The Vanishing Track (23 page)

Cole was staring at Beatta Nowak.

“Ground Control to Major Blackwater?” teased Denman.

Cole cleared his throat and looked around the room. Earnest young eyes on his; solemn battle-weary faces contemplating his dour countenance. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “We can't vie for headline space with the Coalition. As crass as it sounds, I think we need to take advantage of the fact that four people have gone missing to highlight the homeless plight, without seeming to be opportunistic—”

Beatta Nowak interrupted. “Make that five.” She was holding her Blackberry in her hand, her face ashen. “I just got a message from Juliet. George Oliver is missing. She's over at
VPD
now filling out the missing person report.”

DENMAN AND COLE
ran the six blocks to the
VPD
's Downtown Eastside detachment, where they found Juliet Rose in tears.

“Juliet, what's going on?” Denman asked. The entrance was crowded with people filing complaints.

“It's George. He's missing. It's been almost two days.”

“What did the reporting officer say?”

“He said that two days doesn't make someone from the street missing.”

“Well, that's a crock. The law says twenty-four hours.”

“He was nice about it. He really was. But he said that they get reports from people all the time about friends who are missing and then they show up, hung over or shot full of heroin or whatever, and he said
VPD
didn't have the manpower.”

“Did you talk with Marcia Lane?”

“I asked to see her, but nobody has gone to find her yet.”

Denman called her office on his cell phone. “Yes, Marcia Lane, please.”

Cole grinned and opened his own cell. “Hi, Mary, it's Cole. We need to do a bit of a media flash mob right away. Can you help us out?”

Denman said, “Ah-huh. Tell her it's Denman Scott calling from Priority Legal. Yes, I can wait, but it's an urgent matter.”

Cole walked a few feet away from Denman. “Okay, so let's send out a media advisory. Tell me when you're ready,” Cole said to Mary. “Okay, good. Write this: Subject:
VPD
fiddles while fifth Downtown Eastside resident is reported missing. Vancouver, September 27. Denman Scott, Executive Director of the Priority Legal Aid Society, will make an announcement today—” Cole looked at his watch “—at 11:00
AM
inside the reception area of Vancouver Police Department's Main Street detachment about a fifth person who has been reported missing, and will comment on
VPD
's lack of effective response to the situation. Mr. Scott will discuss the case of a new missing person reported to
VPD
this morning, and
VPD
's unacceptable delay of its investigation due to the homeless status of those who have been reported by friends, family, or case workers as disappeared.

“Okay, read that back . . . Can you tighten that up?”

Next to him, Denman said, “Yes, I'm still holding.”

“Good, okay, Mary,” continued Cole. “Can you fax that to
VPD
's Main Street switchboard with the name Marcia Lane, and ‘urgent' written in bold across the top? Once that has been faxed, get it set up to email to every reporter's Blackberry and wireless in the city. Then just hold on, okay? I'll call you in a couple of minutes and tell you if we need to send it.”

Denman said into his phone, “Look, she doesn't need to call me back. I'm standing in your reception area. I'm here with Juliet Rose, who is a street nurse working out of the Carnegie Centre, and we have a fifth missing person to report . . . I know things are busy this morning, Constable, but they are going to get a lot busier. In about—” Denman looked at this watch “—fifteen minutes there are going to be twenty reporters crowding into your reception area while I hold a news conference about this department's lack of response . . . Yes, that is a threat, but not of bodily harm, so calm down and tell Marcia Lane that I'm waiting to see her. Thank you.” Denman hung up.

Cole was grinning as he walked toward Denman, who looked at Cole and then back down at Juliet.

“That ought to get their attention,” said Cole, standing with his cell phone still open in his hand.

Denman touched Juliet's cheek, brushing a tear from her face. “It's going to be okay. We're going to find him,” he said. “He's got to be close by.”

Juliet nodded.

“Denny, look,” Cole said, still standing at his friend's side, “I think that
did
get their attention.” Denman turned to see six uniformed officers come out from behind the Plexiglas and move toward them. Cole hit redial on his cell.

“Mary, hit send.”

THEY STOOD ON
the sidewalk under the slate gray sky and Denman gave the news conference. Thirty-two reporters arrived within a few minutes of each other, crowding the street with their cars and vans, creating traffic chaos and further raising the ire of the
VPD
. Cole and Juliet stood some distance away, Cole with his arm around Juliet, her face streaked with tears.

When it was done, they walked to Macy's. Cole called Nancy, who was strangely absent from the news conference, but only got her voice mail.

“Well, there's no turning back now,” said Cole, ordering coffee. He bounced on his heels a few times while waiting for his brew.

Denman shook his head. “No, we're in the animal soup now.”

Juliet ordered tea and a muffin and they sat down at a table by the window. All three were quiet.

“I can't believe they aren't taking this more seriously,” said Juliet finally, picking at her muffin.

“I can,” said Cole. “Look, I think it's obvious what's going down here.”

Denman looked at him. “What's so obvious about it?”

Cole lowered his voice and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “I think someone at City Hall has either told
VPD
to look the other way on this file, or has been setting this whole thing up from the start.”

Juliet crinkled her nose. “You
still
think City Hall might be behind these disappearances?”

“Let's play it out here. Vancouver is running out of land for condos. There is enormous pressure for growth in the downtown core and the best place for that is right here. But there's a problem, the
SRO
s. They're everywhere, and they are full of people, but not taxpaying citizens. They are on the fringes of society. An inconvenience to City Hall. An impediment to progress, to growth, to upward mobility. To profit. It's not so far-fetched to think that in the process of setting up plans for developing properties like the Lucky Strike Hotel, someone suggests that it would be so much easier if all the homeless people would just disappear, and that way, the City wouldn't have to find them all a place to squat, or listen to complaints from people like you and Denman.”

