‘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!’