Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Seventy-Four

Tommy Atkins went to war

and he came back a man no more.

The bomber chanted the rhyme under his breath as he stood in front of the makeshift lab he and Molly had set up in the command room.

It was a very basic lab: kerosene-fuelled cooking stoves with charcoal filtration to prevent toxicity; coffee filters in lieu of a filtration kit; a glass carafe instead of an Erlenmeyer flask; and pads of standard triple-ply paper towels used for a drying rack. All in all, it was poor apparatus for the job, but what did that matter?

The HME was near completion.

Looking at it now, the soft, yellow-grey, putty-like material resembled a wad of bread dough, waiting to rise. Like the sourdough Mother had often made for him whenever he was sad. The thought of that light fluffy bread smothered in melting butter filled him with a warm, safe feeling. The dough Mother had made was wonderful. But his was better.

His dough would rise like no other.

Behind him, Molly sat on the steel table, busy sewing the latest uniform – the one that mattered most, the one that had to be precise. She put on a good show, but her normally stable hands trembled with every stitch.

He pretended not to notice and finished chanting his rhyme.

Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.

He died, that man who looked like me.

Molly stopped sewing. Looked up. A sense of loss filled her eyes.

‘Did you tell him I loved him?’ she finally asked.

He did not bother to turn around. ‘Loved him? He’s still alive, Molly. You’d know that if you went to see him.’

‘I . . . love . . . yes, yes. Did you tell him I love him?’

‘No.’

A heavy silence enveloped the small room, and moments later, Molly returned to her sewing as if nothing was wrong. She was whispering to herself now. Praying, he knew. To a God who did not care for them now – just as He had not cared for them before.

It angered him to hear it. And he glared at her as she kept praying, praying, praying. He felt like screaming. Raging. Losing control. He closed his eyes. Fought for that elusive calm.

And then the GPS tracker beeped.

He picked it up and stared at the screen. The unit was working well. Everything was going to plan once again. Target 3 was on the move. And the explosives were ready. Had the sight given the bomber even a modicum of happiness, he would have smiled. But it did not bring him joy. So he just put on his workman’s overalls. Grabbed the cell, the radio, and the handheld lasers. And packaged up the HME.

‘It’s time,’ he said.

Seventy-Five

It was going on for four o’clock, and they hadn’t eaten since morning. When Felicia complained about light-headedness, Striker made a quick pit stop at the local Safeway and grabbed them some grub.

Back in the car, Striker took a few bites of a Soprano sandwich that was stuffed with capicola and hot bell peppers, then downed some Coke. He leaned back against the seat, going over what they had learned, and realized he felt quite a bit better after getting some food in his stomach.

Beside him, Felicia tore a chunk out of her pesto chicken and spoke between bites. ‘I’m really getting sick of this game with Harry and Koda. I say we just haul their asses in now, and be done with it.’

Striker swallowed before speaking. ‘We’ve been through this, Feleesh – what actual hard evidence do we have against them?’

‘We got a dead woman in Koda’s house – the same woman who was victimized down by the river.’

‘That doesn’t mean he took her there.’

‘A polygraph—’

‘We can’t force them to take a lie detector, and we both know they never will. Harry’s no dummy. And Koda’s a retired cop, for Christ’s sake. He knows everything we got is circumstantial. He’ll lawyer up and walk, and we’ll have blown our one good chance at charging them with anything criminal. Hell, forget the Criminal Code; if we screw this up, we won’t even get a breach of the Police Act.’

Felicia looked down at her sandwich like she had lost her appetite. ‘What about the shipping weights to Montreaux?’

‘What about them? Harry may have authored the report, but the actual shipment transfers are all unsigned. All we have are some really old records from a private burn facility – nothing that actually ties Harry or Koda directly to trafficking. Hell, we can’t even prove that’s what really happened. All we have are some consistently wrong shipment weights. If it was me under suspicion for it, I’d argue that the scale was improperly calibrated. There’s no way to prove it now.’

Felicia nodded as she reconsidered. ‘The difference in the shipment weights was almost always exactly thirty kilos – that constant difference would actually support their claim. They could argue that the scale was out that exact amount.’

Striker agreed. ‘Knowing Harry, it wouldn’t surprise me if that was done on purpose for just such a defence. He’s always been extremely smart.’

Felicia swore. She crinkled the cellophane wrap around her sandwich and shoved it back into the bag. She looked out the window. Turned silent.

Striker could tell she was getting rapidly frustrated, and he didn’t blame her. He felt it too. He got on the phone and called the plainclothes unit for a status check. Quaid answered on the first ring.