“You think a city employee got it into their head to bump off all the homeless people in the Downtown Eastside? There are about three thousand of them,” said Juliet skeptically.

“Not all. Just enough that everybody else fears for their life, shuts up, or gets out of town. I'm just saying it's a possibility.”

“Doesn't seem like the sort of thing a guy in a suit from the planning department at City Hall would have the stomach for,” said Juliet.

“Well, first,” said Cole, “it might not be someone from the City. My money would be on the cops. Denman has been telling me about the harassment complaints that have been filed. All the excessive force complaints. I think there might be an unofficial policy of harassment in the
VPD
right now in order to clear the way for condo development. And second, why couldn't a guy in a suit be responsible?”

“Cole's right. If someone has got it in their head to take matters into their own hands, they likely won't look like Charles Manson, all wild-eyed and with a swastika stenciled on their forehead. They're going to look like your neighbor,” Denman said to Juliet.

They were silent a moment. “I need more coffee to think that one through,” said Cole. He went to the counter for a refill. The bell over the door rang and Cole instinctively turned. A young man in a leather coat wearing a heavy backpack walked toward the coffee counter.

Cole rejoined his friends. He picked up the conversation. “Look, maybe this is a crazy idea, but I still think it's worth exploring. Look at everything that is happening right now. The riot. The Lucky Strike raid. And then there's what went down in the back alley just a block from here a few nights ago.” Cole touched his face and neck. “I don't think those goons were after my money. And the hammerheads we were following who led me to that back alley, they were cops, no doubt. How do we find out for sure who they are?”

Denman shrugged. “I don't think we can file a complaint. Maybe Marcia Lane can help us on this?”

Cole continued, “I still don't know about this Marcia Lane person. The trouble is, we're not dealing with someone who has all their bolts tight. I'm just saying that it's possible someone at City Hall, or maybe on the force, got the memo ordering them to use all means to clear the streets around the Lucky Strike and they took it a little too far.”

“We've got no proof,” said Denman.

“We'll get some.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“Shake the tree.”

They looked up when the man with the leather coat and backpack stopped at their table.

“Hi, Denman. Hi, Juliet.”

Denman and Juliet looked up at the man. Cole's eyes rested on them a moment before he too turned to look at the young man.

“Hi, Sean,” said Denman. “You're looking well.”

“I feel good,” he said, smiling. His eyes and Juliet's locked a moment. “I'm off the street. Got a place to stay. Maybe even a line on a job.” He smiled broadly. Cole looked from Sean to Juliet and back.

“That's great, Sean,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. “I'm glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, well, I just want to thank you both for your help,” he said, warmly. His eyes remained fixed on Juliet's, but Cole couldn't detect any of the emotion that should have accompanied his gratitude. To Cole, it appeared as though Sean was reading the words from a cue card. “I really appreciate everything you've done to help me.”

“No problem,” said Denman.

“Okay, well, I'm off to a job interview. Wish me luck!”

“Good luck,” they all said as he smiled again and left.

“One of your flock?” asked Cole.

“Arrested for taking a piss in an alley the day of the demonstration,” said Denman.

“He's been around for a few months,” said Juliet. “One of the few people I think can actually be saved.”

Cole watched Sean jaywalk across the street.

He slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “I got so distracted by the media conference that I almost forgot,” he said urgently.

“What is it, Cole?” asked Denman.

“When we were at Priority Legal. I was preoccupied . . .”

“I'll say. You were making me look bad. People were getting that look, like I had invited you in off the street or something.”

“Well, there
was
something. A smell. A fragrance, really. Perfume. I just couldn't figure out where I had smelled it before. It was rosewater.”

“Beatta Nowak,” said Denman and Juliet together.

“Yeah. I couldn't place it in the room at first. It was subtle, but distinctive. And I'd smelled it somewhere else recently.”

“Where?” asked Denman.

“82 Pender.”

Denman said, “Where the Lucky Strike Supper Club was meeting.”

“You don't think—?” said Juliet, shaking her head. The ringing of Denman's cell phone interrupted her.

“Denman Scott,” he said, an apologetic smile on his face.

Cole looked out the window.

Denman listened, then said, “Okay, I'll be right over.” He hung up.

“What is it?” asked Juliet.

“This day just gets better and better,” he said, standing and grabbing his coat.

“What is it?” Juliet repeated.

Cole looked at Denman. “Nancy Webber. She's in police custody for possession of stolen property. She says she has something called the Lucky Strike Manifesto. The police raided her home and office this morning looking for it.”

“Cool,” said Cole, and jumped to his feet.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER NANCY STOOD
in Frank Pesh's office, looking out at Burrard Inlet.

“It's a fine line between journalist and advocate,” said Frank.

“You think I've crossed that line?” asked Nancy.

“Not yet. You kept your story balanced. We'll place your opinion piece tomorrow, just to keep the two separate. I just want to keep in touch with you as you chase down this story. You
are
going to chase it down, aren't you?”

Nancy looked across the inlet at the mountains on the North Shore. “Like a dog after a stick,” she said matter-of-factly.

THE COURIER ARRIVED
at 4:54
PM
. He slipped the package to the receptionist at the front desk of the
Vancouver Sun
and headed back out to his Honda Hybrid and zipped back into traffic. The receptionist dialed Nancy's number.

“I'll grab it on the way out,” she said. Since the press conference that morning Nancy had been probing various aspects of the convoluted story of the Lucky Strike Hotel and the disappearances from the Downtown Eastside. Nancy pulled on her overcoat and left in the elevator with more questions than answers.

The elevator chimed and she stepped into the reception area.

“Hi, Nancy, here you go,” said the receptionist. Nancy had already forgotten that a package was waiting for her.