“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.
“If she is, I’m calling my lawyer,” said Denman.
“Me too,” said Cole, fishing out his cell phone. Denman picked up a magazine from the table in front of them and flipped through it.
An hour passed. A few clients came and went, and the receptionist looked at her watch.
“Think we might need reinforcements?” asked Cole.
Denman looked up. “What do you mean?”
“The End Poverty Now Coalition?”
Denman grinned. “I’m not ready to make that call. Not yet.”
They waited until eleven o’clock, when a stout man appeared behind the reception desk. “Is this to be an occupation?” he asked.
Denman stood up. “No sir, just hoping for a few minutes of someone’s time.”
The man stepped forward. He was dressed immaculately in a three-piece suit. “My name is Charles Livingstone,” he extended his hand. Denman stepped forward and shook it. Livingstone’s grip was firm and dry, the practiced handshake of a man who used his physical presence to his advantage.
“This is Cole Blackwater,” said Denman.
“Your wing-man?” asked Livingstone.
“I’m starting to think so,” said Cole, and shook the man’s hand.
“I’m sorry that you’ve had to sit out here so long. But I’m really not at liberty to discuss anything about any of the portfolios that we handle for our clients. Surely you, Mr. Scott, should know that.”
“We don’t want to put you in a position where you’re compromising solicitor-client confidentiality, Mr. Livingstone. We were hoping you might help us understand some troubling events taking place that are affecting my clients, that’s all. Can we take a few minutes of your time? If there’s nothing you can speak to, we’ll gladly leave.”
Livingstone let his gaze rest on first Denman, then Cole. “Very well,” he said. “Lucinda, would you ask Elizabeth to join us to take notes?”
“Certainly, Mr. Livingstone.”
“Follow me, gentlemen,” said the solicitor, and he walked toward a corner office. Denman and Cole followed.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, pointing to two leather club chairs facing his mahogany desk. Livingstone seated himself behind it. “Elizabeth will join us shortly.”
Cole walked over to the desk, his eyes falling on the framed photographs there.
“Your family?” he asked. The picture showed Livingstone in a sports coat and slacks standing beside a blond woman who was beautiful in a haunted, distant way. Next to her stood a young man, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. The boy was smiling, but in a manner that made Cole think he’d just been threatened.
“Yes,” said Livingstone looking at the picture as if he hadn’t seen it in years. “Yes,” his voice grew quiet.
Cole was about to ask a question when there was a knock at the door and a young woman entered. Livingstone turned businesslike again. “So, let’s get started. What is it that you’d like to know?”
“Well, Mr. Livingstone,” Denman began. “Are you representing Frank Ainsworth in the purchase of the Lucky Strike Hotel?”
“I don’t think there is any harm in telling you that Mr. Ainsworth is one of this firm’s most important clients. We’ve helped with the purchase of many of the dilapidated hovels that he converts to upscale condominiums. We’re proud to be a part of that work.”
“And the Lucky Strike?”
“Yes, we provided services. I don’t see what the problem is, Mr. Scott. These are routine property purchases. We handle one a week for our various clients.”
“Well, the Lucky Strike is anything but routine, Mr. Livingstone.”
“Illuminate me.”
“Well, it seems that the Lucky Strike is at the center of some—” Denman hesitated, searching for the correct word, “—some . . . malfeasance that involves City Hall and the Vancouver Police Department, at the very least. We think it involves others, possibly from the development community. Police brutality is on the rise in the Downtown Eastside, and we believe the increase is connected to an edict to try and push the city’s homeless out of key parts of the region favored by developers, including Mr. Ainsworth. It seems that your client’s purchase of the Lucky Strike is at the heart of an escalation of violence and a crackdown by the City and the police that is threatening to get out of control,” Denman finished.
Livingstone sat with his hands pressed together, listening intently. He waited a moment after Denman had concluded, then exhaled. “Thank you for bringing these concerns to my attention. My client doesn’t want his legal business activities to result in any hardship in the area. I don’t see how you can link alleged police brutality to Mr. Ainsworth’s purchase of the Lucky Strike.” Cole stirred impatiently beside Denman. “You have something you wish to add, Mr. Blackwater?”
Denman looked at Cole. “You know, I think I’ve had enough lawyer talk this morning,” Cole said, pulling the envelope posted by Nancy the day before from his pocket. “This is the Lucky Strike Manifesto. Do you know what that is?”
“Sounds official. City business?” asked Livingstone.
“It’s certainly not official,” said Cole. “It’s a pact between people who are intent on razing the low-rent hotels and hostels in the Downtown Eastside and building condominiums, shopping centers, and luxury hotels in their place. It’s a plan to sweep the homeless into the equivalent of prisons so that crime, poverty, and destitution will be pushed farther from the city’s center so it doesn’t get in the way of development.”
