The Big Dig (9 page)

The Dig had been fought by preservationists, environmentalists, neighborhood activists. Most had been bought off, one way or another. The Fire Department, wary of having to respond to emergencies in the new tunnels, had been soothed by the purchase of a new fireboat for the harbor. Neighborhood organizations had been quieted with participatory councils, environmentalists placated with facts, figures, revisions.

Most critics made do with irate letters to the press, calls to the talk-show nasties. The most-offended filed lawsuits. If anyone—unplacated by Dig officials, unsatisfied by the law—
had
resorted to sabotage, why select this site? What would a slowdown or temporary work stoppage on one site prove? How would it help?
Who
would it help?

I needed to study maps, contracts. What other work was predicated on the completion of this section of tunnel? Was an on-time-performance bonus at risk? According to Eddie, Horgan Construction was bidding on other contracts. If work slowed or stopped at this site, Horgan would be less likely to win other bids. Rival contractors would pounce.

“Took your sweet time,” Marian observed when I got back to the trailer.

If I hadn't had Veejay
to find, I might have haunted the morgue after work or hounded Fournier's relatives. But I had Veejay—and Eddie, who assured me he had a handle on things as I hurried toward Government Center, cell phone to ear. The autopsy, booked for late afternoon, would most likely get held over till morning. The family hadn't been keen, but the doctors had persisted, pressed by insurance investigators.

“They have the tox results yet?”

“Partial. No alcohol in his blood. They'll get the rest ASAP. They can prove he was tanked or tranked, the insurance guys'll eat it up.”

“Find any ex-cons on the payroll?” Earlier I'd shipped a list of Horgan employees to Spike at Eddie's office.

“Nobody rings the chimes.” I could almost see him shrug. He knew what I knew: Ex-cons change their names, borrow social security numbers.

“Ya find out anything about dirt?” he asked.

“I'm making a list of trucking companies, anybody who's driven in and out. Call me as soon as you hear on the autopsy, okay?”

“Carlotta, maybe you're jumping in a little too deep here.”

“You think so? Some guys fall from heights like that and get nothing but bruises. This one's dead.”

“Yeah. Well, don't hold your breath is all. I seen a lot of cuts where what they come up with is what ya call inconclusive.”

A car horn blared. “What? Sorry, Eddie, didn't catch that.”

“First off, we got no proof this guy was the guy made the hotline calls. Second, we got no proof the guy dying is anything but an accident.”

“You can get proof that he made the calls, Eddie.”

“He ain't talkin'. He's dead.”

“Everybody's got a message machine, right? Get the tape off his. Take it, and the hotline tapes, over to your FBI pal.”

Silence.

“You put me on-site, Eddie. You want to pull me off?”

More silence. In front of Faneuil Hall, signs advertised the great April Nineteenth Patriot's Day tribute, calling it a rededication of the Cradle of Liberty. I wondered which ex-presidents were booked to speak—Carter, probably, Clinton, the senior Bush. I wondered who was responsible for security, who got stuck with deciding which one delivered the first address. The protocol would be sticky. I thought Senators Kennedy and Kerry were scheduled, with Senator Gleason, the conservative from Idaho, balancing the ticket.

Eddie finally spoke. “Just remember you're working for me on this one. Don't embarrass me.”

I assumed he meant no unauthorized activity, no B&E's at the trailer or the Horgans' home, no troublemaking. I told him not to worry, and for the moment I meant it. I had other fish to fry.

 

Dana Endicott was late.

She'd picked the spot, a high-traffic Harvard Square café. Any location far from the Dig was fine with me; I wouldn't risk running into a hard hat from my secret life. I dumped my backpack on a round table in a corner and went to stand on line.

I got two cups of the daily special, doctored one to suit myself, and set the other down on the table just as she came in the door. She wore a mid-calf navy cashmere coat paired with high, sleek boots, another thousand-buck outfit. She cast her eyes over the tables, spotted me quickly, and approached.

“Have you found her?” She jerked her chair back with such vigor it clanged against the table and spilled the coffee. “I got a message from her mother. She says she's okay!”

“If you want cream or sugar, it's do-it-yourself.”

“Black's fine.”

I explained that Veejay hadn't spoken to her mother at all, that Mom had merely relayed a message from Peter.

“She didn't talk to her? She just—accepted the guy's word? What kind of mother—” her voice trailed off.

“Exactly. What kind of mother is she? What do you know about the family?” I kept my voice low. The couple at the next table were practically entwined and I doubted they were monitoring anything beyond mutual attraction, but it's a habit.

