Most of the evidence marked for destruction was paperwork – old files, witness statements, Computer-Aided Dispatch call printouts, and such. But part of the evidence marked for destruction had also been drugs.

Striker looked back at the letters in the ledger. ‘MHC . . . Marijuana. Heroin. Cocaine.’ He looked at Felicia. ‘Who authored that report?’

She read the badge number. ‘Detective 1160.’

Striker frowned at the words. ‘That’s Harry.’

He leaned against the counter and rubbed his face as a mixture of excitement and disappointment spilled through him.

‘You okay?’ Felicia asked.

Striker just shook his head. ‘So that’s what this has all been about then – drugs. Harry and Koda were selling the seized drugs back to the Prowlers and using Sleeves as their conduit.’

Felicia nodded, but the confused look remained on her face. ‘This was a long time ago, Jacob.’

‘So?’

‘So why is all this violence happening now? The barn down by the river, the bomb at the toy store, the explosion at Koda’s house – why now and not a decade ago? Could it really all be just Sleeves?’

Striker shrugged. He had no idea.

‘There’s only one thing we really know for certain,’ he said. ‘Somewhere along the line, something went wrong. And now it’s all come back to haunt them.’