The Big Dig (15 page)

The wind blew cold Atlantic
gusts that made me long for a sweater under my coat, a scarf, a snug-fitting hat. I wished I'd left the bar earlier, drunk one less beer. Had Walsh overheard some nugget of information at Fournier's funeral, developed some idea about his death that could only be confirmed on-site? Had he planned a secret after-hours search for his missing tools?

Fournier had returned to the site alone and died.

My thoughts kept pace with my quickening steps. Atlantic Avenue was bright with street lamps, un-crowded. A few cars coasted by, a cruising taxi. Knots of pedestrians, muffled in heavy coats, rushed toward warmly lit hotel lobbies. Nights like this were a boon to cops. Too icy for crooks to be out on the street, too damp, with a cold that crept in toward the bone.

Blue-and-yellow barriers rose to block my view. I hurried past, to the chain-link fence and double gates that enclosed the site. The gates were chained tight, secured with a heavy padlock. I stood quietly in the shadows, trying to discern the night watchman's presence by the sound of footsteps or the gleam of a flashlight.

The site seemed utterly deserted.

The old highway was like a jagged wound, its iron beams dividing the city from the waterfront. In its shadow, the air seemed heavy, the darkness deep and forbidding. I knew the tourists at Faneuil Hall were minutes away, laughing and drinking in bars, so close I wondered if they could hear the pulse that beat in my wrist. I walked the perimeter, trying to convince myself that Walsh had simply forgotten our date.

I'd considered entering the site at night, challenging the trailer's alarm, searching for hidden insurance records. If I'd decided to break in, I'd have made a beeline for the area between the trailer and Dumpster, near the storage shed, the area where Leland Walsh had first approached and asked me what I thought of the Dig. I'd have worn dark close-fitting clothing, slid easily under the fence.

My coat was heavy, bulky, too long. Walsh was bulkier still, large-framed, broad-shouldered. I kept walking, my hands jammed into my pockets for warmth, wondering how Walsh had planned to enter,
if
he'd entered. A laughing couple passed along State Street. They didn't notice me.

Much of the aboveground section of the site was accessible, ungated, unbarred, with
KEEP OUT
notices posted to tell passersby they'd strayed from the pedestrian path. I made my way past coiled cables and stacked lumber to the section of fence camouflaged by the metal Dumpster, ran the beam of my pencil flash over the linked aluminum. The edges had been pressed together, so that it took a beat before I realized what I'd seen. Six links near the bottom had been neatly bisected. When I pushed, I opened a triangular tear big enough for a man Walsh's size.

A long time ago, I made a deal with my little sister, Paolina. I don't walk into abandoned warehouses at midnight. I don't leave my gun at home when I stalk bad guys. I don't wear filmy clothing and high heels, like some pulp-fiction heroine.

I took inventory. The site was within yelling distance of a detail cop, so that wasn't so bad. My gun was in a locked drawer in my office, but I had my own version of Mace, a particularly strong-smelling hairspray, cheaper, and just as effective. I plunged my hand into the depths of my bag, made sure it was there. If I'd had any idea the evening would call for shimmying under a fence, I'd have worn pants instead of a skirt and butt-freezing pantyhose. My boots were okay, high-cut and comfortable. My skirt was tight, but the long slit up the side meant I could run if I had to.

If Walsh had broken in to learn more about Fournier's death, I wanted in on the action. If he'd broken in to tend to business of his own, business that had to do with selling dirt—well, I wanted to know about that, too. The question was, if he'd gone in through the fence cut, why hadn't he come out in time to make our date?

I crouched low and entered headfirst into forbidden territory. The fence snagged my coat and held it fast. I reached around with my left hand, tugged, and then I was through, sheltered by the Dumpster. I stayed low, balancing on my heels, listening while traffic whooshed overhead. I had no idea of the night watchman's scheduled rounds. Maybe he was asleep in the warm trailer, oblivious. Maybe he'd caught Walsh and sent him packing. Maybe Walsh hadn't met me because he was warming a cell at Area A.

If he was, I didn't want to join him. Too many old buddies to laugh at my plight. I thought I heard a noise that wasn't traffic, a machine-like pulse, far away. Nothing that sounded like footsteps. Maybe laborers on a distant site, working the night shift.