“Hardly anything. Veejay didn't seem to mind going home, but she never got excited about it either.”

“Was she close to her sisters?”

“She only mentioned one. She and her sister bought a dog together, when they were young, but she wound up taking care of it.”

“Jayme, Jackie, or Elsie?”

“Are there three?” She shook her head. “I don't know.”

The place was noisy with chattering patrons and the whirr of an espresso machine. Mass Ave traffic sped by the window.

I said, “Did Veronica ever mention this Peter to you?”

“Maybe he works at the dog place, or the bar.”

I'd called them both. “No.”

“Damn,” she murmured. “I'm scared to read the papers. Seems like every day there's a plea from some missing kid's father, or they find an unidentified body in a pond in some town I never heard of.”

“Did Veejay mention anyone named Rick?” I watched her face. There was barely a flicker in her eyes.

“Maybe. I think so. But Rick and Peter don't sound remotely alike—”

“Do you know Rick's last name?”

“It could be in one of these.” She held up two small books, one spiral-bound, one with a floral-fabric cover. “Address books. They were in the junk drawer in the kitchen. I brought them for you, and her phone bills.”

“You didn't have to. I could have picked them up.”

“Well, that's the thing. Tonight's not going to work. I have a meeting this evening.”

“I thought we were going to your house.”

“This meeting just came up. I'm sorry, but since I brought the phone bills and the address books, it's not like you'll be spinning your wheels. Peter's probably in there.”

“I need to see her room. I've talked to her parents, her sisters, her coworkers. I've talked to you. But I'm not getting a fix on her, on who she is, or where she'd go.”

“There's no way I can fit it in tonight. I have time to grab coffee and run, that's it. Let me pay you for the coffee. Or why don't you just add it to my bill?”

“Why not lend me your keys? I'll check out her room and leave the keys wherever you want. If you tell me where you'll be, I'll return them to you. Won't take me more than a couple hours.”

“I'm sorry. That won't work.”

I sipped coffee without tasting it. “Why?”

“Look, I'm sorry. It's impossible. There's the alarm. I'm not going to tell you the code, and then have to reset the whole thing. And besides, there're the dogs. You can't go in without me.”

“And this meeting can't be rescheduled, and you can't be late.”

“Right.”

“What if Veejay suddenly came home? Could
she
get in? Now? Tonight?”

“Of course.”

“She knows the alarm code.”

“Yes.”

“When will I be able to see her room?”

“Well, I'd hoped with the address book and the phone bills—”

I shook my head.

“How is your sister doing? She is so beautiful, those big brown eyes.” She dropped her gaze and stared at the table's gleaming surface, her hand clutching the coffee cup. “You're not going to quit, are you? I'm sorry about the timing, about the house. There must be something I can do to—”

“I've been giving some thought to filing on your car.”

“As a stolen vehicle?”

“The cops find the car, we're ahead. It's a lead, and you can always say you forgot you loaned it to her.”

“I don't like it.”

I didn't like it much myself.

Veejay's tight, ornate handwriting was
halfway between script and print. After Dana left, I drank another cup of coffee and slowly thumbed pages, squinting and wondering which of the two address books was the most current. Both seemed like relics from another age, pre-Rolodex, pre–Palm Pilot, entries scribbled and crossed out. I found a Penelope, a Pamela, but no Peter.

The ex was in the floral-covered book: Rick, with the same phone number Mrs. James had reluctantly offered crossed out, and a new one squeezed beside it. Maybe not such a dated artifact after all.

I tried him on my cell, but he wasn't home. I consulted my wristwatch. If he held a traditional nine-to-five job, he could be in transition from job to home, on the road.

I walked home, armed myself with additional caffeine in the form of a twenty-ounce Pepsi, and began again with the As, dialing each and every number, playing area-code roulette with those that didn't specify, trying 617 first, then 508, then 781, 603. I spoke to a considerable number of people who recognized Veronica's name, but I didn't get a single hit. No one sounded troubled or guilty or startled at my inquiries. No one knew Veejay's buddy, Peter.

I turned to the phone bills. In the past two months, Veronica had made only seven long distance calls, all to her parents' Tewksbury number.

I called Claire at the Registry and learned that no tickets had been issued on the black Jeep. If it hadn't been for the dogs, I might have considered visiting my client's house while she was away, entering without key or permission. Alarms don't faze me, but four large dogs gave me pause.

