The Vanishing Track (31 page)

“I wish you wouldn't. You have to understand, we're trying to do something no one has tried before.”

“Why don't you tell me about it?” Nancy took out a small digital recorder and put it on the desk. Nowak looked at it. “I need to tape this interview so that you and I don't face each other in court someday.” Nowak nodded.

“Listen, you can either be one line in the story as a conspirator to this so-called Manifesto, or you can tell your side of the story and set the record straight. It's up to you.”

Nowak let out a deep breath. “You have to understand the history of this place to understand why I've done this. This used to be the heart of the city. Things went sour for the east end over time. Someone made a decision to limit street car access, and so shoppers began to migrate toward Granville Street. That was a long time ago. It's little things like that that made a big difference.” She looked out the window.

“With fewer people walking the sidewalks and window shopping, stores began to close,” Nowak continued. “That had a domino effect. City Hall moved. Rent in the east side of the city was lower than elsewhere in the city, so we had a real mix of people. Lots of immigrants found homes in Strathcona. The low rents and the conversion of tourist hotels into
SRO
s also attracted more and more people who lived below the poverty line. People started calling the area Skid Row. The name stuck. Woodwards, the department store, closed in the early 1980s. That was the nail in our coffin. A bunch of us decided that if we were going to salvage this area, we had better shake off the Skid Row moniker, so we called the area the Downtown Eastside. It's funny how
that
name is now synonymous with poverty, too.” She turned back to Nancy.

“Well, that's the history. It's been getting steadily worse since Woodwards. Then along comes Gordon Campbell and his so-called Liberal government. Liberal my ass. The government raised the welfare cut-off, and suddenly we have a few thousand more people living rough. They also cut care for thousands of people living with mental illness. Add the gangs and the increasing availability of drugs . . . I tell you, I've been doing this for more than twenty-five years, and I have never seen it worse than it is right now. People are dying. They are killing themselves, and they are killing each other.”

“So you decided to take extreme measures?”

“It didn't seem like that at first. A few of us decided to get together to talk. That's all. Have supper. We called ourselves a Supper Club. That was two years ago now. We were finding some common ground. It was a good idea.”

“You still think it is?”

Nowak shrugged. “Well, I guess others are going to decide that now. Our intent was to come up with a solution that we could implement ourselves, instead of waiting for the province and the federal governments to come to our rescue. We wanted to solve the problem with our own resources.”

“And what resources are those?”

“Ingenuity, creativity.”

“Haven't you always advocated for integrating the homeless into society?”

“I have, and I still do. But you take what you can get. I know there will be critics. I know people will call me a sellout. I know that. You think I don't? Try sitting and negotiating with these people sometime and see how it goes. To get a thousand units of social housing is something. It's really something.”

Nancy took a breath. “Tell me about the Lucky Strike.”

“Sometimes you have to give things up to get something. I've given up my entire life for these things. And maybe things have gotten out of hand, but something had to be done. Someone had to try.”

“I have one or two more questions, and then I have to file. Do you think there is any connection between the Lucky Strike Manifesto and the disappearance of five homeless people from the Downtown Eastside in recent weeks?”

“I don't see how there could be.”

“Would you know if there was?”

Nowak was quiet a moment. “No,” she said. “No, I wouldn't.”

Nancy watched her. “Tell me,” she said carefully, “about the relationship between Hoi Fu and the Lucky Strike Manifesto.”

The silence that hung in the room was as thick and heavy as the sky that pressed down on Vancouver like a dark hand.

NANCY HEADED OUT
into the street and rang for a cab. It was almost eight, and the street quiet. The cab wouldn't arrive for twenty minutes, so she decided to walk.

She called Frank Pesh. “I've got what I need, Frank. I'll be at the office in about twenty minutes. Can you hold the print deadline?” When he had confirmed that he would, she picked up her pace and began to pen the story in her head. It wasn't as cut and dried as she would have liked. Nothing ever was. And there was one very significant unanswered question.

Nancy was so focused on shaping the story in her mind that she didn't notice two men on foot slip from the shadows and begin following her.

DENMAN AND COLE SAT IN
Cole's living room, sipping beer and listening to music.

“It's funny,” said Cole. “I haven't listened to music in, like, two months. I missed it.” Cole turned the volume up a little—an old album by The Guess Who. Cole crooned, his bottle of beer held loosely in his hands.

Denman closed his eyes as the music fill the room.

“Denny,” said Cole when the song had stopped. “Thanks again.”

Denman smiled. “That's two you owe me, Junior,” he said, trying to sound like Harrison Ford in
The Empire Strikes Back
. Cole just laughed. He felt as though he hadn't laughed in a year.

Denman's cell phone rang and he groaned. It was 10:00
PM
. “Denman Scott.”

“Denman, it's Juliet. I'm at the hospital.”

“You're not hurt, are you?” he said, sitting up.

“I'm fine. Someone staying with me got hurt, and I took him here. I don't suppose you'd be able to come to Vancouver General and talk to him. He got beat up pretty badly. He says it was the cops. I think you might want to see him. I know it's late and all . . .”

“I don't mind. I'm at Cole's place. Just around the corner. I'll be there in twenty minutes, okay?”

“Okay. And Denman, just so you know, well, you know this guy. You represented him a couple of weeks ago. A young guy named Sean. You'll recognize him. I'll tell you all about it when you get here.”

“I'll be right there.”

“Thanks.”

Denman snapped his phone shut and looked at Cole. “Duty calls, partner.”

“What's up?”

“It appears that Juliet has a thing for taking people in off the street. This guy that's been at her place, a guy named Sean—you met him at Macy's, remember?”

“Oh yeah, that smooth-talking kid. I remember him,” said Cole, sipping his beer.