‘What’s up with the target?’ Striker asked.

‘Nothing,’ Quaid replied. ‘Sleeves went back inside his suite and hasn’t come out since. Some girl came by and went into the suite with him. I saw her looking out the window a couple of times, almost like she was doing her own recon on us. She’s a short thing. Kind of plump.’

‘What about Sleeves?’

Quaid made a weary sound. ‘Nothing yet. The little prick just – oh wait, hold on a minute.’ The line went silent for a moment, then Quaid returned. ‘Gotta go. Target’s moving. And fast.’

The line went dead.

Striker hung up. He turned in his seat to face Felicia.

‘Sleeves on the move?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Maybe it’ll lead us somewhere.’

‘I won’t hold my breath.’

Striker frowned. ‘It still feels like we’re missing a part of the puzzle here. We need more information. On Sleeves. On Harry. On Koda. Even on Williams and Owens.’

Felicia looked back from the window and fixed Striker with a detached look. ‘And what about Rothschild?’

Striker felt like he’d been slapped. ‘Mike? What – are you kidding me? He would never get involved in anything like this. I trust that guy with my life. I’d stake my entire career on it.’

‘Well good. Because you might have to.’ She turned her body to face him. ‘There’s something wrong here, Jacob. There has to be. And you’re letting your friendship with Mike Rothschild cloud your vision.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t seriously think that Mike—’

‘All I’m saying is that everyone needs to be fully investigated, even if it’s just to clear their name. Think about it. Rothschild used to be on Koda’s squad, both in Patrol and ERT. And we also know that the bomber was inside his old house – he missed them by only two days. The question is why.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘We got too many connections here with drugs and bikers. I say we call Gangs.’

Striker tapped the empty Coke bottle against his palm. ‘We already have. Del’s the best, and he told us everything he knows.’

‘Not the Gang Crime Unit,’ Felicia explained. ‘IGTF.’

IGTF was the Integrated Gang Task Force. They were composed of municipal and federal cops, and had a much broader scope than the Gang Crime Unit. Where the GCU typically dealt with local targets, IGTF worked all across the country.

Even back east to where Sleeves was from.

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Striker said. ‘You got any contacts there?’

For the first time in hours, Felicia smiled. ‘Whenever you need information, baby, you just come to momma.’ She picked up her cell and started dialling her contact, a detective by the name of Jimmy Sang. Five minutes into the conversation, Felicia’s face brightened and she hung up.

Striker could see the excitement in her eyes. ‘Well, what you find?’

‘Carlos Chipotle is the name of another Prowler thug.’

‘He was the guy working with Sleeves at the incinerator.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Sang says to come down to IGTF right away’

‘He got something good for us?’

Felicia raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not really sure. All he said is, “You’re not going to like it”.’

Seventy-Six

Detective Jimmy Sang was taking a course on human trafficking at the main detachment on Heather Street. That was good news to Striker and Felicia, and they went to meet him. Once in the cafeteria, Striker grabbed a table while Felicia purchased three coffees.

Not five minutes later, the detective joined them.

‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Striker said. After the basic introductions were done, he opened the police laptop and got right to the meat of the conversation. ‘So what’s this information we don’t want to hear?’

Sang met Striker’s and Felicia’s stares. ‘Sleeves is suspected in more than just one child death,’ he said. ‘Ten years ago, one of his bombs killed two little girls and their mother. The children were just nine and twelve years old.’

‘In Toronto?’ Felicia asked.

‘No. Right here in the Lower Mainland.’

The news stunned Striker. He had never heard of this.

He thought back to ten years ago. That was right about the time he’d taken one of his leaves of absence from the police department in order to deal with his wife Amanda’s growing depression problems. They’d left town for a bit. Gone down to Arizona for some family support.

Recollections of a bombing just didn’t come to mind.

He looked back at Sang and shook his head. ‘This file just gets stranger and stranger by the minute.’

‘You haven’t heard the strangest part yet. The woman and her daughters that Sleeves killed – they were Chipotle’s family.’

Upon hearing the news, Striker sat back in his chair and stared at nothing in particular. He closed his eyes and tried to process the ramifications of what Sang had just told him. Finally he sat forward again. ‘I’m a bit confused here. I looked all through Sleeves’ history and he’s never been charged with any of these murders.’

Sang took one of the coffees, added four sugars.

‘There’s a reason for that,’ he said. ‘Almost no one talks in the biker world, so getting witness statements is damn near impossible. The bomb that went off at Chipotle’s house and killed the wife and daughters, it was planted by Sleeves.’

‘But how do you know?’ Felicia asked.

