The Big Dig

by Linda Barnes

  My primary target was the tall filing cabinet in the corner of the inner office, but I spent three minutes at Liz’s desk, searching for a desk calendar, an appointment book, something that would give me a fix on a planned three o’clock meeting. I couldn’t find anything, decided to move on. I yanked out the upper file drawer, flipped quickly through the folders: Equipment rental, Equipment purchase … I scrawled down the names of insurers. Eddie’s ops could scam them, get them to check their claims records …

  The phone rang. At first I thought it was the desk phone, ringing through from the outer office console, but as I approached, I realized the noise was coming from Liz Horgan’s top drawer. Most Dig workers rely on cell phones. Liz had forgotten to transfer hers to her purse. I put out a hand to see if the drawer in which it rang was locked.

  I have perfect pitch. It’s a gift, but there’s not much call for it, unless you’re a piano tuner or a Vegas impersonator. When the drawer opened smoothly, I lifted the phone, pressed the button, and said hello, raising my pitch to Liz Horgan’s level. I thought I’d be speaking to Kevin Fournier, hoped he’d tell me something I wanted to know.

  At first I heard nothing, just a smooth murmur like the noise of the sea. Then, a faint crackle, then a voice. No word of greeting, but someone speaking, faintly, far away, droning into the phone, reading, or chanting.

  “The Central Artery southbound ramp to the Leverett Circle Connector Bridge, Exit Twenty-six-A, will be closed weeknights tonight through Saturday morning, nine P.M. through five A.M. The Storrow Drive ramp to the bridge will remain open through Thursday.” The voice sounded hesitant and unsure. Unlike a recorded announcement, it stumbled over words.

  “Hello?” I repeated.

  The voice continued, uninflected. “The Central Artery northbound ramp to Causeway Street, Exit Twenty-five will be closed Thursday and Friday nights, eleven P.M. through five-thirty A.M. The I-Ninety-three northbound ramp to the Tobin Bridge, Exit Twenty-seven, will be—”

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  A quiet click, then silence.

  Chapter 8

  At quitting time, I left the trailer, walked to Quincy Market, and lost myself in the crowd. Near the chocolate-chip-cookie kiosk, with no obvious Dig workers in sight, I hauled out my cell and called Foundation Security. Eddie had told me to ask for Spike, to feel free to use him to run down information, much as I employ my tenant, Roz, when I’m working a case. She’s a computer freak and a phone freak, and as long as I don’t use her in person, no one can see her tattoos, piercings, or oddly dyed hair. Spike knew my name, was expecting my call. I rattled off the names of the insurance companies, asked him to check the claims, gave him my cell and home numbers. He sounded competent, and I wondered whether he was secretly as weird as Roz, if he was ever tempted to freelance, or if he preferred the steady paycheck, the regular hours.

  I wondered if I was wasting taxpayer money investigating the Horgans. Stuff walking off the site wasn’t exactly a capital crime, unless Eddie suspected that they were ordering more than they ought to be, reselling equipment, either on the black market or to unsuspecting colleagues. He seemed to be holding something back. Maybe I ought to pay Roz to check out the relationship between Eddie and old man Horgan.

  I blew out a sigh and shook my head. No wonder I’d rather work for myself. I know I can trust myself, except when it comes to men. Lots of attractive men on a construction site, rugged and well-built like this Leland Walsh. Hard to tell whether Walsh was overly curious about me or not. Could take his job as foreman seriously, think of himself as some kind of friendly welcomer for newcomers. And then there was Kevin Fournier. I didn’t have a fix on him. Was he attracted to Liz Horgan? Or attracted to Liz Horgan’s power? I stared at my cell phone, decided it was time to make the transition to my night job even though it was barely three-thirty in the afternoon.

  Some investigators swear by Johnnie Walker Black, but I never send Claire Harper, my favorite source at the Registry of Motor Vehicles, a bottle of scotch for Christmas. I send a dozen long-stemmed roses on Valentine’s Day instead. Claire, a shy, middle-aged clerk who’d have been termed a spinster in my grandmother’s day, gets a lot of mileage from those stems, and she always remembers my name.

