Denman bent down and pulled the mask off the man, who lay without moving. Denman felt for a pulse. “He’s alive.” Denman pulled his cell out and dialed 911.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the cops.”
“What if these are the cops?”
“Well, then, I guess we’re in the animal soup, ain’t we?”
“I think we’re pretty deep in it one way or another,” said Cole, looking around. His vision was still blurry. “We’ve got to case that room,” he said.
“There’s nothing there.”
“We’ve got to be sure.”
“Police,” Denman spoke into the phone. “There’s been an assault in the alley between Hastings and Pender, in the one-hundred block. Both perpetrators are immobilized. Yes, I understand.” Denman hung up the phone.
“Let’s go,” he said. He helped Cole to his feet. “You okay? I think we better get you to the hospital.”
“I’m okay. Just a scratch. And my ribs. Nothing new. But we case the room first, then we’ll see about a hospital.”
They reached the room and stepped inside. Cole looked closely at the blackboard, trying to read anything that may have been written there. Denman turned over the garbage bin but it was empty. “They even cleared out their trash.”
“They were tipped by the meatball I was following.”
“There’s nothing here,” said Denman. “Let’s book.”
“What’s that smell?” Cole asked.
“Perfume,” said Denman, looking out the window at the Lucky Strike. “We’ve got to get you some help, Cole.”
“You take me to the hospital and they will call the cops for sure.”
“Juliet.”
“Okay. But at my place.” They opened the door and stepped onto Pender. Police sirens wailed closer, and the street was lit by the floodlights around the Lucky Strike.
“The cops are raiding the hotel,” said Cole.
“What was your first clue, Sherlock?”
Denman pulled his cell from his pocket. “Juliet, it’s Denman. Yes, everything is fine. Well, maybe not great. Look, can you hop a cab to Cole’s place? Bring your first-aid kit, okay?” He gave Juliet Cole’s address.
“I’ve got to go,” said Denman, looking up the street. “There are going to be fifty complaints of excessive force by morning. It will help if I’ve been on the scene to witness it.”
He flagged down a cab. “Get yourself home. Juliet will be there in a few minutes. I’ll come by in a couple of hours to check on you.”
“Denny,” Cole said.
Denman had his cell phone to his ear, waking up his colleagues. “What’s up?” he said turning to Cole.
“Thanks.”
“All in a day’s work.”
FIFTEEN
JOHN ANDREWS LOOKED THE WAY a cop should. He was six feet tall, with broad, square shoulders, a flat, trim stomach, and strong legs. He wore his uniform with the crispness one might expect from a senior military officer. Though he could dress in plain clothes if he wanted, Andrews liked the formality of the uniform, especially when dealing with the public, with City Hall, or with reporters.
When he stepped into the briefing room, a flurry of flashes from digital cameras exploded. He kept his expression neutral. He sat down behind the table, the flags of the city, province, and country behind him.
“I have a statement to read,” he said, speaking into the two dozen microphones and digital recorders in front of him, “and then I’ll take your questions.
“Last evening, members of the Vancouver Police Department’s tactical squadron, as well as officers from Division 2’s crowd control units, moved to restore public order and protect public safety by disbanding the illegal occupation of the Lucky Strike Hotel. Afterward, Vancouver Police reassembled barricades to prevent access to the hotel, which is a major public safety concern and fire hazard. Our officers escorted members of the End Poverty Now Coalition and other illegal occupants of the hotel from the building. In total, fifty-three arrests were made. Fire officials have confirmed that there were numerous fire code infractions, including open cooking fires, throughout the building. Drug paraphernalia and narcotics were seized. The Lucky Strike Hotel has now been cleared of the illegal occupancy, and the protestors face numerous charges, ranging from possession of narcotics to breach of peace to assaulting a police officer. With this action, VPD and the City of Vancouver are sending a strong statement that this form of illegal protest will not be tolerated in our city.”
He stopped and looked up. “I’ll take your questions now,” he said, pointing to a blond woman sitting in the front row.
“How many officers were involved in the raid?” she asked.
“In total, about one hundred and fifty, including officers stationed outside the building to maintain peace and order.”
“There are reports that tear gas was used in the raid. Can you confirm this?” asked the reporter from CTV News.
“Tear gas was used to ensure the safety of our officers when they entered the premises.”
“Were their any injuries as a result?”
“Several of the illegal occupants of the hotel required first aid on the scene after they were taken from the premises. None required hospitalization. I should say here that over the course of the last five days, these protesters were given dozens of opportunities to leave the Lucky Strike under their own power, and failed to take the opportunity. Next.” He pointed at another reporter.
“Commander, there are complaints surfacing of excessive force. Can you comment?”
“My officers exercised tremendous restraint during this operation. Several officers were hit with paint-filled balloons, and one was hospitalized after being hit with a rock. No protesters were hospitalized during this operation.”
“There are reports this morning from Priority Legal,” continued the reporter, “that several of the protesters were beaten by police and have not received medical care.”
