The Vanishing Track (27 page)

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?”

“Well, we could be facing something else. It could very well be that a very troubled individual, or individuals, are stalking homeless people and killing them.”

“My God,” sighed Juliet. “Why would somebody do that?”

“Ask Willie Pickton. Ask Clifford Olson. That type of person might be motivated by anything, by money or jealousy or some other emotion. Some of them need no motivation at all. They are psychopaths. They kill or perpetuate other crimes for no reason other than personal gratification. They kill because they
feel like it
, and they operate beyond the societal and personal constraints that regulate most of our behavior. My fear is that maybe there is some . . . entanglement of motivation.”

“What do you mean?”

Marcia drew a deep breath. “There's been a lot of interference in this case. I had two of my investigators pulled last week for what turns out to be gopher work for the Big Cheese.”

“Andrews?”

Marcia nodded. “And there has been an unofficial policy of pestering.”

“I think it's called harassment,” said Juliet.

“More like aggressive persuasion. I think it's the wrong way to police a neighborhood like the Downtown Eastside. The reality is that since Andrews took over in Division 2, he's turned a blind eye to some of the rougher elements on the beat. I'm—” She paused for what seemed to Juliet like an eternity. “I'm concerned that maybe someone on the force has stepped over the line. That we have someone who is both a psychopath and operating within some official capacity.”

Juliet felt the heat in her neck spreading. “Do you have . . . a suspect in mind?”

“No, this is just a crazy idea. There are lots of crazy things happening right now, and I wanted you to know that I'm covering all the angles on this.”

“How do you catch someone like that?”

“If they are on the force, that's one thing. Let's forget that as a possibility for now. And I need to tell you that if I get a call from Nancy Webber from the
Sun
about this, I will deny ever talking about it with you.”

Juliet just shook her head.

“If the person is a member of the general public, sometimes we don't catch them because they just stop. They grow older and their behavior changes. Most often, though, they are their own worst enemy. They act on impulse and don't care if they get caught, except that it will spoil their fun. They make a mistake and we get them that way.”

“You're saying we might have to wait around for a psychopathic killer, who is targeting the poorest and most disadvantaged in our city, to get old or make a mistake?”

“Manpower would help.”

“How can
I
help with that?”

“Well, that's part of what I wanted to talk with you about.”

“That and what else?”

“I need to get a feel for these people who went missing. What they did; where they spent their time. The Eastside is a big area, and I've only got limited resources. I need a better feel for where I deploy my officers.”

“We have a map.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Cole and Denman have been working on one that might help.”

“Can I get a look at it?”

Marcia's cell phone buzzed and she flipped it open. “Just a minute, okay?” she said to Juliet, then keyed in a message and pressed send.

“Organizing a rave?” Juliet joked.

“Something like that,” Marcia said. “Can you get Mr. Blackwater or Mr. Scott to bring me that map?”

“It's at Cole's office. He's in the Dominion Building. I can call him.”

“I'm going to be in that area at lunch today. I can stop by if that suits him. I'll call him on my way over.”

“You said you needed me to do something else?”

“Yeah,” said Marcia. “I need some more officers. I can't get the department to budge. I need you to find a way to put some pressure on City Hall to free up more manpower. If my theory is right—that we are dealing with someone who is motivated by personal gratification—then we need to be there when he or she makes a mistake. Can you do that?”

“I can't do it myself,” said Juliet. “I work for the Health Authority. I'd get fired. But I will find someone who can.”

“Great,” said Marcia, looking at her watch. “I've got a meeting over at Victory Square. Got to hoof it.” They shook hands and Juliet watched her leave.

COLE'S CELL PHONE RANG WHEN
they reached the street. “Blackwater,” he said.

“Cole, it's Mary. Listen, I just got a call from someone at City Hall. The caller wouldn't leave her name, but she wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Did you give her my cell number?”

“I did, but she said she would just leave a message. She said that tomorrow morning at noon, the mayor would be announcing a ‘New Vancouver' campaign. It's his plan to clean up the city. End homelessness, that sort of thing.”

“Really? That's amazing timing.”

“Yeah, the woman was just giving you a heads up.”

“She wouldn't leave her name?”

“Nope. Caller
ID
was blocked.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mary.”

Cole snapped the cell phone shut and told Denman the news. They walked across Dunsmuir Street under brooding skies.

“What's your sense of this?” asked Denman.

“I don't know. I'm betting that this announcement is going to be mostly fluff. Lots of Band-Aids. Maybe we'll be surprised.”

“Not by Mayor Don West,” said Denman. “He's not the surprising kind. And the tip-off . . . ?”

“Yeah, well, we've got friends where we think we have only enemies and enemies where we think we only have friends.”

