The Vanishing Track

by Stephen Legault

  “What’s that?”

  “You aren’t a user, you don’t have kids, and you’re a man.”

  “Three strikes,” he said.

  Juliet nodded. Sean looked out her window.

  “When I was a kid,” he said, “I wanted to be a doctor. I had this vision of myself helping people, the way you do.” He turned and touched the stitches. “I thought that by becoming a doctor I could work in a place like this, you know, helping people with their problems. Maybe go to Africa or Central America and help people there. I did really well in school. I worked hard. I got into university. It was great. When my parents died everything went crazy.”

  Juliet thought back on her first meeting with Sean only a week ago. “Sean, when we met you told me that your father had cut you off.”

  Sean looked out the window again. “He did. He and my mother got themselves killed in a car accident. That’s what I meant. They went and died and I got nothing.”

  “How long have you been living on the street, Sean?”

  He looked up at the ceiling. “My folks died about a year ago.” He shook his head. “I just want to get on with my life. Get my feet back under me. I feel like I’m slipping.”

  Juliet stood up. “Meet me back here at five this afternoon.”

  JULIET WAITED FOR Denman to answer his phone.

  “Hi, Denny,” Juliet said, sitting in her office after Sean had left.

  “How are you? You sound pretty down.”

  “It’s the rain.”

  “You suffering from SAD already?”

  “No, it’s not me. It’s everybody else. It’s only been raining and cold for two days and already things are starting to fray. And there’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think another person has gone missing.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah, a woman named Veronica. Someone came in yesterday wearing her parka. It was pretty distinctive. She wore it summer and winter.”

  “Could he have just found it? Or picked it up at the Sally Ann?”

  “I know the guy who’s wearing it. I’ve talked with him. He says he found it in a dumpster. And I’ve got a call in to Marcia Lane.”

  “What do you need help with?”

  “Night count. I’ve got to check on my flock.”

  “How about tonight?”

  “No, not tonight. I have to take care of something after work. Tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  “Meet me at Macy’s at midnight. We’ll have breakfast.”

  “Sounds like a date.”

  “Yeah—you, me, and a sleeping city.” She paused. “Denman, I’m getting scared.”

  He was silent a moment. Through the phone line, Juliet could hear his light breathing and pictured him with his eyes closed in his cubicle of an office.

  “Me too,” he said.

  DENMAN SNATCHED THE phone from its cradle again and dialed the familiar number, then asked for Marcia Lane. He got her voice mail and left a message.

  He stood and paced up and down the main hall of Priority Legal’s office. His staff knew that when he was pacing, it was best to leave him alone.

  He looked in on one of his staff lawyers. “How are things over at the Lucky Strike?” he asked.

  Patrick Blade looked up from a stack of briefs. “This is the last of the affidavits that we’ll file in the suit against the City.”

  “And what about the occupation?”

  “I heard from the Community Advocacy Society that the police are getting antsy, arresting anybody who brings food. The Coalition is trying to find ways of getting food up to their people, but it’s been about twelve hours.”

  “Has the City made a statement yet?”

  “Nothing out of the mayor’s office. We keep hearing rumors of some big announcement.” Blade made quotation marks with his fingers when he said big.

  “Thanks,” said Denman. He grabbed his raincoat from a hook by the front door as he walked past the reception desk. “Dave, I’ll be out for a bit.”

  He stepped onto the street and into the rain, adjusting his flat cap and pulling the collar of his coat up around his chin. Denman wondered, What did he know? Three—now four—people were missing from the Downtown Eastside. There seemed to be no pattern, at least not that he could see. Two men, middle-aged, both of whom had been on the street for some time. Not drug users, Juliet said. And one woman, a former prostitute and user, but who had cleaned herself up, thanks to the help of Juliet and others. And now Veronica, a kleptomaniac for certain, a serial thief, he recalled from the times he’d represented her. She was also a user and a small-time dealer. What was the connection between these four? If any?