Livingstone made as if to protest, but Cole pressed on. “And, sir, I believe that it has gotten out of hand. I am willing to bet that someone connected to this agreement has gotten carried away in their enthusiasm for growth, profit, and greed.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Blackwater?”
Denman warned Cole with a look. “Nothing. He’s saying nothing.”
“I believe someone whose name is on this agreement has been part of the disappearance of at least five people from the vicinity of the Lucky Strike Hotel in the last six weeks.”
“That’s preposterous, Mr. Blackwater.”
“I don’t think it’s preposterous to think that a man like John Andrews or Frank Ainsworth, or even you, Mr. Livingstone, might decide to sanction such action to get what he wants. I’ve seen it before.”
“Mr. Blackwater, that is a most illuminating allegation,” said Livingstone.
“Thank you for your time,” said Denman, rising.
“No, I want to hear him say that he has no knowledge of these disappearances,” said Cole.
“I assure you, Mr. Blackwater, that I don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Livingstone too stood up, indicating the meeting was over.
“Are you also telling me that when I followed your food delive
ry to the Pender Street office that you rented for the Supper Club, you didn’t have a couple of men attack me and nearly beat me to death in the back alley? If it wasn’t for this man right here,” Cole stood and indicated Denman, “one of them would have slit my throat.”
“I’m not going to continue this conversation, Mr. Blackwater. Mr. Scott, I’ll ask you and your associate to kindly leave now.”
“You were in that room on Pender Street that night, weren’t you? You, or maybe John Andrews, got a call from your delivery boy.” Cole leaned against Livingstone’s desk, his finger now pointed directly at the man. The secretary pressed herself as far from Cole as her chair would allow.
Livingstone reached for the telephone. “I’m going to have to call the police,” he said.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Denman, reaching for Cole’s arm. Cole pulled away.
“I’m going to sink the Lucky Strike Supper Club,” Cole told Livingstone. “I’m going to expose the Lucky Strike Manifesto, I’m going to find out how you and your puppets at City Hall and VPD are involved in the disappearance of five people, and I’m going to sink you!”
“Lucinda,” Livingstone said into the phone, “would you please call the police and ask them to come to my office? And alert building security.”
Cole stepped toward him, but this time Denman slipped a hand around Cole’s wrist, and without twisting or turning it, guided his hand away from the desk and walked Cole toward the door. Without a backward glance he led Cole through the reception area and to the elevators. They waited a moment, then Denman said, “We’re taking the stairs.”
“We’re on the twentieth floor.”
“Too fucking bad,” Denman said.
NANCY SAT IN her office, surveying the stack of newspapers on the table. Frank Pesh had brought them in that morning. “We’ve been covered by nearly every daily in the country,” he said, smiling. “When your paper is the news, you must be doing something right.”
The Sun’s phone had been ringing off the hook all day with Vancouverites voicing their support for the paper. The chief constable also called, but to lambast the Sun for what he called one-sided journalism. Pesh asked if he wanted to go on the record, and he declined.
At about ten-thirty, Nancy’s cell phone buzzed with a text message.
“Good work,” the message read. The texter’s ID had been blocked.
She texted back, saying, “Thx,” then “Who are U?”
“Friend.”
She keyed in, “THE friend?”
“Yes.”
“Do U have more?”
“Yes.”
“Can we meet?”
Nancy sat watching her cell, waiting for it to buzz. She needed confirmation of who the members of the Lucky Strike Supper Club were and who the signatories to the Manifesto were.
“Victory Square. Noon,” the message read. Nancy snapped the cell phone shut and grabbed her coat.
JULIET WALKED UP the front steps of the Carnegie Centre, weaving her way through the crowd. There was safety in numbers. Since George Oliver had gone missing, it seemed like an undercurrent of fear and paranoia had shot through the Downtown Eastside. Up until that point, the disappearances of four people seemed somehow random. But George Oliver was well known in the community, and well loved. She reached her office and took off her coat.
“Have you been waiting long?” she asked her visitor.
“No, just a minute,” said Marcia Lane.
“I was at Oppenheimer. I could have come to the detachment. Do you have news about George?”
“I’d rather meet here, and no, nothing new on George,” said Marcia. She held her cell phone in her hand.
“What can I do for you?” asked Juliet, sitting down at her desk. “Was there something incomplete in the statement I gave at the detachment?”
“No, everything in your statement was fine.” Marcia took a breath. “Listen, you were treated poorly by the reporting constable the other day, and I want to offer my personal apology,” she said, looking directly at Juliet. “You understand, this isn’t the department apologizing. It’s me. These disappearances are causing some, well, some serious trouble. Very serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“After the Pickton situation, there was a shakeup in how we handle missing persons in the Eastside. There was a lot of criticism that VPD doesn’t take this sort of thing seriously; that because the missing women in the Pickton case where prostitutes, we didn’t put much manpower on it.”
