The Vanishing Track (33 page)

It was just him now. He really didn't care.

He picked up the phone and hit “1” on the speed dial.

“This better be good,” said Frank Ainsworth. Livingstone could hear music and voices in the background.

“The
Sun
has all of our names. It will be out tomorrow.”

The sound of disembodied voices and a distant tenor sax solo filled the long silence.

“Okay. How much do they know?”

“We've got to assume everything.”

“I hope they don't know
everything
. That would be upsetting.”

“They got to Beatta.”

“But she didn't know. We kept her apart from that . . . delicate matter.”

“For reasons that are obvious now,” said Livingstone.

“Are we doing anything?” asked Ainsworth.

“I'm guessing Andrews has got someone on it. But I think it's too late.”

“What about Chow?”

“That's your call.”

“Okay. Well, bottoms up.”

BEN CHOW SAT
on the low bench, his back against the rattan curtain. The dining room was filled with the sound of barbecue food sizzling on conical grills, many Asian languages and dialects, and much laughter. Chow wasn't laughing. Things were coming undone. First the media had gotten wind that the Lucky Strike Manifesto existed, and they had an approximation of what it said. It would only be a matter of time before whoever Nancy Webber's source was would dig up names. It was only a matter of time.

Now, Don West, the bumbling, incompetent mayor of this fair city, would be rolling out his “New Vancouver” program in the morning. It wasn't that Chow was against the program. In fact, he was all for it. He had written most of it, but city politics being what they were, West had insisted that if it was to be a city program, then he as mayor should announce it. Chow would be given second billing at the news conference.

The good news was that some of the connections were intact. While everybody in the Supper Club believed that the Manifesto was about development and ridding the Downtown Eastside of the homeless, Chow alone knew its more clandestine purpose. He was immersed in that thought when his cell phone chimed and he jumped. Several of his friends made comments but he just answered the phone.

“Ben, it's Frank.”

Chow knew what the call was for. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning's paper. The
Sun
.”

“Who?”

“We don't know the leak, but Beatta talked.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, so long.”

Chow hung up without saying goodbye. He slipped his phone in his pocket.

He addressed his friends and told them that he had to use the facilities. He slipped through the busy restaurant and found his way to the back stairs where a big man stood with his arms crossed. Chow just nodded to the man and went up the stairs. He walked down the long hall and came to the portal where two men stood.

“Please tell Mr. Fu that I would like to speak with him,” he said to the men.

One of the men went inside, then came back out and nodded. Chow walked between them. Chow said, “Mr. Fu, we have a little problem.”

“I'VE GOT TO GET HOME,”
Cole said, standing in Nancy's kitchen. She was making coffee. “I can't show up for work wearing the same clothing that I had on yeasterday. Mary will be suspicious.”

“Mary basically runs Blackwater Strategy, doesn't she?”

“Pretty much. At least its one relationship with a woman I don't have to cower from.”

“Are you and your ex still at each other's throats after all this time?”

“No, it's not as bad as that. I'm just kidding around. I mean, it's not peaches and cream, but we're okay. She still hates my guts, but so do most people, so that doesn't really bother me.”

Nancy poured a cup of coffee for Cole and one for herself. She took cream from the fridge for Cole. “I still hate your guts, too,” she said, tasting her coffee.

“Really?” he said, raising his own cup.

“Oh, yeah.”

Cole shrugged. “Maybe there's a club somewhere you could join. I think there's a Facebook page.”

“I could be the club's mascot,” said Nancy.

Cole leaned toward her.

“I have coffee breath.”

“So do I,” he said, and he let his lips touch hers. She pressed herself into him, her mouth opening.

They drew apart and she looked into his eyes. “Thanks for coming to my rescue last night,” she said.

“I'm a rescuing-the-damsel-in-distress kind of guy. I think you should come and stay at my place tonight,” said Cole. “Just to be on the safe side, you know . . . ?”

“Just for safety's sake,” she said, smiling.

