There were five people known to be missing now. As team leader for the Missing Persons Task Force, she not only had to direct the operations, but she had to file most of the reports. She turned on her computer and sat back in her office chair, pressing her knuckles into her eyes. She should get a cup of coffee to keep her awake through the next few tedious hours of paperwork, but she knew if she did, there would be no getting to sleep before three or four in the morning. And she had to be back at the pier by first light to supervise the ongoing search.
While she waited for her computer to slowly fire up, she contemplated the decisions she had made over the last few days. If she was caught, she might receive “official” commendation, but unofficially her career in the VPD would be through. She might keep her job as head of the Task Force, but that would be the end of her advancement. She was pretty sure that John Andrews’ days as Divisional Commander were done, but the likelihood of him being fired was minimal. He’d be disciplined, a letter would be put in his file, and he’d get transferred to another assignment for a while. In a year or two he would be back climbing the ladder. And Lane would probably never know if his participation in the Lucky Strike Supper Club was linked to some of the egregious actions taken by the VPD over the last few months.
It didn’t even seem as though Andrews cared if he was caught, she thought. He had used a detective from her squad to run errands for the Lucky Strike Supper Club. It was going to get back to her. She thought this was part of Andrews’ plan, to test the loyalty of his team leaders. Her first loyalty was to her duty as a cop; the chain of command was a distant second.
She opened her email account to check if anything interesting had happened since she had left the office at eleven that morning. Nothing much had. She was about to start filling out reports when her cell phone rang.
“Lane, MPTF.”
“Sergeant, it’s Frank Dicks from the dive team. I’ve got news.”
“What is it? I thought we’d shut down.”
“Yeah, me too. An hour ago we were pulling in our lines and gear and we got tangled in something. I sent Sorensen and Munroe down with lights to free the lines. They came back with a stiff in a shopping cart. We found another one two dozen meters away. Bodies were wrapped in tarps. We’ve got them out of the water. You better get down here.”
“Be there in five minutes.”
Lane snapped her cell shut and grabbed her coat. She ran from her office, leaving her computer on, and started toward the garage. She swung by the staff sergeant’s post.
“Is Andrews still here?”
“Yeah, he’s burning the midnight oil.” Lane half walked, half ran down the hall to the executive offices of the detachment. Andrews was sitting at his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. He looked up over his bifocal reading glasses as she entered the room. His face registered nothing.
“Commander, sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got two bodies at the pier. I just got the call. I’m heading there now.”
“Okay,” he said, taking off his glasses and putting them on the desk.
“Do you want to ride along?”
“No, I’m going to stay here.”
“Do you want me to call the Media Relations department?”
Andrews was silent a moment, then said, “That will be fine, Sergeant.”
“You want to brief?”
“No, it’s all yours. Is that a problem?”
“No, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“No, sir.” She turned and left. Biggest missing persons case since Pickton and not even a “Good work, Lane.”
ANDREWS WATCHED LANE walk down the hall. He waited a moment after she was gone. This might be a good break, he thought. It was too bad about Lane. She was a good cop, a good investigator and team leader. Now that all seemed irrelevant to him. He picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. The phone rang four times and he was preparing to leave a message when a woman answered.
“Beatta?” he asked.
“Yes.” She sounded flat, gray.
“It’s John.”
“Hi, John. Funny, I guess I was expecting your call.”
“What’s up?”
“You first.”
“Marcia Lane just came by my office. They’ve found two bodies at Centennial Pier. I think they’ll be two of the homeless people who are missing.”
“That’s some good news, I guess . . . I was just going to call you. Phone tree. Remember that? Two years ago, I think. I couldn’t remember who I was supposed to call.”
“Shit, now what?”
“The press has all the names. All of them. Me, you, everybody.”
“Who? Which reporter?”
“Webber, at the Sun.”
“Did you talk with her?”
“She was all over me, John. I had to. I’m trying to save my organization.”
“Fuck,” he said.
“It’s over, isn’t it?”
“Goddamned right it is. Fuck. What does she know?”
“She had all of our names. She had the document before, but somehow she’s come up with all the names. I don’t know how she got them.”
“I think I do.”
“Is it too late? Can we do anything?”
“No. I don’t think so. The cat’s out of the bag now.”
“I’m sorry, John.”
“It’s okay. We knew we were taking a chance. I think it’s good that it’s you she reached. Maybe the press will go easy. The public will understand. We’re just trying to clean up this fucking city, is all.”
“Do you remember who you were supposed to call?”
“Yeah. Trish. I’ll call right now.”
“Good night, John.”
“Goodbye, Beatta.”
TRISH PERRY HEARD the phone ring from inside the shower. It rang four times and then went quiet. Then it rang again. She stepped from the shower and grabbed a towel, catching the bedroom extension on the fourth ring.
“This is Trish,” she said, holding the towel around her.
“Trish, it’s John.”
She felt her heart sink. She looked at her watch. “It’s all out, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Okay, who’s got it?”
“Nancy Webber at the Sun.”
“Anything that can be done?”
“Nope.”
“Did anybody talk?”
“Beatta.”
“Figures.”
“Yeah, that was a mistake.”
“How much did she say?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know.”
“Someone isn’t going to be very happy.”
“I know. At least I don’t have to make that call.” Andrews cut the line.
Still in her towel, Trish dialed the phone.
CHARLES LIVINGSTONE WAS just finishing his second glass of port when the phone rang. He looked at his watch. He snatched it up, not wanting to wake Martha, who was sleeping, though only fitfully.
“Yes?”
“It’s Trish.”
“Okay.”
“The Sun has it all.”
“I know. Anybody go public?”
“Nowak.”
“What did she tell?”
“Don’t know.”
“Fine.” He hung up the phone.
He finished his port and put the glass down. Charles Livingstone was beyond caring what happened with the Lucky Strike Manifesto and the pathetic cabal of people who for the last two years had met in that grimy room and eaten rotten Korean and Chinese food. He could care less. He reached for the bottle of port. There was nobody left around him whose opinion he gave a damn about. Martha had been mostly absent for the better part of a decade, and his miserable son had disappeared months ago, stopping by only to con Adelaide, their housekeeper, into letting him pilfer the family home for money to do God knows what with. He had fired her when he discovered Sean had been in the house.
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.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“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 shopliftin
g 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.
TWENTY-SIX
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.”
The Vanishing Track Page 25