  What else? The Lucky Strike had closed. That brought to seven hundred and fifty the number of single-room-occupancy beds lost this year. That meant more than a thousand people displaced. And one man largely responsible for all those closures: Frank Ainsworth, “Captain Condo.”

  Was there any connection between the four missing people and the Lucky Strike? Denman would have to check with Juliet. They would have a chance to do that tomorrow night, when they went on a night count.

  Now the End Poverty Now Coalition had occupied the Lucky Strike. Denman had little good to say about the Coalition. He didn’t like their tactics. He had to admit, however, they were bringing the issue of homelessness and poverty in Vancouver to the public’s eye. What else did he know?

  Bloody well little. So far there had been no bodies. These people had just vanished.

  He walked through the driving rain, the water beading on his cap and dripping down the back of his neck. He was soaked to the skin when he heard his cell phone ring deep in his pocket.

  “Scott.”

  “Denny, it’s Cole. Hey, look, I want to thank you for Sunday. I just loved getting my butt kicked by my ten-year-old daughter. That was great. Just what I needed.”

  “Happy to oblige.”

  “Well, thanks, really.”

  “We’re just getting started. The rabbit hole goes all the way to the bottom, you know.”

  “Bottom of what?”

  “You.”

  “Great.”

  “My phone is about to short circuit in the rain, Cole. Anything else up?”

  “Yeah, in fact. I had lunch with Nancy yesterday.”

  “She’s speaking with you. Progress.”

  “Right, funny. Well, she interviewed the mayor. Actually got past his flack at City Hall. She’s got a theory.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s coffee up.”

  They met at three o’clock at Macy’s, a twenty-four-hour breakfast joint that had quickly become a place where local business people, social service providers, panhandlers, and even beat cops could meet on neutral ground. When they had coffee in front of them at a small table by the window, Cole said, “Nancy thinks there might be a connection between Hoi Fu and Mayor West.” The well-lit room contrasted with the darkness beyond the pane of glass.

  Denman sipped his coffee. “Yeah, of course there is.” Cole tilted his head to one side in question. “Hoi Fu gave Don West five thousand dollars under the table during his first run at the mayor’s office five years ago. West lost, but not by much. He tried again in the next election and won.”

  “Is this public knowledge?”

  “Depends on what you mean. Listen, Hoi Fu runs most of the crime scene down here. He’s a big fish in a small pond. Don West needed to take votes on the east side of the city. Fu, for all of his illegal activity, actually owns a bunch of legitimate businesses—groceries, laundromats, a video chain, a bunch of restaurants, and some stuff that skirts the edge of legal, like a raft of Asian massage parlors. He’s totally connected across the east side of the city, and even into the West End and Point Grey. If you want to get elected in Vancouver, you need to work the four quarters of the city, and Fu can deliver the east. He’s got half the Asian community working for him in his legitimate businesses and half in his ill
egal operations.”

  “The VPD know about this?”

  Denman shook his head. “You’ve been working with the environmentalists too long, Cole. You think everything is white collar, white bread, and white skin. Of course they know. And every now and again they bust some of his middlemen, just to make sure Fu doesn’t get too cocky. But the guy covers his tracks pretty well.”

  “What about now? Is West in thick with Fu?”

  “It’s hard to say. But the mayor’s office would have to officially seal itself off from such undertakings. It’s okay to flirt when you’re running, but it’s another thing altogether to be sleeping with the enemy once you’re in office. I just don’t see how West could be officially connected.”

  Cole fiddled with his coffee cup. “Could Hoi Fu be behind these disappearances?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Well, what if these three folks saw something they weren’t supposed to? Or maybe they were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe they owed him money, or it was drug related.”

  “Slow down, Sherlock. First off, Hoi Fu isn’t going to be lending cash to folks on the street. That’s not him. Second, what might they have seen? A drug deal? Jesus, I saw three go down walking here to have coffee with you. And it’s four, now.”

  “Four what?”

  “Four missing people.”