If the Horgans' watchman caught me, I'd need a cover story, but nothing came to mind. I decided to move; if I didn't get caught I wouldn't need a story. I ran lightly along the ground to the west scaffold staircase. The tunnel was lit by a single caged work lamp and the receding glow of streetlights. As I descended I shone my flash carefully on each tread, aware of Kevin Fournier's fatal slip.

The tunnel was eerily quiet, the hum of overhead traffic faint and intermittent. I played my flashlight over the pale slurry walls, keeping the beam low. Overhead girders cast dark shadows. It wasn't warmer down here, but the wind cut less. I aimed the light toward the adjoining site to the north. A bulldozer sat next to a cement truck. In the early days they'd had to disassemble, lower, and reassemble vehicles in the deep trenches, but now there were temporary ramps for easy movement. The trucks seemed huge and shadowy, a herd of waiting beasts. I walked slowly, letting the sights register, listening.

Once I thought I heard steps approaching, and a sudden vision of the silent weimaraner at Charles River Dog Care flashed through my mind. What if the night watchman kept a dog? I started at the sound of small scuttling feet, caught the gleam of small red eyes with my flash.
Rats
.

Passing close to a heap of cement sacks near a hulking vehicle, I paused, listening again for the missing watchman. Slowly, I became aware of a sound other than my own breathing, a rhythmic echo of each inhalation, heavy and muffled, issuing from the heap.

The bound man lay on his right side, knees bent, feet drawn up behind him. His hands were tied as well, and the rope reached around his neck and down to his ankles. A thin line of darkness ran from a cut on his skull. I played my flashlight over his face. Silver duct tape covered Walsh's mouth. His eyes were open, dazed, or maybe that was a trick of the light. When he saw me, he tried to make a noise. His eyes pleaded. He squinted and I lowered the flash beam.

His head rested on the ground, almost hidden beneath the mud-guard of the giant dozer's wheels. If I hadn't heard his labored breathing, I'd have passed him by. The darkness of his clothes, the darkness of his face, melted into the night.

I whispered, “The watchman?”

He grunted.

“Did he go for the police?”

While I was speaking I was searching for my pocket knife. I keep it in my bag, not my pocket, and things fall to the bottom. In spite of the cold, sweat broke out on my forehead. The expression in Walsh's eyes said hurry. I stripped off my gloves, shoved them in my pockets, found the knife. My fingers grasped the slim hunk of metal, opened it. I attacked the rope at his feet first, slicing strand by strand. “Don't move. You'll make it tighter.”

He was caught in a classic mob necktie, an arrangement that would strangle him if he struggled. I wondered why, if he didn't have a cell, the night watchman wasn't using the phone in the trailer. He'd know the alarm sequence. I cut and untied as quickly as my frigid fingers could manage in the dim light. I could have used another pair of hands. Walsh's seemed useless, cold and bloodless. He fumbled at the strip of tape on his mouth.

“Stay quiet,” I warned. “Did he recognize you? Does he know who you are?”

“Let's go. I cut the fence by the Dumpster.”

A length of iron pipe lay near Walsh's feet. “He use this?”

“I dunno.”

There was a dark streak at one end that could have been blood. I slipped my gloves back on, picked up the pipe, hefted it.

“C'mon. I think he went for liquor.” Walsh raised a hand to his head and groaned. “Make it look good, like a fucking accident when some driver pancakes my head in the morning.”

“The watchman?”

“I don't know that it
was
the watchman. I don't know who clobbered me. I just know I don't want to be here when he gets back.” His hand, where it clutched my wrist, was icy.

We took the west scaffold stairs, moving slowly in spite of the need for speed, because Walsh was having trouble balancing. Breathing heavily, he lurched from step to step. I slipped a hand under his elbow, worried about concussion. The fence cut was as I'd left it. I shoved it open, helped him through.

A car came along Atlantic Avenue, a big black ship, sailing without lights. I ducked and yanked Walsh into the shadow of the Dumpster. The Jeep Cherokee passed slowly, then stopped near the trailer.