“Anyway, he says the cops beat him up.”

“This seems to have gone too far, don't you think?”

“Well, I want to talk with him and see what happened. See if he got a badge number.”

“Hey, Denny . . .”

“What is it?” he asked as he pulled on his jacket.

“You don't think . . .”

“Come on, Cole, spit it out.”

“Well, you don't think that this kid staying at Juliet's place, that he might be connected to the Manifesto, do you? That maybe those dudes that jumped me in the alley, or maybe those meatballs we were following, beat this kid up, and are trying to send us a message. Like, a ‘we know where you all live' sort of message.”

“You make this sound like a B-rated movie, Cole.”

Cole grimaced. “I just mean, well, keep your eyes open, okay? Do you want me to come along?” Cole started to get up, but Denman pressed a finger to Cole's chest and he sank back into the couch.

“You think this is just a work thing? I don't need to be chaperoned,” said Denman, walking to the door.

“Okay, but call me if you need me. And watch your back, Denny,”

“Will do,” said Denman, taking the outside walkway to the yard. He set off at a jog toward the Vancouver General Hospital, two dozen blocks away.

Cole sank back into the couch. He finished his beer and closed his eyes. He felt sleep coming. He didn't feel afraid.

He had been out for maybe ten minutes when his cell buzzed in his pocket. “Yeah,” he said, holding it to his face. “This is Cole.”

“It's Nancy. I think someone followed me home.” He snapped awake.

“What time is it?”

“It's almost eleven.”

“Are your doors locked?”

“Yes. And I've got the deadbolt and chain on.”

“Can you see them now? Out the window?”

“Hold on.” He heard the rustle of blinds. She came back to the phone, her breathing quick. “Yes. I see someone across the street, just standing under a lamp.”

“Under a lamp? Not trying to hide in the shadows?” Cole pulled on his coat and found his keys.

“No, he's just standing there, looking up at my apartment.”

“You sure he's not just a dealer?”

“Pretty sure. I can see him pretty good. He's clean-cut, mid-thirties. A big guy. Mustache.”

“He sounds familiar, Nancy. I think it might be one of the dudes that Denman and I followed.”

“Should I call the cops?”

“No. I think he
is
the cops.”

“Fuck.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't answer the door. I'll call. If anybody comes to the door, don't open it. Dial 911 and let them sort this out between themselves. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Call again in five minutes. Clear?”

“Okay. Thanks, Cole.” She hung up.

Cole dialed for a cab. He hit the steps at a run, ignoring the lingering discomfort in his side.

DENMAN ARRIVED AT
Vancouver General Hospital and found Juliet on the fourth floor, sitting in a metal chair in the hall outside a room with eight patients in it.

Denman walked down the hall toward her. Juliet got up and they held each other for a moment, then she pulled back and looked at him. “Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? How was the thing with Cole?”

“Good,” he smiled. “Really good. That
EMDR
really works. Cole's going to go back next week for some follow-up, but he was like a new man when I left him. I think he was going to fall asleep and dream of nubile nymphs tonight, not his bastard of an old man.”

Juliet grinned and hit him on the arm. “You men are all the same.”

“Cole being more ‘the same' than most,” said Denman. “How are you?”

“I'm fine, but Sean is pretty busted up.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“I think so. Let's go in and see.” They started toward the door, and Juliet caught him by the arm. “Denny. I'm sorry I didn't tell you he was staying at my place.”

“As long as he's okay. Let's go check on him, alright?”

They entered the room and walked past the patients poorly concealed by the thin drapes hanging from the ceiling. They found Sean watching
TV
from his bed. His right hand was in a sling and his face was bandaged.

“Hi, Sean,” said Juliet as she approached. He smiled broadly despite the bandages. “I hope you don't mind, I contacted Denman after you told me what happened.”

“Oh,” he said, and his smile faded a little.

“Don't look so down,” Denman said. “I'm a lawyer, but I'm one of the good guys. You might remember me—I took your statement at the police station after the Lucky Strike riot. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Well,” said Sean, clearly distracted by the
TV
. “I was, well, you know, just minding my own business, hanging out. I was actually picking up a few things to cook for dinner, you know? And these cops came into the shop and just started busting me up!”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I was getting some vegetables. I was going to make stir-fry. I'm a good cook, ask Juliet. And these two cops just walked right up to me and one of them grabbed me by the throat—” Sean motioned to his neck, “—and the other grabbed my hand and smashed it on the counter. Then the first guy held me by the throat and smashed my face into the counter. He just kept hitting me,” said Sean, closing his eyes.

“Sean, were these police officers wearing uniforms?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you happen to see badge numbers?”

“No, it all happened so fast.”

“What about witnesses? There must have been witnesses.”

“Maybe.”

“The shop owner?”

“Yeah, maybe him.”

“What shop was it?”

“Some place on Gore.”

“Can you remember which one?”

“No, I can't. My head hurts,” said Sean, closing his eyes.

“Sean, I'm only asking to establish the facts. Had you stolen anything?”

“What does that matter?”

“It doesn't really. I'm just trying to understand what prompted this action by the cops.”

“No, I didn't take nothing. I've never stolen anything in my life.” Denman looked at Juliet.

“Okay, Sean, you get some rest, and we'll talk more in the morning.”

“You going to get those fuckers?” he asked, and Denman was surprised by the venom in his voice.

“We'll talk about it in the morning.”

Denman and Juliet stood in the hall together. Denman looked back into the room to determine if they were being observed.

“What do you think?” Juliet asked.

“I don't know,” said Denman. “Something's funny about Sean's story. It just doesn't wash.”

Juliet looked at him, her eyes dark with fatigue. She felt a wave of panic. She wondered if maybe this time her judgment has been clouded by her past and she had invited the wrong person into her home.