The Vanishing Track (25 page)

“Where?”

“Mostly in Strathcona. Rezoning some areas that are industrial to mixed residential.”

“Push the poor and the damaged farther east.”

“Till they end up in Burnaby and are someone else's problem,” said Nancy, referring to Vancouver's neighboring city.

“Listen,” she said, looking at her watch. “I've got to go. We're filing on the raid today, and hopefully by tomorrow I'll have at least one or two independent confirmations for the Manifesto, and Veronica White will let us file on that.”

“I think you should add Beatta Nowak to that list,” said Cole.

“You're kidding me,” said Nancy.

“Nope.”

“Listen, Cole, just because someone who wears rosewater perfume was in that room . . .” Denman began.

“It's a hunch, but I think you should call her,” said Cole.

“You're not getting paranoid on me, are you, Cole?” asked Nancy.

“
Getting
 . . . ?” quipped Denman. “But what does it hurt?” he asked abruptly. “Make the call. Check it out.”

“I called her today, but just to ask if she had any suspicions of who might be behind this, not if she was a conspirator,” Nancy admitted.

She took a breath. “Between now and then, I wonder if you two might do me a favor?”

“What's that?” asked Cole.

“Try and find out just exactly what the City and
VPD
are willing to do to get this job done.”

“GOT TIME FOR
a beer?” asked Cole.

Denman looked at his watch. “Sure. Let me make two calls while we walk.”

As Denman opened his phone, Cole's rang and he rummaged around in his crowded pockets for it. “Blackwater.”

“Oh, hi, Cole. It's Mary.”

“Hey, Mary. Listen, great work today. We kicked butt and took names,” he said.

“Glad to be of service,” she said. “I have one more piece of information for you that you requested. It took some digging down at the City's department of records, but I found out who the office on Pender Street is leased to.”

“Great. Who?”

“A law firm in town called Livingstone, Grey and Barnes. Do you know them?”

“Heard of them. They do a lot of work with the timber and mining sector. Labor dispute resolution, that sort of stuff.”

“Well, they've had a lease on that office for about a year.”

“Okay, well, that makes sense. I bet our Lucky Strike Supper Club has been meeting there that long.”

“Anything else, Cole?”

Cole thought. “Not right now. Thanks, Mary.”

They walked to the Cambie Hotel. It wasn't yet five o'clock, and the bar, usually raucous on Fridays, was somber. A hundred years ago the pub had been two separate establishments, and had two separate liquor licenses. Now it was one tavern divided by a chipped white picket fence, with a tiny gate. A sign warned patrons not to carry booze from one side to the other. Enforcing it, Cole had once quipped, would be like asking the pope not to pray.

Cole and Denman took seats at the long, worn counter, close to the pool tables, and ordered pints.

“Juliet will be joining us,” said Denman.

Cole was silent. Then he said, “So this law firm, Livingstone, Grey and Barnes . . .”

“You think they're involved in the Manifesto?” asked Denman.

“Yeah. I bet they have a client who's into condos. How do we find out?”

“No way to know, really, unless they've been to court for them.”

“Can you check?”

Denman sipped his pint. “Sure.”

Cole was silent. He watched the people come and go from the bar.

“What are you thinking?” asked Denman.

“I'm thinking that I should go and brace Livingstone, Grey and Barnes,” he said.

“Not a bad idea.”

Cole took a long pull on his beer.

“You don't think the City and
VPD
could be behind the missing people, do you?” Cole finally said.

Denman shook his head. “I just can't see it. Unless they are putting people on the bus . . .”

“You know they're not putting people on the bus. If they are, those people would turn up somewhere. They're not. They're gone.”

Juliet arrived and they moved to a table. They caught each other up on the day's events over another pint. Denman and Juliet sat close together, their arms touching. Cole finished his beer and began to get ready to leave.

“I'm going to head 'er,” he said, grabbing his jacket.

Denman put his glass down. “Cole, I want to ask you to do something for me.”

