The Vanishing Track (32 page)

“What? What doesn't wash?”

“It's just that it seems so entirely unprovoked. I'm going to have to track down the grocery he was in and ask around. I'll check with the cops. Look, you had better get some sleep,” he said. “You look exhausted.”

“Thanks. You're a sweet-talker,” Juliet said, but she smiled.

“I'll call you a cab.”

“Thanks.” Juliet added, “Why don't you ride it back to my place with me? We can talk this through.”

COLE HAD THE
cab stop four or five blocks from Nancy's apartment. He paid the fare and stepped out into the cool night. He looked up and down the quiet residential block. The street was lined with the typical six- and eight-story apartment buildings bunched together around the north side of English Bay. There was no one on the street. Cole peered west toward Nancy's building and couldn't see a soul. He took a deep breath and walked in that direction.

It occurred to him that he'd never been to her apartment in the months she'd been living in Vancouver. Good God, he thought, he'd been so damned wrapped up in his own shit. According to Dr. Brady, he had never processed the memory of his father's suicide, and the trauma that it brought, which had sent him into a spiral of depression, anxiety, anger, and even suicidal thoughts. He knew he had come to associate Nancy with that trauma.

He walked beneath the canopy of trees. Cole's plan was to appear as if he was out for an evening stroll so he could surprise whoever was watching Nancy. He spotted the silhouette of a man leaning against a lamp pole in the verge of the empty road. The man seemed to be looking up at Nancy's building. Cole slowed and wondered if
he
had been seen. There was no place to circle around and sneak up on the observer, so he just put his hands in his pockets, pulled up the collar of his leather coat, and walked on, as if returning home from an evening downtown.

Three street lamps separated them. Then two. Cole walked slowly but purposefully, keeping his eyes low, as if absorbed in his own thoughts.

One lamp. His breathing slowed; his focus narrowed. He could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline through his body, but instead of it controlling him, he was determined to control
it
.

“Nice night,” he said as he strolled past the watcher. The man said nothing. Cole could not see his face.

Cole stopped. “I said, nice night.”

“Yeah, it's nice,” said the man, not turning around.

“Watcha doing?”

Cole could see the man's shoulders rise and fall. “Waiting for a friend,” he said.

“Your friend live in that building?” Cole asked.

“Piss off, pal,” the man said. He was big enough to be one of the men that Cole and Denman had followed, but the voice wasn't familiar.

“Well, it's just that this is a Crime Watch community,” said Cole congenially. “We look out for one another so, I'm going to ask again where your friend lives.”

“Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. I told you to fuck off.”

Cole took a step toward the man. “No, no, I heard you. Heard you just fine. And I asked you—”

The man turned on him, but Cole was ready, his hands out and hanging loosely at this sides. The man had a blackjack in his right hand, a small club with a steel core under a rubber outer layer. He swung it at Cole's head. Cole blocked the blow easily and landed two quick right jabs in the man's face, knocking him back on his heels. The man tripped on the curb and fell into the street.

“Who are you?” said Cole, stepping toward him, hands balled into fists.

The man scrambled to get to his feet and came at Cole quickly, low and hard. Cole stood his ground, and as the man met him, he brought his knee up into the man's chest, winding him. Cole stumbled backward against his attacker's forward rush. Cole managed to stay on his feet. He brought his hands down together on the man's back, sending him to his knees. Cole stepped back.

“Who are you working for? Andrews?”

The man got up and came at Cole again, this time catching him in the stomach with a low punch that Cole couldn't block, and then swung at his head with the blackjack. Cole blocked it easily and swung hard and high for the man's face, splitting open the skin under the left eye, blood spraying across the glow of the street light.

Cole only had a second to react to the sound of footsteps coming at him from the side. He pivoted in time to see a second man, bigger than the first, emerge from the shadow of the shrubs. Cole set himself and hooked the man as he came close, but the man's momentum carried him into Cole and they both ended up on the ground. Cole grimaced at the violent jar to his ribs. The big man was on top of him, but Cole brought his knee up into the man's groin. The man winced in pain, and Cole was able to roll the man off him and stagger to his feet.

“Okay, cowboy,” Cole heard the first man say. “That's about fucking enough.” He looked up to see the man holding a compact automatic pistol, the metal on the gun gleaming under the streetlamp. The second man got to his feet.

“Looks like you win. So now what?” asked Cole. “I'm not leaving, and you've got the drop on me. Are you planning on shooting me here on this nice quiet street?”

The first man lowered his aim a little. “The next time the three of us get together, Blackwater, you won't hear us coming. This is the only warning you're ever going to get.” The men backed away, disappearing between two apartment buildings.

Cole straightened and sucked air into his lungs. He glanced up at the apartment building in which Nancy lived. He pulled out his cell phone and hit redial. Nancy answered.

“I'm here,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

MARCIA LANE SAT IN HER
office at the
VPD
's Downtown Eastside detachment. It was nine-fifteen on Monday night. She had spent the entire day on the move. At the end of it, she had left the teams to clean up for the night and caught a ride with a patrol car back to the detachment. She was exhausted, and she was a long, long way from being able to sleep.

There were five people known to be missing now. As team leader for the Missing Persons Task Force, she not only had to direct the operations, but she had to file most of the reports. She turned on her computer and sat back in her office chair, pressing her knuckles into her eyes. She should get a cup of coffee to keep her awake through the next few tedious hours of paperwork, but she knew if she did, there would be no getting to sleep before three or four in the morning. And she had to be back at the pier by first light to supervise the ongoing search.