Denman looked at him. “Now Cole Blackwater . . . He's the surprising kind.”

“I'm sorry about that.”

“We came pretty close to landing in the clink. We may still end up there.”

“Whatever.”

“You really think that Livingstone is connected to the disappearances?”

“If not him in person, then someone else he knows is in the Lucky Strike Supper Club, and that's collusion, or something.”

“It's called conspiracy.”

“Well, if neither he nor Frank Ainsworth is behind the disappearances—you know, in conspiracy with someone else—maybe one of the other members of the Supper Club is.”

“I don't know, Cole . . .”

“Your problem, Denman, is that you want to give the benefit of the doubt to these people. You want them to play by the rules. But they don't. They aren't.”

He stopped walking and faced Denman. His voice was starting to rise. “Denman, I wasn't imagining a knife at my throat the other night. I wasn't imagining getting kicked like a dog in that alley. That wasn't in my head!” Cole pounded a finger at his own temple. “This wasn't just me having a flashback. It wasn't Cole losing his marbles. I was led to that Pender Street office, and I was led into that alley, and if you hadn't shown up, I would be dead!”

A passerby eyed the yelling man warily, giving him a wide berth. “The goons in that alley weren't a manifestation of my addled mind. It wasn't some sort of illusion. That shotgun was meant for me!”

Denman stood listening to him, his expression calm.

“Denman, I'm sorry . . .”

“It's okay, buddy.”

“No, I'm—”

“Cole.” Denman reached out and put his hand on Cole's shoulder. “Cole, it's going to be alright. I've got someone who can help you. We're going to get you through this.”

When Cole's cell phone rang, he jumped, then scrambled to fish it from his pocket. “Blackwater,” he said weakly.

“Mr. Blackwater, this is Marcia Lane calling.”

“Hi, Marcia. What can I do for you?” he said, composing himself.

“I understand you have a map I might be interested in.”

NANCY SAT ON
the stone bench beneath the row of flags and waited. Victory Square was an interesting choice of locations for a meeting. On July 2, 2003, activists erected a tent city on this site and maintained it for more than three weeks. At its peak, more than one hundred people made Victory Square their home, living in tents donated by individuals from across the city and eating meals prepared by volunteers. Many protestors—who were mostly homeless people and members of various anti-poverty groups—said that sleeping together in the park, they felt safe for the first time. Some later admitted that as the protest wore on, they became easy targets for drug dealers and pimps. The demonstration lasted until the end of July that year, when squatters moved voluntarily, heeding the request of veterans who felt that the squat at the site of the city's cenotaph was disrespectful.

Nancy looked at her watch. It was 12:02. She waited. Five minutes passed. Then her cell phone buzzed.

“Follow me,” the message read. Nancy turned, and just a dozen meters from where she sat saw Marcia Lane walking toward the intersection at Cambie and Hastings. She turned into a parkade and made for the elevator. Nancy followed her from a hundred feet back. When the elevator door opened, Lane held it and Nancy stepped in.

Lane pressed a button and they ascended. “You're taking a big risk,” said Nancy.

“So are you,” said Lane.

“I take it we don't have much time for chitchat.”

“We don't. I'm reasonably convinced that the disappearances are
not
connected to the Lucky Strike Manifesto. I know
you're
not convinced. That's okay, but I want to caution you that following that lead will make you look like an idiot when we do catch whoever is responsible for these missing persons.”

“You have proof that they are not connected?”

“No. But I am working up a profile on these disappearances and it doesn't really fit.”

Nancy shrugged. “You didn't set this up to tell me that.”

“No.” Lane reached into her coat and pulled out an envelope that she handed to Nancy. The elevator reached the top of the parkade, and the doors opened. Lane pressed the button for the first floor again.

“What's this?”

“Names.”

“How did you get this?”

“I'm a detective.”

“Do the people on this list know they have been fingered?”

“Some do, so be careful.” The doors opened. “You ride this to the top and then walk back down to Water Street,” said Lane. She stepped from the elevator and was gone.

COLE AND DENMAN
waited in the reception area of Blackwater Strategies. Mary had gone for lunch. A few minutes later Marcia Lane knocked on the door and Cole let her in.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Lane said.

“Thanks for taking this seriously,” said Cole.

“Let's have a look, shall we?”

On Mary's tidy desk, Cole rolled out the map he and Denman and Juliet had been working on. “We used Juliet's knowledge of where these folks spent most of their nights in order to come up with this.” Denman traced the triangle of marks, his finger resting on the most recent X they had added, where George Oliver had disappeared. “Through the Welfare office, we've confirmed all five people have stayed at the Lucky Strike at some point.”