  She put me on hold for three minutes, but for the Registry, that’s nothing. When she got back on the line, she confirmed the facts I’d written on my legal pad. Veronica James owned no vehicles registered in the state. Dana Renee Endicott owned a black 1997 Jeep Grand Cherokee and a brand-new dove-gray Audi A6 Quattro sedan. I made sure of the license plate number of the Jeep, got the vehicle identification number as well.

  “Parking violations?” In Boston, with its residential-parking-only zones, the Registry can be the fastest way to locate runaways with cars. They park in the city and zap, they’ve got a ticket.

  “Sorry.”

  “How recent is your info?”

  “If they tagged the Jeep after Sunday, I won’t have it yet.”

  So much for automation and efficiency at the Registry. I told Claire I’d call again, punched Dana Endicott’s number into the phone, hit Send. I could take the train to Beacon Street, or walk, which might be faster. I felt the need to inspect items belonging to the missing woman, to observe her space. Did she have prints or posters on the walls? Flowered pink sheets or black satin? Did her closet hold raggy jeans or leather pants? Did she wear perfume, shave her legs? I wanted to know what she’d taken with her, what she’d left behind. I’d never seen the woman and she seemed an insubstantial ghost, hinted at by strangers.

  A recording told me that Miss Endicott was not available. I left a message asking her to return my call as soon as possible. Damn. I didn’t even have a photograph.

  I double-checked to make sure I had the correct address for Veronica’s day job, decided a phone call would be unnecessary. Someone would be on the premises of Charles River Dog Care, located on Western Avenue in Allston. Dogs need care; dogs aren’t cats.

  You can’t get to Allston directly via the T. You need to transfer to a bus, and if you think the trains have gone to hell, the buses have descended to a lower level. Last time I took one, two guys swearing in Portuguese started a brawl, bleeding on their fellow commuters until a third passenger bellowed and pulled a .38. I decided to save the aggravation, take the T home, and switch to my car.

  Charles River Dog Care, with a big red sign in the window, shared a block with two shabby auto repair shops and a fast-food mart. The parking lot was behind the building, down a long narrow drive. It held an old brown Volvo station wagon and a former school bus, painted sky blue. No sign of Dana’s Jeep. The entrance to the low brick structure was also in back, cheerfully painted, red letters and cartoonish paw prints on the glass panels of the inner door. I didn’t need to press a buzzer or knock. The minute I approached, raucous barking filled the air.

  “What?” The man wore gray overalls that looked like hospital scrubs. He stuck his nose out of a narrow crack.

  “I’d like to see the owner, please. I’m not selling anything.”

  “You gotta dog?”

  “Tell him it’s about Veejay. Veronica James.”

  “You that Dana woman?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll see if he’s gotta minute.”

  I would have thanked him, but he’d already shut the door in my face. Just as I was starting to wonder how long I was going to listen to dogs howl, Gray Scrubs returned, smiling to show me he hadn’t dawdled on purpose.

  “Dogs won’t bother you,” he said, swinging the door wide.

  Dogs don’t bother me. I have a slight preference for independently arrogant felines, but as long as dogs don’t slobber all over me, I think they’re great.

  The business occupied an area that looked like it might once have housed a dance studio, a large wood-panelled room down a flight of stairs, with a partitioned corner big enough to hold a threadbare couch and a couple of sprung armchairs. It didn’t smell like a dance studio.
It smelled like essence of wet dog. Dogs there were, terriers, and Labs, and golden retrievers. Wire cages lined three walls, not small cages either, more like zoo enclosures. I stopped counting at twenty-seven waggly tongues only because I’d crossed the large room and was entering the small office beyond.

  It was tiny, sparsely furnished with a metal desk, a couple of chairs, and a lone file cabinet. The nameplate on the desk said Rogers Walters, both names plural. A man sprang to his feet when I entered. His welcoming smile dimmed when he confirmed that I was not a prospective client.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Veronica James.”