While she waited for her computer to slowly fire up, she contemplated the decisions she had made over the last few days. If she was caught, she might receive “official” commendation, but unofficially her career in the
VPD
would be through. She might keep her job as head of the Task Force, but that would be the end of her advancement. She was pretty sure that John Andrews' days as Divisional Commander were done, but the likelihood of him being fired was minimal. He'd be disciplined, a letter would be put in his file, and he'd get transferred to another assignment for a while. In a year or two he would be back climbing the ladder. And Lane would probably never know if his participation in the Lucky Strike Supper Club was linked to some of the egregious actions taken by the
VPD
over the last few months.

It didn't even seem as though Andrews cared if he was caught, she thought. He had used a detective from her squad to run errands for the Lucky Strike Supper Club. It was going to get back to her. She thought this was part of Andrews' plan, to test the loyalty of his team leaders. Her first loyalty was to her duty as a cop; the chain of command was a distant second.

She opened her email account to check if anything interesting had happened since she had left the office at eleven that morning. Nothing much had. She was about to start filling out reports when her cell phone rang.

“Lane,
MPTF
.”

“Sergeant, it's Frank Dicks from the dive team. I've got news.”

“What is it? I thought we'd shut down.”

“Yeah, me too. An hour ago we were pulling in our lines and gear and we got tangled in something. I sent Sorensen and Munroe down with lights to free the lines. They came back with a stiff in a shopping cart. We found another one two dozen meters away. Bodies were wrapped in tarps. We've got them out of the water. You better get down here.”

“Be there in five minutes.”

Lane snapped her cell shut and grabbed her coat. She ran from her office, leaving her computer on, and started toward the garage. She swung by the staff sergeant's post.

“Is Andrews still here?”

“Yeah, he's burning the midnight oil.” Lane half walked, half ran down the hall to the executive offices of the detachment. Andrews was sitting at his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. He looked up over his bifocal reading glasses as she entered the room. His face registered nothing.

“Commander, sorry to disturb you, but we've got two bodies at the pier. I just got the call. I'm heading there now.”

“Okay,” he said, taking off his glasses and putting them on the desk.

“Do you want to ride along?”

“No, I'm going to stay here.”

“Do you want me to call the Media Relations department?”

Andrews was silent a moment, then said, “That will be fine, Sergeant.”

“You want to brief?”

“No, it's all yours. Is that a problem?”

“No, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.” She turned and left. Biggest missing persons case since Pickton and not even a “Good work, Lane.”

ANDREWS WATCHED LANE
walk down the hall. He waited a moment after she was gone. This might be a good break, he thought. It was too bad about Lane. She was a good cop, a good investigator and team leader. Now that all seemed irrelevant to him. He picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. The phone rang four times and he was preparing to leave a message when a woman answered.

“Beatta?” he asked.

“Yes.” She sounded flat, gray.

“It's John.”

“Hi, John. Funny, I guess I was expecting your call.”

“What's up?”

“You first.”

“Marcia Lane just came by my office. They've found two bodies at Centennial Pier. I think they'll be two of the homeless people who are missing.”

“That's some good news, I guess . . . I was just going to call you. Phone tree. Remember that? Two years ago, I think. I couldn't remember who I was supposed to call.”

“Shit, now what?”

“The press has all the names. All of them. Me, you, everybody.”

“Who? Which reporter?”

“Webber, at the
Sun
.”

“Did you talk with her?”

“She was all over me, John. I had to. I'm trying to save my organization.”

“Fuck,” he said.

“It's over, isn't it?”

“Goddamned right it is. Fuck. What does she know?”

“She had all of our names. She had the document before, but somehow she's come up with all the names. I don't know how she got them.”

“I think I do.”

“Is it too late? Can we do anything?”

“No. I don't think so. The cat's out of the bag now.”

“I'm sorry, John.”

“It's okay. We knew we were taking a chance. I think it's good that it's you she reached. Maybe the press will go easy. The public will understand. We're just trying to clean up this fucking city, is all.”

“Do you remember who you were supposed to call?”

“Yeah. Trish. I'll call right now.”

“Good night, John.”

“Goodbye, Beatta.”

TRISH PERRY HEARD
the phone ring from inside the shower. It rang four times and then went quiet. Then it rang again. She stepped from the shower and grabbed a towel, catching the bedroom extension on the fourth ring.

“This is Trish,” she said, holding the towel around her.

“Trish, it's John.”

She felt her heart sink. She looked at her watch. “It's all out, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Okay, who's got it?”

“Nancy Webber at the
Sun
.”

“Anything that can be done?”

“Nope.”

“Did anybody talk?”

“Beatta.”

“Figures.”

“Yeah, that was a mistake.”

“How much did she say?”

“I don't know . . . I don't know.”

“Someone isn't going to be very happy.”

“I know. At least I don't have to make
that
call.” Andrews cut the line.

Still in her towel, Trish dialed the phone.

CHARLES LIVINGSTONE WAS
just finishing his second glass of port when the phone rang. He looked at his watch. He snatched it up, not wanting to wake Martha, who was sleeping, though only fitfully.

“Yes?”

“It's Trish.”

“Okay.”

“The
Sun
has it all.”

“I know. Anybody go public?”

“Nowak.”

“What did she tell?”

“Don't know.”

“Fine.” He hung up the phone.

He finished his port and put the glass down. Charles Livingstone was beyond caring what happened with the Lucky Strike Manifesto and the pathetic cabal of people who for the last two years had met in that grimy room and eaten rotten Korean and Chinese food. He could care less. He reached for the bottle of port. There was nobody left around him whose opinion he gave a damn about. Martha had been mostly absent for the better part of a decade, and his miserable son had disappeared months ago, stopping by only to con Adelaide, their housekeeper, into letting him pilfer the family home for money to do God knows what with. He had fired her when he discovered Sean had been in the house.