“That’s false. Next question.” He pointed.
“What sort of signal do you hope this raid sends to protestors, Commander?”
“That the VPD will not tolerate the illegal occupation of private property.”
“Even when groups like End Poverty Now feel that their voice isn’t being heard any other way?”
“Individuals associated with the End Poverty Now Coalition broke the law. In my mind they are anarchists and hoodlums looking for an excuse to perpetrate violence against any authority figure they can find. For them, it isn’t about solving homelessness or ending poverty, as they would have you think. It’s about violence and their hatred of the police and of authority.”
“That’s a strong statement, Commander,” another reporter interjected. “The Coalition released a statement this morning saying that VPD had declared war on the homeless with last night’s raid. Do you see it that way?”
“No. That’s ridiculous. The VPD has an obligation to uphold the law and protect order and civility in this city.” The commander seemed to sit up straighter. “We’re working with the City to try and address homelessness and poverty. Others are merely trying to get their names in the paper as some kind of ego trip. Next question.” He pointed.
“Commander, were any weapons confiscated during last night’s raid?”
“The protesters were armed with paint-filled balloons. And as I said, one of my officers was hospitalized after being hit with a rock.”
“And what were your officers armed with, Commander? We saw footage last night of officers in riot gear and the tactical team carrying assault weapons. Seems like overkill, doesn’t it?”
“I won’t comment on our tactical considerations. My responsibility is to ensure the safety of my officers and protect the people of Vancouver.”
“You don’t think tactical team members are a little over the top for a bunch of protestors, most of whom hadn’t eaten in a couple of days?”
“I won’t comment on tactics. Next question.”
He pointed at Nancy Webber.
“Commander,” she said, lifting her face from her notes for the first time during the news conference. She flipped her raven black hair over her shoulder. “In the last five weeks two men and two women have gone missing from the Downtown Eastside. They were all homeless. They were all well known to local social service agency personnel. Tell us, please: what is being done to locate these missing persons?”
The man hesitated a moment. This wasn’t what the press conference was about, but the media training he’d received over the years dictated that he shouldn’t dodge the question. “The Missing Persons Task Force, under the direction of Marcia Lane, is addressing that.”
“Can you tell us what steps they are taking?” asked Webber.
“When a missing person report is filed with the VPD, we take a number of steps to quickly resolve the complaint. In the case of persons known to live on the street, we check the welfare rolls and inquire at their last known addresses and with any known family or friends in the area. We inquire at the bus depot and with the ferries and at our sister departments in Victoria and across the Lower Mainland.”
“You’re describing routine procedure?” asked Nancy.
“That’s right. We get half a dozen calls a day. Most are resolved within a few hours.”
“Would you say four people going missing from such a concentrated geographic area is routine?”
Andrews paused. “Missing person reports in the Downtown Eastside are common.”
“Do you believe that the four disappearances are related?”
“No.”
“Do you believe that the four disappearances are linked in any way to the closure of the Lucky Strike Hotel and other SROs?”
“No, I don’t,” he practically barked.
“All four were known to have stayed at the Lucky Strike at some point.”
“Any connection that might be drawn is pure conjecture. There are hundreds of others who stayed at the Lucky Strike and are accounted for.” He knew when he said it that it was a mistake.
“Hundreds of others who no longer have a place to stay, you should add,” said Nancy.
Andrews leaned forward. “The VPD is working with the City to balance the needs of the homeless with the rights of private citizens to own property and exercise those rights to do with that property what the bylaws and zoning rules of this city allow.” Other hands went up, but Nancy pressed on.
“Isn’t it true, Commander, that VPD has been aware of these disappearances for some time and that you still haven’t officially started an investigation, beyond what you consider to be routine?” she asked.
Above the shouting of other reporters, the commander replied briefly, “As I said, the Missing Persons Task Force is addressing that concern.” He stood. “That will be all for now.”
He walked from the briefing room, ignoring the flurry of questions that continued. His executive assistant was waiting for him in the hall. As he strode past, he barked, “Get Lane in my office in five minutes!”
“SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE getting on the good side of Commander Andrews,” said Denman.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Nancy. She was in her office at the Vancouver Sun building, talking with Denman on the phone. “Care to comment?”
“Of the fifty-three people who were arrested last night, twenty-two have filed excessive force complaints against the VPD. The VPD used the kind of force reserved for hostage taking or for armed and dangerous suspects against a bunch of activists armed with water balloons. They seem more intent on flexing their muscle and standing up for condo developers than protecting the rights of Vancouver’s citizens and helping the least among us find shelter.”
“Anything else?”
“Only that this is just the latest in a string of excessive force complaints to arise since Andrews has taken command.”
“You think he’s responsible for the heavy-handed tactics?”
“I’m not prepared to say,” said Denman.
“Then do you think there is a correlation?”
“Excessive force reports with our office and with the police complaints commissioner are up sharply over the last two years. Commander Andrews started his watch over Division 2 two years ago. Your readers can draw what conclusions they will.”