  “Really? On whose authority?” Walters wore brown wool slacks, a beige checked shirt, nothing fancy, but probably the dogs didn’t mind, and it was a step above the outfit worn by his employee, more suitable for meeting the public. A thick sweater, covered with dog hair, hung over the back of his chair.

  I hadn’t decided on an approach. I try not to, until I see what I’m up against. “She works here, right?” I offered him my most charming smile.

  “And you are?” His voice stayed crisp and chilly, and I wondered whether my smile was more effective when I was a redhead. I noted his erect posture and spartan surroundings. He could have been a former cop from the calculating look in his eyes, and I decided that deception was not the way to go. I handed him a card that stated my true occupation. I don’t use them all that often, but sometimes they seem like the ticket.

  “Private investigator?” His mouth twisted as though he were tasting something unpleasant. “Well, Miss Carlyle, what’s this about?”

  “Veronica does work for you?”

  “I haven’t seen her this week.”

  “Heard from her?”

  He shook his head.

  “Her friends are worried about her.”

  “You mean I’m not the only one she’s gone AWOL on?” He was maybe thirty-five, hair starting to thin, parted at the side and yanked across his forehead.

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Friday. When she didn’t make it in Monday, I figured she was sick. Inconvenient. I had to fill in, do her work. She didn’t call. Inconsiderate. A friend of hers did, later. Or was that her sister, looking for her?” He scratched the back of his neck before sinking into his chair. “Gave her name. Dana something?”

  He didn’t invite me to sit. “Her landlady.”

  “Ran out on the rent?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Okay, it’s just she’s—it’s not like she’s wanted by the police or anything?”

  “I’m not with the police.” I tried the smile again, got no answering warmth. “You weren’t concerned or alarmed when she didn’t come in?”

  “No, but I can’t say I expected her to stay long. I’ll be frank about it. I don’t pay enough.” A dog yelped in the distance and I heard the outside door open and close. “Only reason Veronica stayed was the dogs. She’s great with dogs. Clients beg for her—can Veejay pick up the dog, spend time with the dog, school the dog. We do complete day care, pickup, exercise, grooming, the whole package. I’ll tell you, if she walked in the door right now, apology or no apology, good excuse or no excuse, I hate to say it, but I’d take her back, no questions asked. I don’t know how I’m going to find somebody else, terrific with animals, willing to work.” He stared at me with hopeful eyes, as though I might suddenly break down and confess a desire to care for other people’s pets. When I didn’t, he said, “Is that all?”

  “Did she get along with her coworkers as well as she got along with the dogs?”

  He seemed puzzled by the question. “Well, there’s just Harold and me, and Erica, part-time. She—Veejay—never made trouble. Small place like this, I’d have heard about it.”

  “No fights, no arguments?” Gray Scrubs must be Harold. “No.”

  He wouldn’t let me see her employment file—confidential—but allowed a peek at her job application. She’d filled it in slightly less than a year ago. Her address, social security number, next of kin matched those I already had. Nothing different, nothing out of the ordinary.

  Walters lowered his voice. “Most likely thing, she met some guy and—you know, she’s shacked up with him somewhere. She’ll turn up. Of course, that’s probably not what you like to tell your clients.”

  I ignored his assumption that I was trying to run up my fee, since PI’s need to cultivate thick skins, and convinced him to run through Veejay’s last day with me. She’d worked a regular eight to four shift on Friday, going out with the van in the morning, picking up charges for the day. Twenty-four dogs, give or take a couple, but Veronica and the driver—Harold usually drove—could handle them because the van was specially equipped and the dogs knew the drill.

  “Any breaks in her routine lately? Unexplained absences?”

  “No.”

  “Any evidence she took drugs? Drank?”

  “I don’t put up with that sort of thing. Look, I don’t have a lot of time right now. I haven’t been able to replace her, and I have work to do.” He stood, a none-too-subtle hint that he considered the interview over. “Maybe she mentioned her plans to one of your clients.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I’d like to be able to ask them myself.”