  “Good God,” said Cole, pressing a palm to his face.

  “Yeah. Juliet is pretty upset. A woman named Veronica. User. Petty thief with a long sheet. Her coat showed up on another guy.”

  “We should brace him!”

  “Juliet talked to him. She knows the guy.”

  “What? You let her talk with him alone?”

  “She’s a big girl.”

  “Denman, this guy could be dangerous. What if he’s working for Fu? What if Fu has this guy taking out people who are in his way somehow? What if Fu finds out that Juliet is onto his button man?”

  “Cole, slow down,” Denman said again. “This isn’t television. This is the real world. Take it easy.”

  Cole shook his head. “Now who’s not living in reality? You’re the one who just told me that Hoi Fu has a lot riding on this region. Lots of money, lots of power. Nancy said that when she brought up the disappearances, His Worship clammed up and his handler rushed her away, then called her fifteen minutes later telling her that one of the divisional commanders of the VPD would be handling matters related to any crimes. Seems like West has a lot to say on just about everything, but when this comes up, he shuts up. Now you’re saying you don’t think there is a connection?”

  “I just don’t see it, Cole.”

  “Open your eyes, Denman. It’s starting to become pretty clear that the City, organized crime, and maybe the bloody condo developers for all I know, are working together to steamroll the Downtown Eastside. I think maybe our four friends got in the way somehow.”

  Denman sipped his coffee. “How are you sleeping?” he asked.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Cole asked angrily.

  “Just wondering. I’m heading out tomorrow night with Juliet to do a street count. I wonder if you’d like to do a little night work together before she and I hit the bricks.”

  “Now you’re talking my language, son,” said Cole, grinning widely.

  ELEVEN

  “I’M HEADING HOME,” SAID MARY from the door to Cole’s office.

  Cole looked at his watch. “I don’t know Mary, it’s only seven-thirty. Starting to slack off, aren’t you?”

  She smiled at him. “You need anything?”

  “Nope. Thanks.”

  “You’ve got a call with Nexus Energy at 9:00 AM.”

  Nexus was one of Cole’s most promising clients, and a living example of Cole’s new philosophy on how to save the world. The alternative energy company had started with tidal power and were now moving into syn-gas and solar power in a big way. He knew that during the call in the morning the company’s CEO would ask if he would consider representing them in a new multi-stakeholder alliance to develop climate change solutions.

  Cole looked up at Mary. “I’ll be here.”

  “Okay, goodnight.”

  “’Night,” he said, turning back to the window. Night. It was almost time to hit the streets.

  “SO WHAT EXACTLY are we looking for?” asked Cole, his baseball cap pulled tightly down over his forehead, his dark curls tucked up under the cap. Cole and Denman walked side by side through the rain. It fell with a steady pulse, one moment light and little more than mist, the next moment driving against the asphalt in violent bursts.

  “No idea,” said Denman, walking beside him, stepping around the larger puddles that spanned the sidewalks.

  “You’re kidding. We’re just two guys out for a walk in the most dangerous part of the city on a stormy night, looking for trouble?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay,” said Cole, splashing through a puddle.

  A few minutes later Denman drew a deep breath and said, “So you think there might be some connection between Hoi Fu and Don West. Between organized crime in the Downtown Eastside and City Hall. Only one way to find out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ask.”

  “Now you are kidding me.”

  In the darkness Cole could see Denman smile, and he knew that he wasn’t kidding.

  “So where are we going?”

  “The Golden Dragon.”

  “The Asian restaurant?”

  “Yup.”

  Cole was silent as they ran across Gore Street, the rain pounding down on their heads.

  “Look, I’m happy to just go along for the ride, Denny, but if you want me to be of any help, you might want to tell me what you’ve got in mind.”

