The Vanishing Track Read online

  They sat in a table close to the high windows, next to a fake palm tree, and sipped their coffee.

  “It’s turned pretty cruel outside,” she said. “How is the City doing with emergency shelter space?”

  “They managed to add another thirty-five spaces for use during the extreme weather protocol this winter, but we need to add a thousand spaces to meet demand. Trouble is, even those thirty-five spaces are designated only for extreme weather. So, for example,” Denman turned his face toward the window, “tonight likely won’t count.”

  Marcia raised an eyebrow. “Not cold enough . . . The solution seems simple. Build more community-supported housing.”

  “Simple to say, hard to do,” Denman responded. “There’s simply no political motivation. The mayor and council are elected for three-year terms. It takes longer than that to build these spaces, in the market we’re in. And what council wants to be the one to say, ‘We’re going to spend a billion dollars to house people who in all likelihood will never pay a dime of taxes in their lives.’”

  “I thought the argument went that if we could just get a roof over these people’s heads, they would become contributing members of society.”

  “Some will. Some may land decent jobs in a few years and find themselves actually writing a check to the tax man on April 30. But most never will. You’ve got to understand,” said Denman congenially, “that many of these people are sick. They are alcoholics or drug addicts, or suffer from a raft of mental illnesses. It’s too much to hope that they will contribute to the country’s tax rolls.”

  “I read somewhere it costs the city, the province, and the feds forty thousand dollars a year just to have a person on the streets,” said Marcia.

  “That’s right. That was one of our reports.” Denman smiled wryly. “People on the street use a disproportionate amount of the province’s health care resources. People like Councilor Chow have a point. I think Chow exaggerates the nature of the problem sometimes, but I’ll give him credit where it’s due. He’s even asked council to consider a ban on converting single-room occupancy hotels while the City addresses the housing crisis.”

  “Is that going to pass?”

  “Not a hope,” said Denman. He paused. “I was surprised you agreed to meet with me, and here.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she smiled back.

  “Good. I don’t bite.”

  “But you sue and that’s what’s got everybody nervous.” Denman shrugged. “And just between us girls,” she said, leaning forward a fraction of an inch, “your poking around into excessive force has everybody on edge.”

  “You’ve got to understand—”

  Marcia held a hand up. “You don’t need to tell me, Denman. I’m not on the beat, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’m just stating the obvious. But you didn’t call this morning to talk about housing or about excessive force.”

  “No. It’s about your task force.”

  Marcia smiled, inviting him to speak.

  “Do you know Juliet Rose?”

  “The street nurse. She helped us out a couple of years back with a missing person’s case.”

  “She came to me the other day with concerns that people she knows are disappearing.”

  Marcia seemed to straighten in her chair. “How many?”

  “Three so far. Two men and a woman.”

  “Over what period of time?”

  “A month. Really over the span of September, so far.”

  “How does she know that they’re not just in another part of town? Or maybe moved to Victoria or Kelowna?”

  “She just does. She keeps tabs on people. She sees them every day. She knows their habits. If she says they are missing, I believe her.”

  “Don’t take it the wrong way; I just have to ask.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’re used to people on the force giving you the gears,” Marcia smiled. “Before I can open a file, I need more information.”

  “Okay. What do you need?”

  “Who these people are; their last known address, if any; when they were last seen; and by whom. That’s just to start.”

  “Maybe I should call Juliet—Ms. Rose. She will have a better handle on the details.”

  “Okay. You call, I’ll get more coffee.”

  “You want to do this now?”

  “Why not?”

  Denman smiled. “I’m not used to getting immediate results from the VPD.”

  “Hi, I’m Marcia Lane,” she said, holding out her hand in a mock introduction, and grinned.

  THREE HOURS LATER Juliet and Denman stood under the marquee of the Vancouver Police Department headquarters while water poured down onto the sidewalk in front of them and cars splashed up waves from puddles as big as lakes.

  “I need to get back,” Juliet said. “This is the first storm of the season. The Carnegie Centre is a zoo. By tomorrow we’re going to have a bunch of sick people.”

  “Can’t buy you lunch? You know, debrief and all.”

  “Okay, but let’s make it quick.”

  “I know just the place.”

  They ran through the rain and stepped into the door of a small noodle bar nearby. A small woman seated them silently, and they fell into conversation, oblivious to others around them. When the waiter came, they hadn’t looked at the menu.

  Denman ordered in Mandarin for both of them. The waiter nodded and left.

  “Your Mandarin is pretty good.”

  Denman frowned. “No, not really. I’m rusty.”

  “Sometimes I forget it was a first language for you.”

  Their food came. “It’s good,” Juliet remarked. “What is it?”

  Denman slurped noodles into his mouth. “It’s called Priority Legal Special. I know the cook here. He surprises me.”

  “What did you think of Marcia Lane?”

  “I wish every cop in Vancouver was more like her. Smart. Professional—”

  “Beautiful.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Juliet shot him a look.

  “No, really. Talking with her was the best three hours I’ve ever spent with the VPD. Ever. It’s almost too good to be true.”

