“Didn’t think so. You’re too old for him, anyway. So how about you get to the point.” He looks at me now.

My first instinct is to lie, even though it sits uncomfortably with me. But I sense, somehow, that it wouldn’t be the right move. And I’ve already underestimated this man once. “Back in the day you ran with Jimmy Fang. Fang got busted, disappeared, trial fell apart, you resumed your life like nothing happened.”

“Second time today someone’s brought that old shit up. I’ll tell you what I told your friend, the one with the gimpy leg. That all happened years ago. I don’t remember a goddamn thing about it.”

He’s lying, of course, but that’s not the point. The point is my friend with the gimpy leg has already spooked him.

I keep my expression neutral. “You were talking to the cops about your friend Jimmy, weren’t you?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Look, I don’t care about your involvement. I need to know about Fang. Who he might have here in Vancouver still.”

He looks around suddenly. Takes in the marina. “Where’s the other guy, Sir Limps A Lot?”

“I don’t know. I came alone.”

“Why do you want to know about this shit, anyway?”

Again, I have a choice. It’s hard, but I go with my first instinct. The truth. “Someone’s after me. You don’t know him, but you used to know the people he’s connected to. I want to find him, and to do that—”

“You gotta find them.”

“Yeah.”

“I ain’t a snitch.” But he is. I can hear it in his voice, in the way he says it with real anger, real passion. It’s not directed at me. His emotion is internal. He’s ashamed of himself.

“I ain’t a cop.” It’s partially why I’m here without Brazuca. I looked at the photos of this man, and some part of me knew that Brazuca would turn him cold. That his cop face can’t be scrubbed away so easily.

But maybe I have a chance.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Someone stupid enough to be on their radar.”

“Hell.” He pulls down his hat. Fiddles with the edge of it. His fingers are red from the cold, and stiff with it, too. He’s coming to a decision, and I can sense the struggle taking place inside him. He’s wondering if he can trust me.

Maybe I have to trust him a little, too. “My daughter’s scared. She’s the only family I have, and they know who she is. I have to protect her.”

“I don’t know anything about them anymore, okay?”

“Yes,” I say softly. “Yes, you do.” I heard it in his voice, that little hitch, and I know I’m on to something.

He’s about to say something, then stops.