“Sure, name it.”

“Well, you're not going to like it.”

“Spit it out.”

“I want you to come to therapy,” Denman said.

Cole raised one eyebrow and slipped his jacket on.

“No crystals. None of that stuff. I have a friend who is a trauma specialist. He works with the military. He's good, Cole. You'll like him. He's a bit rough around the edges sometimes. Just like you,” Denman smiled.

“I'm not going to have to chant or have my chakras recalibrated or any of that mumbo jumbo?”

“Nothing.”

Cole took a deep breath. He felt a flash of panic wash over him. For a second his sight went black and he was in the barn. There was blood. As clear as a bell, he heard the blast of a shotgun.

“Cole?” said Juliet, touching his hand.

“When do we go?” he said.

SEAN WASN'T CONCERNED
about consequences. Getting caught didn't worry him. The only reason he took precautions at all was because getting caught meant his fun would come to an end, and he had grown dependent on the rush that making each arrangement brought.

He let whimsy carry him up one street and down the other, always keeping the Lucky Strike in view. He passed two patrol officers. Sean's blank eyes roved across them. The officers didn't pay any attention to him.

There seemed to be more cops around, thought Sean. Maybe they were trying to avoid any further dustups with the protesters. Maybe . . . 

He spotted a man in a heavy, stained parka walking out of the alley, dragging a duffle bag that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. Sean crossed the street and approached the ragged-looking man.

“Hey, friend,” said Sean congenially. “Need some help?”

“Nope. Don't need no help,” said the man as he continued to haul on the sack.

“What you got in there?”

The man looked at Sean, his face darkly tanned and heavily lined, his eyes clear and blue and piercing. “I got metal.”

“Metal?”

“Yup. Aluminum, mostly.”

Sean smiled at him. “What are you doing with it? Recycling?”

Aluminum Man seemed to look right through Sean. He spoke in a calm, pleasant voice. “Nope. It's for the Mother Ship.”

“The Mother Ship?”

“Yup. When they come I give them the aluminum. That way there's always enough on the home world.”

“Okay,” said Sean. “Maybe I can help you collect some.”

COLE HAD CALLED NANCY FIRST
thing on Monday morning. He told her about the law firm Mary had linked to the room used by the Lucky Strike Supper Club.

She phoned the firm's office. “I'd like to speak with the senior partner who is handling the Lucky Strike sale.” She was asked to hold a minute.

When the receptionist returned, Nancy was told, “I'm sorry; the firm doesn't have any comment on this file.”

“You are handling the sale, are you not?”

“I'm not at liberty to speak about who our clients are.”

Nancy couldn't figure out how to get past the receptionist. Cole and Denman tried next.

By the time Cole left his office to meet Denman, they were both armed with copies of the Lucky Strike Manifesto, courtesy of Canada Post. They walked together to the offices of Livingstone, Grey and Barnes.

“What do you think?” asked Denman as they held their copies of the three slender pages in their hands.

“Well, page one is nothing. Whoever leaked the rest of it felt they needed to provide a preface. That's all. Page two and three are the meat and potatoes. Or the tofu and bean sprouts for the West Coast-wise.” Cole held the pages in front of him and read as they moved in and out of the crowd.

When he had finished he looked up. “There seems to be a spot for signatures, but of course, there are none.”

“So Nancy's source either didn't know who all the signatories were, or didn't want to say.”

“My money is on the former. If the source leaked this, then why not the names, if he had them?”

“Or she.”

“Right, or she.”

“What do you think of it?”

“Well,” mused Cole, dodging a man in a suit. “I don't know what to think. I mean, the problem needs to be solved. This so-called Manifesto is one solution. But I really don't know much about this sort of thing. You're the expert.”