  “I feel the same way. Like our concerns were taken seriously.”

  “I’ll admit I’m troubled by some of what Lane was asking about.”

  “Like?” Juliet pushed some noodles into her mouth.

  “Well, bodies. If people are disappearing, where are they ending up?”

  “It took a decade to track down the missing women to the Pickton farm.”

  “I know. That’s what worries me. The body count there was high. We can’t wait for that to happen again. Do you think this could be drug related in any way?” asked Denman.

  “I don’t think so. Peaches was a user, not a dealer. The other two were clean. Both Bobbie and Jerry had never used, to the best of my knowledge.”

  “Maybe they saw something they shouldn’t have, something more serious.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s got nothing to do with crime at all.” She stopped. “I can’t believe all three of these people decided to head to Saskatoon for the winter. Maybe they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s what Cole Blackwater thinks. He immediately said he thought that our three missing persons were linked to the development of the Downtown Eastside.”

  “Why is that so crazy?”

  “It is and it isn’t. This is Vancouver. Canada. It’s not some despot-ruled country in Africa. I doubt that the government or some rich developer would knock off a bunch of street people to make way for development.”

  “Why not?”

  “You really are sounding like Cole,” Denman said. “First of all, why? It’s not like a bunch of homeless people are going to somehow impede the development of a condominium. These people are invisible to City Hall, and to the development community. Why get rid of them? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe they knew somet
hing or saw something.”

  “That’s my theory, but about drugs, not development. People get killed over the drug trade all the time. People don’t get killed to make way for condos.”

  “Where are we on this?”

  Denman leaned forward. “I’d say we’re further ahead than we were this morning. We’ve got someone at VPD who seems to be sympathetic to our concerns.”

  “There’s still no official investigation.”

  “In time.”

  “I’m just not sure how much time we’ve got,” said Juliet.

  They hugged before putting on their still dripping jackets, and Juliet hurried into the downpour to walk the two blocks back to the Carnegie Centre.

  Denman hadn’t gone a block in the other direction when a man passed him and a second later he heard his name. Denman turned.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you under all that gear,” said the man from beneath his own umbrella.

  “Councilor Chow?”

  “Hi, Denman.” The man thrust out a small, powerful hand from his overcoat. Denman shook it. Ben Chow was in his sixties, but Denman knew that he kept in good shape, and still practiced tae kwon do twice a week.

  “I was just talking about your motion before council to ban conversions of SROs.”

  “Oh yes, very good. Well, it’s due for debate this Wednesday.”

  “You think it will pass?”

  “Who can tell? The mayor is all over the map on this one.”

  “He was at the rally the other day. He seems to be waking up to our plight.”

  “You mean the riot? Well, that was a publicity stunt. It’s the first time he’s been to the Eastside in more than a year. I think he’s afraid to walk around down here. Right now, I think the best policy is not to put too much pressure on him and my fellow councilors. They’re smarting these days. The closure of the Lucky Strike and that business with the rally turning violent, and the pictures of all those people with their things all piled up? Not good for City Hall. Not good. They need a moment to collect themselves.”

  “People are getting wet, Councilor.”

  “I’m getting wet,” said Chow.

  “But you and I will sleep inside tonight.”

  “I know, Denman. But you’ve got to be patient with us. So much of this is out of our hands. This council has eighteen months left in its mandate. Then we’ll have elections. His Worship isn’t the most popular man inside our party, Denman. And this city is growing impatient with his sitting on the fence. It might be time for new ideas from someone who actually knows what the problems are.”

  “Are you thinking about running?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Might be good to have solved some of these problems while on council to show a record of success.”

  “My record speaks for itself. But I know what you’re saying. Believe me, Denman, there is a lot of work going on behind the scenes to tackle this problem. More than you’ll ever know.”

  “Why not talk about it in the open? The people in this city want solutions. They would be willing to help.”

  “It’s not about Joe Citizen. It’s not about the average resident getting involved, writing letters. It’s more complicated than that. It’s about the power structure that underlies the official decision-making system here. You’ve got to lay off a while. We’re working on something big.”

  JULIET ARRIVED BACK at the Carnegie Centre soaking wet. The building was packed with people drying themselves and their belongings. The stairway that gracefully, if not somewhat lopsidedly, circled up through the rotunda of the building was crowded with people sleeping or just sitting. Every inch of floor space was carpeted with dejected faces, a grim reminder that the long, wet, and cold winter had started. Juliet threaded her way through the throng to her tiny office. She hadn’t taken her coat off when a volunteer knocked on her door.

  “Hi, Andrea,” she said.

  “Sorry to bug you, Juliet, but I wonder if you could help me out with something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, one of our regulars came in this morning, and he had a new coat on.”

  Juliet took hers off and hung it on a hook on the back of her door. “And?”

  “Well, the thing is, it belonged to Veronica. It’s the big, black parka she always wore. I asked him where he got it, thought maybe she traded it for something. He said he got it in a dumpster nearby. How many days has it been since you’ve seen V?”