“Sounds like you think there’s a connection, though.”
“Purely circumstantial is all I will say right now.”
“So why is Priority Legal defending a bunch of authority-shunning, attention-seeking anarchists?” she changed tack.
“We’re defending the citizens’ right to peaceful protest. Look, as an old friend of mine once said, no riot police, no riot.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, the interview is over. Can I talk with you off the record? Background only?”
“Sure. Cole once told me there is no such thing as off the record, though.”
“Cole’s a paranoid malcontent.”
“True,” said Denman. “What is it, Nancy?”
“Do you think the VPD could be somehow linked to the disappearances?”
“Wow . . . I really don’t know. Seems pretty crazy to even contemplate that. I really don’t like Andrews, but do I think he’s doing something to knock off homeless people?”
“I know, I know, but you should have seen Andrews’ eyes when I was asking about the missing people. He was fuming.”
“I think he’s just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar beating up protesters when there are actual crimes being committed. And that he’s overlooking serious crimes.”
“Maybe,” said Nancy. “But I’m going to dig.”
“Nancy, be careful.”
“Why?”
“Well, last night, before the raid, Cole and I got into something.”
Denman told her what happened. Nancy said, “This is getting stupid. We have four people missing that we know of. You and Cole are playing Dick Tracy. All the while, the cops are breaking down the doors of the Lucky Strike. This city is going crazy.”
“Welcome to the Left Coast: get your hair shirt and peace symbol at the Alberta border.”
“Is Cole okay?”
“He’s fine. Juliet went over to look at him, and I checked in on him after the raid. He’s got a bump on his head and needed a couple of sutures, but otherwise he’s fine. Physically, that is. Juliet thinks he’s suffering from PTSD.”
“From what?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks it stems from the time you were both in Lostcoast last spring during the Ravenwing debacle. I know we were all there together in July, but I wonder what happened when it was just the two of you?”
Nancy was silent.
“Nancy, he seems to be taking out his anger on you.”
“What else is new?”
“Seriously, Nancy,” he said, “what happened between you two at Lostcoast last spring?”
SIXTEEN
GEORGE OLIVER SAT ON THE steps of the Lucky Strike Hotel. He had been born into the Squamish First Nation, son of a hereditary chief and destined to be a leader of his people. Born with fetal alcohol spectrum disorder, the disabilities that he developed were minor compared to the effects people suffered from a full-blown fetal alcohol syndrome, but by fifteen it was clear that George would never sit as a chief of the Squamish First Nation.
“We keep picking you up, George,” said the officer, his hands on his hips. He looked down at the swaying man. “You know this place is closed. It’s off limits.”
The rain had finally cleared. George looked up at the slate-gray sky that pressed down on the City of Vancouver. For twenty years he had been wandering Vancouver’s streets in search of a comfortable place to sit and rest and watch people pass by.
“Would you stand up, sir?” ordered the second officer. He was young, with close-cropped hair under a dark blue ball cap. He wore a short coat, his service pistol protruding prominently from one side of his utility belt, a collapsible baton clipped to the other side. Geor
ge blinked as he looked up from the cold, wet steps. He seemed to be having a hard time focusing on the officer.
“Have you been drinking today, George?” asked the first police officer, the senior of the two. He wore a long raincoat and stood with his hands clasped amiably in front of his belt.
George shook his head.
“Do you have any drugs on your person?”
Again George shook his head.
“Can you stand up please, George?” asked the older officer.
George stood.
“Can you open your arms, sir?” the younger officer asked, moving forward, his hands encased in blue latex gloves.
George opened his arms and leaned forward as if to give the officer a hug.
“No hugging today, George,” the first officer said, holding back a smile. George frowned.
“I’m going to search you, sir,” said the second officer. George nodded.
“George, where did you sleep last night?” the officer watching asked. “Did you sleep inside?”
George thought a moment. “I don’t think so.” His clothes felt damp. “I think I slept in the park.”
The older officer said, “You know, somebody should do something to keep tabs on people like this.” He spoke as if George Oliver wasn’t there. “Poor bastard wandering around the streets. All he needs is someone to tell him where to go, and when. Instead he’s at the mercy of the streets.”
The officer detected a movement behind him and turned slightly. A young man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and a scuffed leather jacket and wearing an overstuffed backpack, walked up behind him.
THE INDIAN WAS like a gift to Sean Livingstone.
He wanted to start over with something completely new, and this one, The Indian, had just stumbled into his path.
Fate could be like that, thought Sean, adjusting the straps on his backpack. Fate could one day just present you with everything that you needed. He was living proof of that. He now had a roof over his head and a brand new opportunity to make arrangements.
The Indian had been sitting on the steps of the Lucky Strike Hotel that morning. Sean arrived in time to see the two uniformed police officers searching him. Sean, dressed in his clean jeans, SFU sweatshirt, and leather coat, had strolled right up and confronted the officers. “What’s the problem here, officers?”
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