The Vanishing Track (24 page)

“Oh, thanks.” She smiled absently and stuffed the package into her briefcase next to her computer.

The week of steady rain had seen Nancy riding the bus home to her West End apartment, but today, though not sunny, was at least dry, so she decided to walk. To amuse herself she watched the progress of a man in a
BMW
as he crept along beside her. At each light he raced forward, and then at the next red Nancy would catch up to him. It made her think of Cole Blackwater. Two steps forward, two steps back. Three steps back. Two steps forward.

Nancy reached her West End building and took the elevator up to her apartment. She threw her bag on the table that doubled as a work station. Setting a glass of red wine on the counter, she retrieved some leftover Indian takeout from the previous evening. She put it in the microwave, then leaned on the counter sipping her wine, trying to loosen the knots in her neck. The microwave beeped, and she carried her plate and glass, with the bottle, to the living room. She liked to watch the six o'clock news while she ate.

When she was done, Nancy refilled her glass and opened her bag. She took out her computer and the files she had carted home, laying them out on the table in front of her. The corner of an unfamiliar envelope caught her eye.

“What have we here?” she said, vaguely recalling the
Sun
receptionist handing her something on her way out. She tore it open. Inside was a plain brown envelope containing three sheets of paper. She leaned forward in her chair, setting aside her wine glass, and skimmed the pages quickly. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Jesus Christ,” she said aloud, reading the three pages again.

NANCY COULDN'T SLEEP
. More than a dozen times that night she had picked up the phone, then put it down. She turned the light on and read the three sheets over and over.

Who was she planning on calling? Frank Pesh with breaking news? Denman Scott for reaction? Cole Blackwater for immediate
over
reaction? It seemed almost too wild to be possible, except that the suspected source of the three pages was beyond reproach. Nancy was pretty certain she knew who had slipped her the covert information, even though there was no name to validate that suspicion. Finally, at three o'clock she fell into a restless, wine-clouded sleep. She dreamed fitfully of a cabal of the city's most powerful backroom players conspiring to radically change the Downtown Eastside, changing the face of Vancouver in the process.

WHEN SHE WOKE,
it was almost eight. Despite a hangover, Nancy bolted from bed. While her first cup of coffee brewed in the tiny kitchen, she showered and dressed. Without eating breakfast, and forgetting her coffee, she stuffed her files and computer into her bag, along with the three well-thumbed pages, and rode the elevator down to the street. She stopped in at a Quick Printer and made three copies of the three-page document. She mailed one to herself at the
Sun
, one to Denman Scott via Priority Legal, and one to Blackwater Strategies. They would all arrive in the mail in the next day or two, regardless of what happened to the original.

She got to the
Vancouver Sun
office and buzzed Frank Pesh. Five minutes later she was standing in his office, along with the assistant editor of the paper and the
Sun
's in-house attorney. She had met Veronica White once before, when she was being hired by the
Sun
. White was a plain-spoken, cautious, middle-aged woman who took her job of protecting the
Vancouver Sun
from libel and slander suits seriously.

“You need three sources,” said White.

“I'm never going to get any of these people to talk,” said Nancy.

“You print those names without them, we'll get our ass sued off.”

“What if I track down the source of the leak and get them to talk?”

“So what? What does it prove? Maybe a disgruntled employee. Maybe a lunatic from the End Poverty Now Coalition planting the story. Did you think of that?”

“I haven't discounted that, but I think this came from inside
VPD
.”

“Really?” said Pesh. “What makes you think that?”

“Intuition.”

“Intuition isn't going to keep this paper out of court,” said White.

“Sometimes you have to take the risk.”

“Look, Nancy,” said White. “Please don't take this the wrong way. I'm not trying to stomp on journalistic freedom. That's not what I'm doing, really. I have a job to do, and that's to protect you and this paper. I can't do it if you don't listen,” she turned to Pesh.

Nancy began to speak, but Pesh cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“I get to decide on this,” he said, standing up and looking out over Burrard Inlet. “Does anybody else have this?” he asked.

“I don't think so. If my source is who I think it is, then they sent it to me for a reason. If I'm right, we have it exclusively. I have it—”

“Okay, let's do this,” he said, interrupting. “You need to make some calls, Nancy. Veronica is right; this could be a setup. You need to confirm your source and find external collaboration. Find someone who will talk. I can live with one person involved, plus the source,” he said, looking at White. “You've got till the end of the day.”

BY NOON NANCY
had external confirmation, but it wasn't of the sort she had anticipated.

At 9:43
AM
she called the office of Beatta Nowak and asked to speak to the executive director of the Downtown Eastside Community Advocacy Society. She was told that Beatta was in a meeting at Priority Legal and wouldn't be back until noon. Next she called City Hall. Again, no luck. At 9:48 she took a deep breath and dialed the Vancouver Police Department. She was transferred to Media Relations Coordinator Beth Moresby.

“Beth, it's Nancy Webber for the
Vancouver Sun
.”

“Hi, Nancy. What can I do for you today?”

“Can I speak with John Andrews, please?”

“What's it with regards to?”

“I have a source who is suggesting that Mr. Andrews is part of a group of people calling themselves the Lucky Strike Supper Club. They have authored a document, really just a few bulleted lines on a page, called the Lucky Strike Manifesto. I'm seeking confirmation or denial from Mr. Andrews regarding his participation in this group, and his authorship of this paper.”

Nancy could feel her heart racing. There was only a second's silence.

“Can I get back to you? John is in a meeting right now, but I'll ask him to call you as soon as he gets out. Okay?”

“Alright. Sooner the better, Beth. My intention is to make print deadline this afternoon with or without his confirmation,” she lied. “I'm holding back on web publication so as not to tip off any other outlets.”

“Okay, well, it should be within an hour. Where are you?”