Sang made an uncomfortable face before saying, ‘Intel from one of our own. We managed to get a guy inside. On a different matter entirely. But this is what he heard, the talk around the club.’

Striker didn’t question the agent’s identity. That was information Sang would never divulge.

Felicia pointed to the dates on the computer screen. ‘Ten years ago, huh? Interesting. Right after the bombing, Sleeves disappears for almost an entire year – he goes right off the radar.’

Striker suggested, ‘Maybe the gang told him to lay low. Maybe he went into hiding.’

But Sang shook his head. ‘No. The reason he disappeared is because he blew himself up in the explosion. Pretty bad too. Scars all over his hips and back and arms. Damn near obliterated himself.’

‘Too bad he didn’t finish the job,’ Felicia said.

Striker pulled the laptop over and ran Carlos Chipotle through the system. He frowned at what he saw.

‘The bomb call’s not in here.’

Sang nodded. ‘It happened just across the Vancouver border in Burnaby. So it’ll be a federal file. The RCMP. Mounties.’

Striker ground his teeth because it was just so typical. The biggest problem with modern-day policing was the lack of free and open communication – different databases, privatized cases, invisible files. Hell, some reports existed only on paper.

For an investigator, it could be maddening at times.

Striker looked at Sang. ‘You’ve got access to Fed paper, right? Can you do a search for us? Get us a copy of the murder file on the Chipotle family?’

Sang stood up from the table. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

Striker and Felicia waited. Soon, ten minutes turned into twenty, and twenty turned into thirty. But Sang eventually returned. In his hands was a hard copy of the report. To Striker, it looked like the holy grail. And upon seeing it, a few drops of his frustration ebbed away.

‘Thank God,’ Felicia said.

‘This is just the investigative summary,’ Sang warned. ‘It’s brief.’

Striker didn’t care; he was happy to have anything. He took the report from Sang, and he and Felicia began poring over it.

The file was straightforward. The murder of the Chipotle family was believed to be a gang-sanctioned killing. A bomb had gone off in the Chipotle basement, killing the wife and two daughters. Carlos – the obvious target – had been in the garage at the time, and as such, had narrowly escaped a fiery death.

Then he had gone missing.

In the report, two things caught Striker’s eye. One, Sleeves was never mentioned. In fact, he was not even entered as an entity, much less a suspect in the bombing. And his name did not appear in any of the text pages.

Second, and almost impossible to ignore, was the associated file number at the bottom of the last page. It was a Vancouver Police Department file number – for an investigation into the police-involved shooting death of Carlos Chipotle, which had happened sometime later the same day.

Felicia looked at the number. ‘Well, Chipotle didn’t go missing for very long.’

Striker said nothing. Carlos Chipotle must have fled the scene, he rationalized, and gotten into a gunfight with police. But where and when and how? Striker read the date and realized that the homicide report would likely be in paper form only. He felt a strange swirl of excitement and frustration all at once.

‘Every lead turns into two more,’ he said.

Felicia also noted the date. ‘Archives?’ she asked.

Striker didn’t have time to answer her question; his cell phone rang. He looked at the screen, saw the name Niles Quaid on the display, and hoped to God they had discovered something pertinent. He answered the call.

‘Niles, what you got for me?’

The man’s voice was tight, his tone low.

‘Sleeves is gone,’ he said. ‘We lost him.’

Seventy-Seven

Harry and Koda pulled into the parking lot of the A&W burger stand and left their undercover cruiser parked by the north wall. Once out of the car, Koda began pacing the lot. His hands trembled as he popped another T3 into his mouth and chugged back some Red Bull. Harry took a long look at the can, then at Koda, and shook his head.

‘You’re already jittery enough,’ he said. ‘You really need to drink that shit?’

‘I’ll drink what I drink.’

‘I still don’t think you should come. Given all that’s happened.’

Koda threw the can on the ground. ‘I told you, I’m fucking coming.’

Harry offered no response. He just gave his SIG Sauer a firm tug and made sure the pistol was snug in its holster. Then he opened the back of the police car and grabbed his second piece, a smaller snub-nose forty-cal he’d seized off a gang member at the Pink Palace strip club two years ago. He tucked it in the back of his waistband, then draped the tail of his coat over the butt. He turned to Koda. Smiled. Offered the man a sense of calm.

‘Nothing’s going to happen, Chad,’ he said. ‘We’re just here to find out what really happened back at your place . . . and to negotiate.’

Koda grabbed a second can of Red Bull from the car and picked at the stitches on his nose.

‘Got to be ready for anything,’ he said.