  “I don’t really know, Cole. That’s the honest truth. I really can’t figure this whole mess out any better than you can. Do I think that the mayor and a crime boss are colluding to bump off homeless people? No. Do I think that Hoi Fu might somehow be involved on his own? Maybe. Does the mayor’s office want to cover something up related to the disappearances? Maybe. Is there some kind of connection between all these people? Who knows? I really don’t know anything right now, and it’s frustrating as hell, so we just need to start poking around and see what turns up.”

  “I can go along with that,” said Cole.

  Denman smiled at his friend. “Good.”

  “I’m good at poking people,” said Cole, raising his voice as the din around them increased.

  “Don’t I know it,” Denman teased.

  They turned toward the row of shops and restaurants next to the vacant lots on Prior Avenue. Instead of walking to the front door of the ancient building that now housed the Golden Dragon, Denman slipped through the slats in a wooden fence and made his way down the darkened alley between two buildings. Cole followed him, his heart rate increasing as they made their way through the shadows, sloshing through standing puddles that smelled like burnt sesame oil and garbage. Denman disappeared around the back of the building. Cole quickly followed. When Cole caught up with Denman, his friend was standing in front of a door. The rear of the old brick structure was flanked by a tall wooden fence rimmed with rusty barbed wire, separating it from the busy street beyond. A heavy dumpster reeked of fish and rotting vegetables.

  Denman knocked on the door.

  “Seems kinda dramatic,” said Cole, fighting the tightness in his throat.

  The door opened a crack. A line of light spilled across the water in the alley.

  “What is it?” Cole heard a voice from inside the doorway ask.

  “Denman Scott to see Mr. Fu, if it pleases him.”

  The door closed.

  “Friendly sorts.”

  “Cautious.”

  They waited in the darkness, the rain falling in sheets in the alley. After a minute Cole was about to speak again, when the door opened.

  “Just you,” the voice said.

  Denm
an turned to Cole. “I’m a big boy.”

  “Ten minutes and I come in through the front door,” said Cole.

  Denman stepped through the portal of light and the door closed behind him.

  DENMAN WAS NOT unaccustomed to the less than savory underworld of Vancouver’s Asian crime scene. For the last ten years he had lived among the elements that made up the dark underbelly of the city, so when the door closed behind him, he wasn’t surprised to be not too gently shoved against the wall and roughly frisked by a Korean man who must have outweighed him by a hundred pounds. A few feet away, a second man stood eyeing him coolly. The rough business of the search complete, Denman was allowed to turn around. He was in the kitchen of the Golden Dragon, where half a dozen Japanese, Chinese, and Korean cooks were filling orders. The room was a cacophony of kitchen sounds—pots and pans clanging, food sizzling in woks, waitresses yelling at cooks to hurry with their food. Flames leapt from the grills and the cooks wiped their faces with rags as they bantered among each another. The smell of Korean barbecue and Japanese noodles was thick in the air. Everything seemed to be coated in a thin sheen of sesame oil.

  “Mr. Fu will see you upstairs,” said the large man who had patted him down. “Follow me, please.” The second man stayed by the back door.

  They walked through the bustling kitchen and then mounted a set of stairs near the entrance to the dining room. “Right this way,” the big man said, and they walked down a long hall. At the far end a man stood watch by a doorway, and when Denman approached with his escort, the man poked his head into the room and then nodded for Denman to enter.

  The room he stepped into from the dark hall was well lit by ornate Asian lamps and smelled of jasmine incense. Hoi Fu was seated at a low table along the far wall. Three other men sat with him. They were eating a dinner of Korean barbecue, the pork and chicken roasting on a small cylindrical grill at the center of the table.

  “Come in,” Hoi Fu motioned to Denman. Denman slipped off his shoes, bowed, then came forward. A thick carpet covered the floor, and red and orange tapestries adorned the walls.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Fu,” Denman said, coming up to the table.

  “Please, sit. Would you care to join us?” Fu was a short, compact man with a head of short black hair and a cleanly shaven face. Though in his sixties, he looked no older than forty. His skin was clear and free of wrinkles, save for the crow’s feet around his eyes, which deepened when he spoke with his broad, friendly smile.