“Just to be safe,” he said, kissing her again.

DENMAN WALKED FROM
Juliet's home as the first shops were opening for the morning. Though he had slept little, he had a bounce in his step.

They had sat up drinking red wine, talking. “So you took him in. Hard to find fault with that.”

“Some would. Like my boss at the Health Authority, as well as the director of the Carnegie Centre.”

“Besides
them
,” smiled Denman, relaxing in a chair at Juliet's kitchen table. He had helped her clean up the mess when they had first arrived at her home.

“I felt that he might come around. I still do. People get trapped into a cycle on the street. They sometimes need a helping hand to get out of that crazy vortex.”

“Shelters?”

“No, you know that a guy like Sean wouldn't last there. The hard cases would pick over his bones. A month and he'd be in the pen. He'd be smoking crack and doing petty theft to feed his addiction. He's, well, malleable. He's vulnerable. He's been through a lot.”

“You know that he's been in and out of jail?”

“I didn't . . .”

“Yeah. He's done some time. Most recently he was charged with assault.”

“Sean? This Sean?” she said, pointing to the kitchen as if he were there.

“His name is Sean Livingstone.”

“Yeah, I think I knew that.”

“Did he ever tell you his last name?”

“Well, no.” Juliet looked down at her wine. Her face was red, but not from the drink.

“So he's not a model citizen.”

“Yes, that's clear. He's on the street.”

“But before that.”

“Well, his parents died. Their will is being contested. That will mess up your life.”

“I didn't get into his personal history. Still . . .”

“What is it?”

“Well, if I'm going to look into his allegation that he was assaulted by the police, I'm going to look into his life, too. I want to make sure everything checks out.”

Juliet sipped her wine. “I've grown fond of him. He's been so great to have around here. He cooks, cleans, picks up after himself, even after me. I was thinking about trying to get him work at the Carnegie Centre. He really seems to have a lot of compassion for people on the street now that he's had to live among them for a while. You think I should?”

“Let me do some digging first, okay?”

“Alright . . .”

“Can we stop talking about Sean?” Denman said. “I mean, it's one o'clock in the morning. I think it's time we punched the clock, don't you?”

Juliet laughed. “Slacker,” she said. “Lawyers always book off early. I guess you're going to bill me for this little chat, and for your research time, aren't you?”

“I don't know,” Denman said. “Can you pay?”

Juliet smiled. “Hmm,” she mused. “I might be able to think of some way of making it up to you.”

DENMAN TALKED WITH
the greengrocers who might have seen Sean. Nobody witnessed a man being assaulted by police the night before. None of the shops had reported anything more serious than a shoplifting that night.

Denman then walked toward the
VPD
detachment at Hastings. He stopped to buy a newspaper when he read the headline in the
Vancouver Sun
: “Lucky Strike Manifesto Revealed. Influential Developer, Lawyer, Homeless Advocate, Top Cop and City Councilor Linked to Conspiracy to Bulldoze Chinatown.” He saw Nancy Webber's byline.

When he folded open the paper he saw a secondary story with a different reporter's name attached: “Two Bodies Found near Centennial Pier. Missing Homeless Man and Woman Believed to Have Been Recovered.” Denman grabbed his cell phone and hit speed dial.

MARCIA LANE WOKE TO A
knock at her door. She had folded her coat into a ball and put her head down on her desk for a few minutes around three that morning, after returning from the Centennial Pier, just to catch a little shut-eye. She looked at her watch. It was six forty-five.

“Come,” she said, not caring that her hair was mussed and her face drawn and pale.

“I'm Constable Winters, Sergeant.”

“What is it, Constable?”

“I saw this in the squad room.” He held up a photocopy of the photo that Juliet Rose had given her the day before.

“Do you recognize him?”

“Yeah, of course. His name is George Oliver. He's a regular. My partner and I talked to him the other day.”

“When?”

“Let's see, it's Tuesday today, so that would have been, like, Thursday?”

“Where were you?”