“To some it would look like a solution, yes. If we printed it in the newspaper, a bunch of folks would say, ‘Hey, what are you complaining about? You've got your solution. Shut up already.' But the solution isn't to build a bunch of cardboard and glue apartment blocks and stick all the homeless people, drug dealers, gang bangers, prostitutes, and folks with genuine mental health challenges in together. That just concentrates the problem. New York City and Toronto have both proven that doesn't work.”

They turned a corner. “The solution needs to grow from the community up. Tearing the
SRO
s down and moving the people only moves the problem. The solution is more complex than that. Many of the people on the street suffer from a mental illness that can only be managed, not treated. They need stepping stones, what we call graduated housing, starting with community-supported housing. Over time, the folks graduate to independent living. And we need to crack down on the people who are running the drug trade . . .” continued Denman.

“Like our friend Fu?”

“Yeah, him and a dozen others. We need to take away the fuel creating the fire that drives much of the crime and violence in the Downtown Eastside. And we need to create long-term, local, economic solutions that allow people to build their own economy in the area. Real jobs that support people's dreams for themselves.”

“Like Macy Terry . . .” interjected Cole.

“Yeah, Macy and other social entrepreneurs.”

“I heard she's thinking about running for mayor.”

“We've been talking about it.”

“Really?” Cole asked with interest.

“The election is still a year and a half away, but this city needs someone with vision in City Hall. Don West just doesn't cut it,” said Denman.

“So what you're saying is that the Manifesto is for condo developers and those at City Hall who want to sweep this problem under the carpet,” Cole said, returning to the topic at hand.

“It was written from the mentality that if you just crack some heads, you know, tough love sort of thing, then people will respond. Put enough cops on the beat harassing the homeless, they'll all move along . . .”

“Now what?” asked Cole.

“Well, I guess we brace these dudes.” Denman looked up at the office tower housing the Livingstone, Grey and Barnes offices. “Find out what we can. See if they are involved. It seems likely they are representing this Captain Condo fellow on the sale of the Lucky Strike. I can't see why they would be worried about us knowing that.”

“Unless their involvement somehow reaches beyond just providing legal advice.”

“What do you mean?” asked Denman as they stepped into the elevator.

“I don't know. What if it's Frank Ainsworth, the Condo Captain himself, who is behind all these disappearances? What if Ainsworth has hired someone to do some cleaning up around his new property?”

“Why? He's already got what he wants.”

“Maybe he doesn't. We know the plan. Twenty buildings in the next five years. Maybe he's hired someone to move the homeless out. Maybe it got out of hand. Maybe someone went too far.”

Denman looked at Cole, who was watching the floor numbers appear on the display panel. “Wow, you're really going out on a limb on this, aren't you?”

“Look, I'm just saying that maybe somebody from the Lucky Strike Supper Club is bumping homeless people off. We better start asking the hard questions.”

“Let's not go accusing one of the city's most prominent law offices of murder, okay, Cole?”

Cole looked at him, his face serious. “Okay. Not yet.”

They approached the reception desk, a broad U-shaped table in a massive lounge filled with overstuffed chairs, teak tables, vases of flowers, soft lighting, and delicate fragrances.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the dark-haired receptionist.

“No, I'm afraid not,” said Denman congenially.

“Who is it you'd like to see?”

“We were hoping to meet with whoever is handling the sale of the Lucky Strike Hotel.”

“Oh,” she said, suggesting a certain weariness with the whole business. “And who are you?”

“My name is Denman Scott.” He produced his card. “With Priority Legal. This is Cole Blackwater.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Scott, Mr. Blackwater. There's nobody here to see you about that.”

“Nobody is here, or there is nobody here who will see us?” asked Cole.

“Both,” she said.

“We'll wait,” said Denman, the receptionist's face registering disappointment.

Denman and Cole found comfortable chairs that provided a good view of the entrance. Cole had looked at the firm's website, so he knew he could recognize Livingstone, Barnes and Grey if they walked in. “We'll just keep a watch out,” he said, settling into the chair.

The receptionist picked up her phone and made a call.

“Think she's calling the cops?” asked Cole.