Nancy told her and they hung up.

JUST OVER AN
hour later, Nancy was still sitting at her desk when two plainclothes police offers appeared before her.

“Nancy Webber?” one of them asked. She looked up.

“Who wants to know?”

“Detectives Colbert and Vary,
VPD
, ma'am. We have a warrant to search these premises, and your home,” he held out the warrant for her to read.

Nancy picked up the phone. “Frank, call Veronica. We're being raided.”

COLE AND DENMAN
arrived at the
VPD
offices for the second time that day, fifteen minutes after Nancy had called. It was another two hours before they could see her.

“We should rent space here,” said Cole dryly.

“It's cheap. And the application is pretty simple,” added Denman.

“Getting out of the lease is the tricky part,” Cole said, grinning.

“This may take a while, Cole. You want to stick around?”

“You kidding? Nancy Webber behind bars is a wet dream come true. Plus, I've got something else that our last conversation reminded me of. I'll be back,” he said, and went to cue up at the reporting desk.

Denman dialed his office to check in. Cole rejoined him after an hour in the reporting line. “So the two goons who jumped me in the alley were picked up.”

“I got a call about it yesterday. Sorry. I forgot to tell you. It's been a crazy week,” said Denman shaking his head.

“The response report says it took twenty-two minutes for a car to arrive on the scene, despite the fact that there were two dozen units a block away at the Lucky Strike.”

“Who wants to leave a good old-fashioned tear-gassing to deal with a simple assault?”

“Do you know the guys involved?” asked Cole.

“No, never heard of them.”

“Think they might be connected to the
VPD
?”

Denman shook his head. “I have no idea. Neither of them had a jacket, but that doesn't mean anything.”

“How do we find out?”

“Freedom of information request?”

“I don't know what we'd ask for. Badge numbers?” Denman shook his head again.

“What's going on with Nancy?” Cole asked.

“She's being questioned right now.”

“She's not alone, is she?”

“Veronica White is with her, the
Sun's
pit bull of a lawyer. Nancy will be fine.”

“Better than fine,” said Cole. “She's going to be a hero.”

IT WAS MID
afternoon when Nancy walked through the door with Veronica White at her side. A warm smile lit her face when she saw Cole and Denman. She stopped before she reached them and turned to say a few words to White, then approached the two men while White left the building. Denman, then Cole, reached out and gave her a hug.

“It's good to see you boys,” she said, still holding onto Cole's thick frame.

“Good to see you too,” said Denman.

Cole and Nancy stepped back from one another, their eyes holding for a moment. Cole took a long, slow, steady breath. He could still smell Nancy's hair. For the first time in months the flood of memories that accompanied her was not unsettling.

“Well, have I got a story to tell.” She broke the spell. “We better get at it. I've got to make print deadline,” she said, slapping Cole on the arm. “Come on, boys.”

THEY WALKED ONTO
the street and hailed a cab. As they drove to the
Vancouver Sun
building, Nancy said, “So, first things first. I'm guessing there is a fair chance that we're being followed. The
VPD
is going ape-shit right now over what has landed on my desk. And the two of you are in the animal soup . . .”

“In more ways than one,” said Denman.

“Right. So watch your back. I guess that won't be a problem for Mr. Friendly here,” said Nancy, jerking a finger toward Cole. Cole just smirked.

Nancy pulled out her phone and called Frank Pesh. At the
Sun
building, they rode the elevator up to Nancy's office as she continued to talk with Frank. They followed her through the hive of
Sun
reporters, all buzzing with the news of the day, to a small boardroom.

When they were finally seated, Denman said, “So?”

She took a breath. “The Lucky Strike Manifesto is a document penned by a group of influential people from City Hall, the
VPD
, and the development community.”

“Do you know their names?”

“No. But I'm starting to put that together. I know at least one for sure. I can guess at a couple of others.”

“Who?”

“John Andrews is one.” Denman nodded. “And there is at least one person from City Council. The mayor himself may be party to it. They meet regularly; call themselves the Lucky Strike Supper Club.”

“They had been using that Pender Street address, hadn't they?” asked Denman.

“That's my guess. Cole must have just missed them.”

“So what is the Manifesto?”

“It's an agreement of sorts, a statement of principles, that this group of people are trying to advance.” She dug some notes out of her bag.

“Do you have it?”

“
Had
it. When the
VPD
raided us this morning, they carted away the three pages I had received by courier. I'll have another copy by tomorrow. So will the two of you. Anyway, I made some notes when I was able; it's really not very complex. The group agreed to pave the way for a massive redevelopment of the Downtown Eastside. Gastown, Chinatown, Oppenheimer, the Hastings Corridor are all included. The goal is to build twenty to thirty new condominium developments in the area in the next five years.”

“So fast!” said Cole.

“The agreement also says that these players will work together to elect a city council next year that is dominated by people who will work toward creating a comprehensive new community development plan for the area. The plan will emphasize what they are calling ‘urban reunification.' One city. No east side–west side split. Just one Vancouver.”

“That's not really news, is it?” asked Denman.

“It's not
what
they are doing, but
how
,” said Nancy.

“What do you mean?”

“The Manifesto is a blueprint for what it calls ‘interventionist action' by City Hall and the
VPD
. In essence it says, ‘do what needs to be done' to clear the way for aggressive development.”

“Hence the rise in complaints of excessive force, and the crackdown at the Lucky Strike.”

“The Lucky Strike is just the first of what will be many,” said Nancy. “There's more, though. The Manifesto also acknowledges what it calls ‘the reality' of the situation. That homeless people have to live somewhere, so it lays out a blueprint for ‘resettlement.'”

“Jesus, that sounds ominous,” said Denman.

“Yeah. It sounds like a Vancouver version of New York's ‘Projects' to me.”