  “Look, I run a service for busy people. It’s not cheap and there are others who offer pretty much the same thing. I’m not going to annoy my clients by giving their names to a private investigator.”

  “I’d be discreet. I wouldn’t mention you.”

  “Veronica works for me. They’d know. Forget it.” He held my gaze.

  “I’d like to speak to your other workers.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “It won’t take long.”

  He stalked to the door. “Harold!”

  The man with the gray coveralls appeared, and before I could say a word, Walters demanded, “Did Veronica tell you she wasn’t coming in this week?”

  “No.”

  “There.” He folded his arms, and the gesture seemed to say, that’s that, get out.

  “And your part-time employee—”

  “Erica.”

  “I’d like to ask her.”

  “She’ll just say the same as me.” Harold had a narrow face, a big squashy nose. “Veejay left on Friday, same as always. We were both surprised she didn’t show up.”

  “She have any special friends among the owners?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, she liked the dogs.”

  “Ever see her with a boyfriend?”

  “Nah.”

  “And now,” Walters said firmly, “we have a schedule to keep, like the military. A time to run the dogs along the Charles—plenty of fresh air and exercise here—a time to feed them, a time to get them on the bus. It’s loading time. Why don’t you see the lady out, Harold?”

  I hadn’t seen Veronica’s room yet, hadn’t spoken to her parents. I’d probably never need Charles River Dog Care’s client list, but it seemed to me that Walters guarded it too zealously. As we climbed the steps, I tried my smile on Harold. “You probably keep track of all the places you go to pick up the dogs.”

  “Boss gives me a list.”

  “I’ll bet you could make me a copy.”

  He didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no, but his steps slowed, and when we got to the landing, he didn’t open the door immediately.

  “It would be worth money,” I said.

  “How much?”

  “Fifty bucks. On receipt.”

  My card disappeared into his pocket.

  Chapter 9

  I considered driving to Dana Endicott’s brownstone and banging the door, in case she was home but not answering the phone, debated the wisdom of harassing a wealthy client while pondering the hostile parking situation in her neighborhood—tow zones, fifteen-minute meters, resident-only parking. My leg throbbed, probably because of the worsening weather, but possibly due to guilt. I hadn’t been to the gym in three days.
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  I drove to Gold’s—plenty of parking in the lot—raced a stationary bike for half an hour, did prescribed leg lifts and extensions, grunted through hamstring strengtheners. The regime relieved the guilt, but didn’t improve the weather.

  It was wet and nasty when I emerged, horizontal gusts of rain rendering my umbrella useless. I rarely cook, but on nights like this nothing beats chili, so I stopped for ingredients at the Star. The recipe varies, but cans of Ro-tel diced tomatoes and green chiles are usually in the mix, along with a couple of huge Spanish onions, ground meat, and plenty of garlic. I showered as soon as I got home, got into comfy sweats, then chopped, stirred, and tasted, downing a beer to counter the spices. I felt good about work, something I hadn’t done for awhile. I prefer working for myself—that had something to do with it—but for some reason, a line from a Tennessee Williams play kept slipping into my head, the one about the father who worked for the phone company and fell in love with long distance.

  I could easily fall in love with missing persons. If I ever get to the point where I can pick and choose, specialize, concentrate, I’ll take a missing persons case every time. I like studying what isn’t there, envisioning the hole in the doughnut. It’s like observing air currents, disturbances caused by the absence of a body in space. I couldn’t yet see Veejay, not even in my mind’s eye, but I was starting to feel the eddies of her absence, from the unskilled Elvira covering her tables, to the business owner doing the work of his employee, to the landlady with an empty room and a missing car.

  Missing people move me more than missing construction equipment, no doubt about it. Was meeting rich Dana Endicott a sign that I should go back to working for myself? I considered my finances. My bankbook needed more than a single boost. Paolina and college, I reminded myself. Paolina’s got money of her own, from her absentee druglord dad, but I’d spent a lot of it recently, getting her out of public housing on the theory that she’d never make it as far as college if she stayed.