The license plate light had been disconnected, but a street lamp did the trick. The plate wasn't Dana's. I only caught a glimpse, but I thought New Hampshire, like the one I'd seen earlier in the day. Green on white. “Live free or die,” the controversial motto. I waited, we waited, hunkered down behind the metal Dumpster. Two men got out of the Jeep. One must have had a key to the gate. I heard it creak as it opened.

“Can we get the fuck out of here?” Walsh managed in a whisper.

I wanted to stay, creep closer, see more than outlines, shapes, and shadows. Walsh swayed and tugged at my sleeve. His teeth chattered and his skin looked gray in the dim light.

We both heard it, a sharp cry of surprise, anger. There might have been five, six angry words, but the one that registered was “gone.” Abandoning caution for speed, we ran.

Some date.

I eased the chunk of
iron pipe under the driver's seat, relieved that the long stumbling journey to the garage was over. “The General? New England Medical? Preference?”

“Neither.” Walsh sank into the passenger seat; his breath came hard and fast. “No way.”

With his arm tight across my shoulders, mine around his waist to steady his gait, I hadn't felt the biting cold the way I had earlier in the evening.

“Look at me,” I said sternly. “What's your name? Where are you?”

He gave me a grin. “I'm fine, coach. Put me back in the game.”

“Show me your eyes.”

He lowered one eyelid in an exaggerated wink, reopened it. His pupils were the same size, the whites so white they seemed almost blue. Now, he was goofing, fooling around, his grin infectious, but fifteen minutes ago he'd looked and acted as though a trip to the ER was inevitable. His sudden recovery made me question his earlier behavior. Had he simply felt a strong desire to get off-site, a reasonable one considering his reception, or had he wanted to hurry me away before I saw something I shouldn't?

“If you don't want a hospital, what about a cop?”

“No.” No hesitation. “You live near here?”

“Cambridge.”

“Got any Band-Aids?”

When I leaned forward to crack the dash compartment, he stopped me by taking my hand. “At your place?”

“I can drive you home,” I said slowly.

He didn't release my gloved right hand; he held it in his left, moved his right to cover it. “It's early yet. We could talk. You live alone?”

“Depends what you mean by alone.”

“Single,” he said.

“Formerly married. I have a house. A tenant.”

“Man?”

“Woman.”

“Fine. Is that all the heat this car can do?”

I nodded. He gave an elaborate shiver, then let go of my hand so I could back up the car and ransom it from the garage attendant. Walsh stayed silent, head bowed, while I negotiated the ramps onto 93, the turns onto Memorial Drive. Along the river, cars drove fast and exhaust hung in the air like mist. The triangular Citgo sign in Kenmore Square pulsed red on the Boston side of the Charles.

I pulled into my narrow drive, used my key on the front door. Walsh followed me in, turning from side to side in the foyer, peering up the stairs as though expecting someone. The house looked deceptively occupied, the lights I leave on to trick the burglars glowing cheerfully.

Walsh eyed the living room suspiciously. “This what they call a safe house?”

It stumped me at first. “You mean the neighborhood?”

“You're no secretary.”

A safe house
. Could have been the absence of furniture, or maybe the man had seen too many movies. “I'm
definitely
not CIA.”

“I thought FBI. I heard they're all over the Dig.”

“Come into the kitchen,” I said mildly.

“Spider to the fly.” The grin was back.

“Stay here, if you'd rather, but there's disinfectant in the bathroom off the kitchen. I'll get you some stuff to make a bandage while you wash that cut off. Want some aspirin?”

He started to nod, thought better of moving his head so quickly.

I said, “Then we'll talk.”

He disappeared into the tiny half-bath and I took the stairs to the second floor to rummage in the medicine cabinet. I chose gauze and tape, marvelling at the amount of stuff I'd collected to treat and bind wounds. Must be in the wrong business.

I put the assorted goodies on the kitchen table, fired up the kettle. The toilet flushed and Walsh emerged, his face damp enough that I wondered whether Roz had neglected to replace the towels, his skin so dark it glistened. I watched as he made an expert job of the bandage, staring into the small mirror over the bathroom sink.

“Very tidy,” I said.

“Army medic.”

“Is that where you met Kevin? In the army?”

“I know him from way back, before high school. What? You don't believe me?”