Temporarily stymied, I paced the living room, tugging at a strand of hair, regretting the loss of my red curls. The dye had altered the texture; my hair felt as phony as a wig. Eddie didn't want me to proceed on the Dig case, didn't want me to push it. Just play secretary, behave, wait. Dana Endicott wouldn't let me in her house.

It reminded me of when I was a cop. Cops seldom have the luxury of handling one case at a time. There's always something on the back burner, something boiling over up front, a cake in the oven, chops broiling on the grill. Plus most have families.

How do cops manage the frustration of dead ends? They get divorced. They drink. I considered taking my cell phone and moving my base of operations to a bar, someplace with dark mahogany, secondhand smoke.

I revved my computer and hit an online cross-directory service instead. The address for the man Veronica's dad termed her ex was in Waltham. I decided to try him again.

The voice that answered belonged to a woman.

“Hey, Veronica?” I said cheerfully.

“I'm sorry, you must have the wrong—”

“Don't hang up. Is Rick in?”

“Just a minute.” She held the receiver away from her mouth while she shouted. I couldn't hear what she said, but she didn't sound pleased.

I waited. Someone smacked the receiver down on a table, hard, or dropped it.

“Who's calling?” a low voice demanded abruptly.

“Caroline. Caroline Grady, from Charles River Dog Care, in Boston.” I'm often Caroline Grady, although Caroline has different jobs. I keep a slew of business cards in her name. Caroline, if I do say so myself, has a great voice, low and sexy, a little breathy. A phone-sex voice. Guys talk to her.

“Thanks,” he said slowly, a little regretfully, “but no thanks.”

“Oh, but Rick—Mr. Garrison, isn't it?—I was given your phone number as an emergency contact.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Not at all. Far from it. It's very serious. I have a dog in my care belonging to Veronica James. You do know Miss James?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Oh, good, I'm so relieved to hear you say that.”

“Why?”

“I expected her to pick up her dog on Sunday—”

“Look, this doesn't concern me. You're talking to the wrong guy.”

“Rick Garrison, right? She gave me your number. I was sure you could help me get in touch with her.”

“Don't you have her number?”

“Sometimes one of our clients writes down the wrong number by mistake—”

“I don't have her phone number. Look, hang on a minute.”

He held the phone to his chest to muffle it. The woman who'd answered the phone was saying something in an angry tone.

“Honey,” I heard, “it's nothing. Business, that's all.”

Then, “Hello?”

I said, “Would you be willing to come and get the dog?”

“No way. Now I—”

“Excuse me, but is Miss James the type who would abandon a dog, leave it and walk away, knowing that we'll have to take it to the pound, most likely. I mean, we're not a charity.”

“You're telling me Veronica forgot to pick up the dog?”

“Correct. And no one seems to have any idea where we can reach her.”

“Her parents live in Tewksbury. It's Jack James. He's in the book.”

“I already tried him. You're my second contact, my alternate contact. Her parents said they didn't know where she was. And they wouldn't come for the dog.”

“Look, I'm sorry—”

“Her parents thought she might be with a friend named Peter something. Would you have any idea—”

“My relationship with Ronni ended more than a year ago.” He spoke as though he were issuing a public announcement. Or maybe a private one, for the woman who'd answered the phone.

“Relationship. Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring back bad memories, Mr. Garrison.”

“No problem.”

“I probably shouldn't ask, but is Miss James someone we shouldn't take on as a client again? Is she unreliable?”

“Not with dogs.”

“Well thank you. You wouldn't know any names of friends she might be staying with.”

“Sorry.”

“Maybe a new boyfriend?”

“I doubt it.”

“I mean if I don't find her I'm gonna be stuck with Dana—”

“You're kidding, right?” He laughed, long and loud, ending in a hiccup. “Is Dana the dog?”

“Yes.”

“A real bitch, right?” He was off again, laughing.

“I don't understand.”

“Hey, you don't have to. You gave me the first laugh I've had today. Don't apologize. The bitch.”

He hung up and I quickly dialed the bitch in question. Just in case she'd lied to me about the meeting as well. One ring, two rings, three. A recorded voice answered. I had reached 617-555-9687. If I wished to leave a message—

Dammit. If I couldn't proceed on one case, I ought to be able to move on another. Strike out on one, try again. I decided to go to a bar. And not alone either. Eddie wanted me to look into possible mob connections. My fingers punched Sam Gianelli's number. It was an impulse, like naming a mythical dog after a client. It was pure impulse, and I'd known I was going to do it all along.