The parking lot off-ramp led to the north alley of Hastings Street. Together, Harry and Koda walked down to the roadway, then crossed Semlin Drive to the Hing-Woo warehouse. The doors were closed and locked, just like before, and the lights were out. Everything was quiet. They circled the building into the rear lane and waited under the overhang of the loading bay.

Koda opened the can of Red Bull. ‘Smells like goddam soy sauce back here.’

‘It’s a Chinese food warehouse.’

‘Fucking stinks. Always fucking stinks around here – where the hell is that rat anyway?’

‘He’ll come. He needs money. Now relax.’

Koda turned on him. ‘You fuckin’ relax – it wasn’t your goddam house he blew up! Your ex-wife he killed! He’s coming back on us, man. I keep telling you.’

Harry eyed Koda carefully. ‘You let me do the talking, Chad.’

Koda drank some more Red Bull and mumbled under his breath. Harry did not react. Ignoring the man, he took out his cell phone and dialled the number his brother Trevor had given him back in Source Handling.

Sleeves answered immediately.

‘What?’ came the response. Out of breath.

‘Where are you?’ Harry asked.

‘Close by.’

Harry closed his eyes. ‘Where is close by, Sleeves?’

‘I’m on Hastings Street.’

‘Well, we’re in the loading bay. Like we said.’

‘I know. I can see you.’

The line went dead.

Harry didn’t like the sound of that. He swept his eyes around the alley, searching for possible bombs, and saw nothing. He looked at Koda and said, ‘Be ready.’

Then they waited.

A minute later, Harry spotted saw the small, wiry outline of the man called Sleeves. He was at the west end of the lane, and he did not move. He took a long moment to scan his surroundings, then slowly, cautiously, moved forward, checking out every nook and cranny as he went. When he reached the loading zone, his eyes found Koda’s face, then his scar.

He smiled darkly. ‘Nice zipper – I got one in my pants.’

Koda trembled. ‘I should fucking kill you—’

Harry intervened. Placed a hand against Koda’s chest. Firm. Decisive. Controlled. ‘We’re here to talk. Nothing more.’ He looked back at the ex-Prowler. ‘Right, Sleeves?’

The grin left the man’s face. ‘You sold me out.’

‘No one sold anyone—’

‘Hundred grand. That’s what it’ll cost you.’

Harry held up his hand. ‘We’ll talk money later. But first, there are some ground rules. Rule one: You take the cash, you leave town, and you never come back. Rule two: You never contact either one of us or our families again. Rule three: You never demand money again; this is a one-time payment. And Rule four: you never breathe a word about this to anyone. As far as you’re concerned, nothing ever happened – and I mean nothing.’

Sleeves’ eyes turned hard. ‘The payment just went up. Two hundred grand.’

Koda took a half-step forward. ‘Are you completely insane?’ he spat.

Sleeves was unmoved by the man’s emotional state. ‘Either you pay, or I’m sure Striker will – with a little help from Crown Counsel.’

Koda’s face flushed until his stitches looked like black train tracks on red desert sand. He threw his can of Red Bull on the ground and balled up his fists. ‘You twisted little fuck! You think we’ll be the only ones going down? We’ll all be fucked!’

Harry made no verbal reply, for he understood the situation perfectly. If Sleeves went to Striker, it would mean jail time for all of them. And jail time for Harry would mean the death of his family.

It was unacceptable.

Harry drew the snub-nose from the back of his waistband.

Took aim.

Pulled the trigger.

In one quick moment, a sharp blast of thunder filled the laneway, echoing off the tall walls of the warehouses around them. The bullet caught the ex-Prowler in the stomach. Sleeves let loose a spit-filled gasp, wobbled where he stood, and then collapsed to his knees on the cement pad of the loading bay. His mouth dropped open, his eyes turned wide. He touched his stomach with his hand, pulled it away, and stared at the redness that now also spilled from his hoodie.

‘You shot . . . you shot . . . you fucking shot me!’

Harry stepped forward, took aim once more, and pulled the trigger again. Sleeves’ head snapped backward, and blood and brain matter exploded all over the cement behind him. His body slumped to the left and landed on the loading bay with a soft, almost-inaudible thump.

For a moment, everything was quiet.

Then Koda sucked in a deep gasp of air.

‘Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy FUCK!’ He gaped at Harry, then spun and looked all around the lane. ‘The noise, the noise, the noise – we gotta go!’

Harry paid him no heed. He stepped up to the fallen man, took aim once more, and blasted off two more rounds.

One for each kneecap.

‘Satan’s Prowler style,’ he said.

Then he turned and exited the alley.