‘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.