The Vanishing Track

by Stephen Legault

  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 SROs. 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.

&n
bsp; “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.

  EIGHTEEN

  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.

  “Oh, thanks.” She smiled absently and stuffed the package into her briefcase next to her computer.

  The week of steady rain had seen Nancy riding the bus home to her West End apartment, but today, though not sunny, was at least dry, so she decided to walk. To amuse herself she watched the progress of a man in a BMW as he crept along beside her. At each light he raced forward, and then at the next red Nancy would catch up to him. It made her think of Cole Blackwater. Two steps forward, two steps back. Three steps back. Two steps forward.

  Nancy reached her West End building and took the elevator up to her apartment. She threw her bag on the table that doubled as a work station. Setting a glass of red wine on the counter, she retrieved some leftover Indian takeout from the previous evening. She put it in the microwave, then leaned on the counter sipping her wine, trying to loosen the knots in her neck. The microwave beeped, and she carried her plate and glass, with the bottle, to the living room. She liked to watch the six o’clock news while she ate.

  When she was done, Nancy refilled her glass and opened her bag. She took out her computer and the files she had carted home, laying them out on the table in front of her. The corner of an unfamiliar envelope caught her eye.

  “What have we here?” she said, vaguely recalling the Sun receptionist handing her something on her way out. She tore it open. Inside was a plain brown envelope containing three sheets of paper. She leaned forward in her chair, setting aside her wine glass, and skimmed the pages quickly. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Jesus Christ,” she said aloud, reading the three pages again.

  NANCY COULDN’T SLEEP. More than a dozen times that night she had picked up the phone, then put it down. She turned the light on and read the three sheets over and over.

  Who was she planning on calling? Frank Pesh with breaking news? Denman Scott for reaction? Cole Blackwater for immediate over reaction? It seemed almost too wild to be possible, except that the suspected source of the three pages was beyond reproach. Nancy was pretty certain she knew who had slipped her the covert information, even though there was no name to validate that suspicion. Finally, at three o’clock she fell into a restless, wine-clouded sleep. She dreamed fitfully of a cabal of the city’s most powerful backroom players conspiring to radically change the Downtown Eastside, changing the face of Vancouver in the process.

  WHEN SHE WOKE, it was almost eight. Despite a hangover, Nancy bolted from bed. While her first cup of coffee brewed in the tiny kitchen, she showered and dressed. Without eating breakfast, and forgetting her coffee, she stuffed her files and computer into her bag, along with the three well-thumbed pages, and rode the elevator down to the street. She stopped in at a Quick Printer and made three copies of the three-page document. She mailed one to herself at the Sun, one to Denman Scott via Priority Legal, and one to Blackwater Strategies. They would all arrive in the mail in the next day or two, regardless of what happened to the original.

  She got to the Vancouver Sun office and buzzed Frank Pesh. Five minutes later she was standing in his office, along with the assistant editor of the paper and the Sun’s in-house attorney. She had met Veronica White once before, when she was being hired by the Sun. White was a plain-spoken, cautious, middle-aged woman who took her job of protecting the Vancouver Sun from libel and slander suits seriously.

  “You need three sources,” said White.

  “I’m never going to get any of these people to talk,” said Nancy.

  “You print those names without them, we’ll get our ass sued off.”

  “What if I track down the source of the leak and get them to talk?”

  “So what? What does it prove? Maybe a disgruntled employee. Maybe a lunatic from the End Poverty Now Coalition planting the story. Did you think of that?”

  “I haven’t discounted that, but I think this came from inside VPD.”

  “Really?” said Pesh. “What makes you think that?”

  “Intuition.”

  “Intuition isn’t going to keep this paper out of court,” said White.

  “Sometimes you have to take the risk.”

  “Look, Nancy,” said White. “Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not trying to stomp on journalistic freedom. That’s not what I’m doing, really. I have a job to do, and that’s to protect you and this paper. I can’t do it if you don’t listen,” she turned to Pesh.

  Nancy began to speak, but Pesh cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  “I get to decide on this,” he said, standing up and looking out over Burrard Inlet. “Does anybody else have this?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. If my source is who I think it is, then they sent it to me for a reason. If I’m right, we have it exclusively. I have it—”

  “Okay, let’s do this,” he said, interrupting. “You need to make some calls, Nancy. Veronica is right; this could be a setup. You need to confirm your source and find external collaboration. Find someone who will talk. I can live with one person involved, plus the source,” he said, looking at White. “You’ve got till the end of the day.”

  BY NOON NANCY had external confirmation, but it wasn’t of the sort she had anticipated.

  At 9:43 AM she called the office of Beatta Nowak and asked to speak to the executive director of the Downtown Eastside Community Advocacy Society. She was told that Beatta was in a meeting at Priority Legal and wouldn’t be back until noon. Next she called City Hall. Again, no luck. At 9:48 she took a deep breath and dialed the Vancouver Police Department. She was transferred to Media Relations Coordinator Beth Moresby.

  “Beth, it’s Nancy Webber for the Vancouver Sun.”

  “Hi, Nancy. What can I do for you today?”

  “Can I speak with John Andrews, please?”

  “What’s it with regards to?”

  “I have a source who is suggesting that Mr. Andrews is part of a group of people calling themselves the Lucky Strike Supper Club. They have authored a document, really just a few bulleted lines on a page, called the Lucky Strike Manifesto. I’m seeking confirmation or denial from Mr. Andrews regarding his participation in this group, and his authorship of this paper.”

  Nancy could feel her heart racing. There was only a second’s silence.

  “Can I get back to you? John is in
a meeting right now, but I’ll ask him to call you as soon as he gets out. Okay?”

  “Alright. Sooner the better, Beth. My intention is to make print deadline this afternoon with or without his confirmation,” she lied. “I’m holding back on web publication so as not to tip off any other outlets.”

  “Okay, well, it should be within an hour. Where are you?”

  Nancy told her and they hung up.

  JUST OVER AN hour later, Nancy was still sitting at her desk when two plainclothes police offers appeared before her.

  “Nancy Webber?” one of them asked. She looked up.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Detectives Colbert and Vary, VPD, ma’am. We have a warrant to search these premises, and your home,” he held out the warrant for her to read.

  Nancy picked up the phone. “Frank, call Veronica. We’re being raided.”

  COLE AND DENMAN arrived at the VPD offices for the second time that day, fifteen minutes after Nancy had called. It was another two hours before they could see her.

  “We should rent space here,” said Cole dryly.

  “It’s cheap. And the application is pretty simple,” added Denman.

  “Getting out of the lease is the tricky part,” Cole said, grinning.

  “This may take a while, Cole. You want to stick around?”

  “You kidding? Nancy Webber behind bars is a wet dream come true. Plus, I’ve got something else that our last conversation reminded me of. I’ll be back,” he said, and went to cue up at the reporting desk.

  Denman dialed his office to check in. Cole rejoined him after an hour in the reporting line. “So the two goons who jumped me in the alley were picked up.”

  “I got a call about it yesterday. Sorry. I forgot to tell you. It’s been a crazy week,” said Denman shaking his head.