Even in the mirror, he picked up on the slightest facial changes, practically read my thoughts. I'd need to be more careful. “At the funeral, you kept your distance. His family—”

“His family never liked me. Wrong color.”

“You want some coffee?”

“Black.” He smiled and busied himself rewinding strips of gauze and replacing them in the carton. “Unless there's brandy.”

“With your head, I'm not sure.”

“It's my head. Brandy will do fine.”

I put a filter and grounds into the pour-through gizmo. Walsh seemed content to wait in silence. He'd recovered enough to look rakish, with the bandage across his forehead and a single gold stud gleaming in his ear. I wondered how I'd missed the earring earlier. He must have removed it before breaking and entering, reinserted it after applying the bandage.

Bonnie Raitt sings a plaintive Joni Mitchell song that starts with a syncopated guitar riff.
“I met you on a midway at a fair last year, and you stood out like a ruby in a black man's ear.”
I instructed myself to quit hearing the seductive melody. Songs are for romantic interludes, not the aftermath of attempted murders.
If that was what I'd seen
.

“This is a nice room. Nice house. Yours?”

My kitchen is big and square and so old there's a butler's pantry off to one side. If I were to put it on the market, the realtor would list it as unspoiled, which means I've never had the money or the inclination to renovate. The only dishwasher I have is Roz.

“What happened tonight?” I set a cup of coffee on the scrubbed-oak kitchen table, added a generous slug of brandy.

“Who are you?” Walsh said.

“Someone who wants to help.”

“Bullshit.”

“Someone who saved your ass, then. And who exactly are you?” I countered.

“All I've got with me is my driver's license. Shoulda left that home, too, considering my plans for the evening.”

I held out an expectant hand while he sat and undid the laces of his left workboot, reconsidered, tried the right. The card, tucked inside his sock, gave a Jamaica Plain address, listed his height as 6'4", his weight at 205. I'd have guessed less. After a brief internal debate, I handed him one of my business cards: name, address, phone, private investigations.

“Carlotta,” he said. “I like it.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself.”

“Who do you work for?”

“Myself, usually, but you could say I work for the Dig.”

“Attorney general?”

“Inspector general. They're playing on the same team.”

“All that stuff is so much bullshit. Where'd the money go? That's what they want to know, they say, but they don't want the real answers.”

“I do.”

“It's a fucking expensive project. Christ, anybody's ever built something, rebuilt something, put a damn pool in the yard, knows you don't find what you expect to find. The problem was always the estimates. Politicians wanted the green light so they made up good numbers. They counted on things being right and they went wrong every step of the way. It's human nature, what happened. Anybody says they know what's down there before cutting into the ground is nothing but a mind reader, a freak, a circus performer oughta go on the fucking road.”

Best thing to do when somebody starts a rant is to keep quiet. I got the feeling he was talking in order not to talk, going on and on about the Dig to avoid something else, maybe to avoid answering the questions I wanted to ask.

“Man, they found a mess down there. Red-tape mess, environmental mess, utilities mess. They found old shit that the archeologists wanted saved, and ground too soft to tunnel through, and ground too hard to tunnel through, and rock where there wasn't supposed to be rock. You got utilities where they ain't supposed to be and old tunnels and sewers and—You know where else the money went?”

I shook my head, sipped coffee.

“Keeping the city open. Building temporary ramps and roads so commuters can still get to the office. Plus they paid everybody off. Called it ‘mitigation' but it's just payoffs by another name. And now, when there's only so many contracts left, they're gonna check those firms out three ways to Sunday and make everybody look bad.”

“I wasn't brought in to make Horgan look bad.”

“Now they're blowing money on investigators. I heard there's an ex-cop on the take, making things smell good where they stink and stink where they ought to smell good.”

Jesus.
I filed that one.

Walsh had run out of steam. He closed his eyes momentarily.

“You want to visit the ER after all?”

“No.”

“How about the cops?”

“No.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I'd rather not.”

“An ice pack?” I took one out of the freezer.

“You get smacked around a lot, job like yours?”

I wondered what he'd say if he saw the bullet wound in my thigh, and then I wondered what he'd say
when
he saw the bullet wound in my thigh. “No,” I said softly, thinking about the big difference a small word could make.

