‘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.’