“We were at the Lucky Strike. We were on Andrews' detail. You know, doing cleanup around the hotel. Oliver has stayed there on and off for years. He was just sitting on the steps. We were chatting with him, you know, maybe giving him a bit of a hard time. Nothing serious. Anyway, somebody from the Carnegie Centre came by and offered to take him there for a hot meal. We let him go. Oliver never caused much trouble. Bit of a problem with the bottle and some petty theft, but that's it.”

“Man or woman?”

“It was a man. Young guy. Backpack. Leather jacket.” Winters closed his eyes, remembering. “About five ten, one hundred and fifty pounds. Nothing remarkable. Blackish hair. No scars. His eyes were—” he hesitated, “—were gray.”

“I'll need you with me this morning, and your partner. I want to see if we can find this guy at the Carnegie Centre. If that doesn't work, we'll do a sketch. Circulate it around.” Lane stood up and stretched. “It was Winters, right?” she said, looking at him.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I don't suppose you'd find a girl a cup of coffee, would you?”

SOMETHING WASN'T RIGHT,
thought Cole. He sat in the back of the cab, heading toward his downtown office, having showered and changed at his home. It was going to be a big day. Mayor Don West was making an announcement at eleven that morning about his plan for the Downtown Eastside. It was being sold to the media, and a weary public, as a celebration. Cole guessed that the End Poverty Now Coalition would be out in full force, and so would the riot police.

And Denman had called with the news that Marcia Lane's Task Force had found two bodies in Burrard Inlet, off the end of the Centennial Pier. He had read the piece in the paper to Cole over their cells. The victims were wrapped in tarps and folded inside shopping carts.

Coming on the same day as news of the bodies and Nancy Webber's front page story about the Lucky Strike Manifesto, and its signatories, the mayor's announcement would be anything but a celebration.

But it wasn't these things that were vexing Cole. An image was lodged in his head that he couldn't shake. Something he had seen—something just in passing—that was now gnawing at him. He watched the city roll past as the cab wove its way downtown. He closed his eyes to try and recall the image that was tickling the corners of his mind. It was a photograph or a still image of some sort, but he couldn't quite see the faces.

JULIET ATE HER
breakfast in a quiet house. Denman had left early to talk with the merchants along Gore Street before their memory of any assault the night before faded. Sean was in the hospital. She toasted a bagel and poured a cup of coffee, then sat on the back steps of the home listening to the birds. She took a bite of her bagel and heard the radio announcer say that the news was up next. It was already nine. Time to get her day underway. She stood to turn the radio up to listen when the phone on the wall next to the back door jangled. She picked it up.

“Juliet, it's Denman.”

“Couldn't stand to not hear my voice for even a couple of hours? How sweet . . .”

He cut her off. “It's not that. Look, I'm so sorry. They've found two bodies. I'm on my way to the
VPD
right now.”

THE MORNING WAS
gray, a light rain pattering against the window of the hospital room where Sean lay. His bed was next to the window. Being able to watch as the morning dawned was a relief. He hadn't slept at all that night. With seven others in the room, Sean was constantly being awakened as his roommates tossed and turned, coughed, moaned, talked in their sleep, or were woken by nurses making their rounds. All he wanted to do was check himself out of the hospital and get back to his routine.

Things were working out pretty well, he mused. Though the tussle with The Indian had been unexpected, at least it was a thrill. It had given him a jolt of excitement despite the pain of his injuries. He had liked it so much that he might try to incorporate that into his arrangements from time to time. Set one of his guests free to run, or to fight back, so he could try and recreate that adrenaline rush.

He touched the bandages on his face and forehead, and felt the stiffness in his back and shoulders. Before any new arrangements could be made, he'd have to finish up with his ongoing commitments. The shelter beneath the woman's house was getting full, and he'd have to make some room there before he could welcome a new guest to his own special sanctuary for the homeless. If he wasn't already dead, The Indian would have to be taken care of before Sean could bring anybody else in out of the cold.