  Juliet closed her eyes. “It’s been three, maybe four days. I saw her outside the Lucky Strike about two days after the demonstration. That would have been last Thursday.”

  “That’s about when Jack says he found the coat. He says it was Friday night. Three days ago.”

  “Thanks, Andy.”

  “No trouble. You think everything is okay with her?”

  “No,” said Juliet, reaching for the phone. “No, I don’t.”

  NINE

  NANCY WEBBER’S MONDAY HAD STARTED off badly. Gray skies and the portent of rain. She hadn’t factored so much gray and rain into the picture of herself on the West Coast.

  “They call it the Wet Coast for a reason,” mused Frank Pesh, her editor at the Sun. “I want to talk with you about how we should deal with the calls I’ve gotten from the mayor’s office. They were pretty pissed with our coverage of the riot.”

  “To be expected. The City looked like a bunch of idiots.”

  “They said the mayor didn’t get his chance to have his say.”

  “I went to his office on the morning of the rally, Frank. You and I discussed that before I went, and we talked about it before I filed.”

  “I know, Nancy, keep your shirt on.”

  “Did you straighten them out?”

  “I tried to. They told me that they felt you went around the mayor’s back on this.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head.

  “That’s City Hall.”

  “Trish Perry met me at the door of City Hall. I never got to the fourth floor. The only question I have is, was it a mistake or on purpose?”

  “Better find out. They are willing to sit down again this morning.”

  She caught a cab from downtown across False Creek and up Cambie to 12th Avenue where City Hall rose above the streetscape.

  Nancy waited for nearly half an hour in the mayor’s anteroom, as City Hall staff buzzed in and out. A secretary offered her coffee every five minutes. Finally, the secretary said, “He’ll see you now,” and ushered Nancy into the spacious office.

  Mayor Don West was slight of build and nearly bald. When he stood behind the mahogany desk that dominated one side of his wood-paneled chamber, Nancy guessed that he was no more than five foot eight.

  “Ms. Webber, nice to meet you,” he said when they shook hands. He gestured to a woman sitting in a chair next to the big desk. “This is Beatrice France,” he said, “my press secretary.” Nancy nodded in her direction.

  “We had a bit of a mix-up last Tuesday,” said His Worship. “My deputy planning commissioner seemed to think it was her turn to talk about the housing issue. We’ll get that all sorted out today. So you must have some questions?” the mayor asked.

  “Lots,” she said. “How much time do we have?”

  He looked at his assistant. “About twenty minutes,” she said, looking at her watch.

  “Let’s get started then,” said Nancy, flipping open her notebook. “What is your reaction to last Tuesday’s rally?”

  “The riot?”

  “Call it what you like.”

  “I call it organized anarchy.” He looked at his press secretary. “This city is trying to tackle a serious problem. A serious problem.” He folded his hands on his desk and affected a solemn demeanor. “Groups like End Poverty Now showed up with masks and rocks and assaulted police officers and disrupted businesses—businesses supporting the very people these hoodlums are supposedly trying to help. It’s nothing more than an excuse to get in a tussle, if you ask
me. They’re not serious about tackling poverty or homelessness.”

  “There are accusations that the police provoked the violence. That agents provocateurs were a part of the group that showed up when the rally crossed Main Street and started mixing things up.”

  “Those are baseless accusations.”

  “I have a number of sources, including one inside the police department, who say otherwise.”

  “Are they going to go on the record?”

  “The police source won’t. That person is afraid of getting fired.”

  The mayor shrugged. “So there you have it. Another anonymous source. Nobody takes that sort of thing seriously.”

  Nancy jotted a few notes and smiled. “So you dismiss the possibility of the police overreacting to the rally?”

  “The fact of the matter is, the Coalition is a bunch of malcontents who aren’t serious about solving homelessness or ending poverty. They are a bunch of kids with chips on their shoulders who would rather throw rocks than volunteer at the food bank or a soup kitchen. Frankly, I’m not interested in talking about them anymore.”

  “I gather you’re not interested in talking about the occupation of the Lucky Strike, now in its third day?”

  “Nope. That’s a police matter.”

  “So when things turned violent, when the rally crossed Main Street and the police moved in and dispersed the crowd, were you still a part of the rally at that time?”

  “I was.”

  “What went through your mind?”

  The mayor was silent for a moment. He leaned back in his leather chair and pressed his fingers together. “Frankly, I thought it was pretty much what I had expected.”

  “But you went to the rally anyway?”

  “I’m not going to be held hostage in my own city by a bunch of thugs.”

  “And what happened when the rocks started to fly?”

  “My VPD escort asked that I leave.”

  “And you did?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s not a story about me, Your Worship.”

  “I attended the rally because I believe that homelessness and poverty are a problem this city needs to address. I thought that by marching with other folks in Vancouver, I could demonstrate leadership. That’s what the mayor does, leads.” He was smiling as he said it. From the way he delivered the line, Nancy knew that Beatrice France had written it for him.