“You didn’t.”
“I know we didn’t. That was supposed to change. We got a lot of flack from City Hall, and so we created the Missing Persons Task Force. I got promoted to lead it. We’ve been muddling along with four investigators, and me riding herd, for the last two years. We take it one person at a time, but this is different.”
“So you’re agreeing that they are all related?”
“The department isn’t prepared to say that.”
“What about you?”
Marcia was silent. She regarded Juliet. The din from the Carnegie Centre’s main room was growing as the lunch hour neared. “I have a strong hunch that they are. I’ve managed to get another dozen patrol officers on the street in the last few days, since your report on Mr. Oliver, but that’s a pittance. Most of them are tied up running down the usual red herrings. It’s stuff we have to do to eliminate the obvious. First we check in with Welfare to find out the last time anybody collected a check. Veronica and George have only been missing for a few days . . . a week at best, so that doesn’t help us much. Bobbie, the fellow who sells umbrellas, he hasn’t been on Welfare for more than a year. Jerry and your friend Peaches are both collecting, but neither collected the check—” Marcia looked at her notebook, “—on the fourteenth of this month, but they both collected their payments in August.”
Juliet felt a hot fear creeping up her neck and worried that her face was turning red as she listened to Marcia.
“After that it’s next of kin. Unfortunately, none of these people had any, at least that we know of. You gave us a name in Saskatoon for an aunt of Peaches, but the RCMP there haven’t been able to track her down. They are still trying.
“So that leaves us with a physical search,” continued Marcia. “So far, we haven’t found anything that’s helpful, but as I said, I’ve only been able to get twelve more people, six units. It’s not much for such a huge area, where physical evidence is difficult to distinguish from the trash that just clutters up the streets. Needless to say, if this was happening in the West End, I’d have two hundred officers prowling every alley and doorway and garbage can, looking for leads.”
Juliet drew a deep breath. “What about Veronica’s coat?”
“We did have some luck there. We found the fellow. He claims to have found the coat in a dumpster. First off, you should know that he was co-operative. He told us where the dumpster was, and we now have the coat in our possession; forensics is looking at it. We’re also looking at the area around the dumpster for additional forensic data. The trouble is that traditional methods like spraying the place with Luminal or Bluestar doesn’t really help much.”
Juliet’s face twisted into a question. “What’s Luminal and why doesn’t it work?”
“Luminal and Bluestar are chemicals—we call them latent blood reagents—that we can use to detect the presence of blood, even in minute amounts.”
“And it doesn’t work well down here because the place is covered in the stuff,” said Juliet.
“That’s right. Along with all sorts of other bodily fluids. So we look for blood spatter patterns and try to distinguish between recent deposits and older ones,” she explained. “Look, I know what these folks mean to you. I’m prepared to say for the sake of argument that the disappearances are connected. The problem is twofold. First, I don’t have any evidence. There’s nothing. We don’t even have photos of some of these people.
”
“I have one of George.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he and I were friends. It’s right here.” Juliet reached over and pulled a photo of a smiling George Oliver from her bulletin board. She handed it to the officer.
“Can I take this? It will really help.”
“I’ll want it back.”
“I’ll see to it personally. This is great.” Marcia looked at the photo. “The reporting constable should have asked for this. I just assumed he had and that there were no pictures.”
“You said there were two things.”
“Well, the second one is the question of motive. There’s plenty of means and opportunity. In an area as crazy as this, people can easily be taken from the street. The question is, why? I’ve pretty much eliminated the theory that these people have somehow gotten tangled up in organized crime. There doesn’t seem to be any connection. We’ve shaken down the usual suspects, called in some favors. We’ve worked some of our low-level informants and we’re getting nothing back. All five of these people couldn’t have somehow caught onto something that one of the bosses is doing and gotten bumped because of it.
“I know what some people are saying,” continued Marcia. “That this is linked to the Lucky Strike, and other SRO closures. What’s that guy’s name that hangs around with your friend?”
“Cole Blackwater.”
“He’s on a bit of a warpath right now, saying that somebody at City Hall or one of the developers or even someone in the VPD gave the nod so that these street people can be carted up and shipped out of the area. I’d say that’s totally crazy, except that I’m personally getting my ass busted from the boss on this file. Every time I try to get a handle on what’s going on, I get knocked off my game by people higher up in the department. But still, I can’t believe that anybody in VPD would be aiding in the disappearance of these people. I can’t see it. Unnecessary force is one thing: disappearances, that’s beyond the pale. That’s Venezuela. That’s Nicaragua. Not Canada.”
“So if not that, then what?”
The Vanishing Track Page 20