He held the ice pack to his head. The cut was high on his forehead, not much damage considering the heft of the pipe under my car seat.

I inhaled, blew out the breath slowly. “So tell me about the evening's plans.”

“Carlotta, are you checking out Kevin's death?”

I liked the way my name sounded on his lips, so I tried his on mine. “Leland, think about it. I was there before he fell.”

“That's not an answer.”

“More of an answer than I got.”

His repertoire of grins ranged from rueful to charming to full-bore sexy. I put this one in between boyish and disarming. “Hey, I was only gonna break into a storage shed.”

“For fun?”

“Things disappear and reappear, for chrissakes! I put my tools away, I expect to damn well find 'em where I put 'em.” He reached over, added more brandy to his cup, offered me the bottle. “There's this storage hut, pretty much like the others, except nobody has the keys. That's where I think my tools must be. Hell, I don't know what's in there, but nobody can find the keys and that makes me dead curious. So tonight I went in to bust it open and find out what the hell's in it and why everybody gets bent out of shape whenever I ask.”

“Everybody?”

“Horgan. O'Day.”

“And what happened?”

“I remember cutting the fence. I was pretty full of myself. Gonna do a little spying, brag about it to a pretty woman.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Do you remember going down the scaffold stairs?”

He shrugged.

“Did you see who hit you?”

Another shrug.

“What do you know about selling dirt?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Your friend Kevin called the IG's hotline, said things were walking off the site.”

He sat up straighter. “Tools and shit. I told him that.”

“He called again. Second time he said someone on the Horgan site was selling dirt.”

Walsh shook his head slowly. “I don't know jack about that.”

With effort I kept the exasperation off my face. When I'd found him, almost under the truck wheels, it seemed as though I'd stumbled onto another accident about to happen. If Kevin Fournier hadn't slipped, if he'd been killed because of something he knew, it followed that a second accident might have been arranged because Walsh knew the same thing. Dammit, if he didn't know anything, why risk killing him?

Walsh said, “Fuck, if they'd checked, those pathologists at Albany Street, they'd know he hadn't fallen down any stairs.”

“They did check.” Someone could have
thought
Walsh knew,
assumed
he knew. “I've got the report.”

“Can I see?”

“He was your friend. There are photos that might be hard to forget.”

He hesitated.

“I used to be a cop. I've gone over it and there's nothing there. A skull fracture's a skull fracture. Pathologists can't tell what caused it, a fall or a blow. And they can't tell if he fell or was pushed, either.”

“Shit.” Frustration brought his hand down hard on the table, and the sound echoed in the small room. “I'll save myself the grief then, but goddammit, I wish I could do something.”

“Maybe you'll remember more about tonight later. Sometimes it's like that with a hit on the head.”

“Sure you don't get hit a lot?”

“Not often.”

The slow grin again. “Hit
on?
”

I drank coffee.

He got to his feet, returned the ice pack to the freezer. When he came back, he stood behind my chair and rested his hands on my shoulders. “They shifted most of the dirt the end of last year, start of this one, December, January. Day after day, trucks pulling up to the bucket, dump trucks, whole line of 'em.”

If it happened months ago, why had Fournier chosen to drop his dime now?

“You sure he said dirt?” Walsh's fingers pressed against my shoulder blades and I had difficulty suppressing a moan. Sam Gianelli had asked the same question, and I realized I'd been thinking about Sam for awhile, watching Walsh move, comparing him to Sam, his stature, his build. I wondered if I'd ever see a man completely as himself, not in comparison to Gianelli. The thought made me sad, and then—I don't know—defiant. I wanted Walsh to help me forget Gianelli.

“Other room we passed through,” he murmured. “Is there a couch, something soft to sit on?”

“Used to be. Now it's just pillows on the floor.”

“Sounds fine.” He didn't ask for an explanation and I liked that.

We moved to the living room, set about building a fire in the fireplace. He had a system: He liked to place the logs vertically, didn't approve of newspaper for kindling, but decided to roll a few sheets tightly rather than rummage for shim shingles in the cellar. He claimed that making and lighting the fire exhausted him to the point that he had to lie down on the rug. When I offered a pillow for his head, he said he'd prefer to rest it in my lap.