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 And like the primary headquarters at 312 Main Street, the building was a giant concrete block that was old, outdated, and slowly falling into ruin. The only part of the building that wasn’t outdated was the new model security system; cameras stuck out against the crumbling walls of the facility like shiny quarters on a grey sidewalk.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.