The Big Dig

by Linda Barnes

  “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.

  Chapter 14

  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.”
r />   “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.

  Chapter 15

  Raquela’s looked the same but I didn’t. I’d changed my fade-into-the-background snoop garb for more feminine attire, although I should add that my idea of feminine runs more toward tight black jeans and a turquoise sweater with a low scoop neck than anything trimmed with flowers or lace. I’d traded sneakers for slides, used lipstick to make up for the missing color in my hair, dabbed perfume in the hollow of my throat.

  You go see the old flame, you want him to regret the passing of the spark.

  Carl was behind the bar, chatting with a crewcut male. Heidi waited tables. I didn’t spot my brassy-haired whore, but a couple of her sisters were laughing and drinking with a group of suits wearing conventioneer’s name tags.

  The joint was Friday-night noisy, abuzz with animated post-work-week conversation. Potential customers formed a ragged line by the door, but Sam already had a table. You get a good table in this town if your last name is Gianelli.

  He’s the son of Anthony “Big Tony” Gianelli, mob underboss. He’s also the first man I slept with, an event that seems long ago and just like yesterday. I was driving a cab nights, making a stab at my first year of college. The passion and the heat rose like steam in the back room at Green and White Cab, and we kept the office door locked all hours of the night. He was my boss, and I was dumb enough to think it didn’t matter.

  The spark can lie dormant for months, but never seems to completely cool. A soft breath can send it flaring. Who knows what it is, that thing that makes one man deliciously sexy, another seem like a cartoon cutout?

  Sometimes I think it’s his voice. There was a time I used to dial his answering machine when I knew he wasn’t home, shiver at the husky rumble as he promised to return my call. Must be the voice, I thought, moving toward the table, iron drawn by a magnet. There are things I like about the way he looks: tiny wrinkles around his eyes, the way his shoulders meet his neck. He’s solid, tall, good-looking enough, if you’re partial to stubborn jaws and dark hair. But he’s no male model, no movie-star clone. He was wearing a dark suit, charcoal gray with a faint stripe, a deep maroon shirt.

  We’ve been married, but never to each other. We’re both divorced. In spite of all I’ve learned from the vast experience of a nineteen-month marriage and way too many men, Sam exerts a pull I can’t explain or deny.

  “Margarita? Beer? Or I could order a bottle of champagne.” His lazy smile brought more wrinkles to the corners of his eyes than I remembered.

  Saying yes to champagne would be as good as saying the night would end in a tangle of sheets and limbs. My stomach tightened and I sat quickly, hoping no color had flared in my cheeks. If we started with champagne there would be no way to ask the questions Eddie would expect me to ask.

  “What kind of champagne?” I asked.

  “When I got your call, I wondered if you’d started drinking without me.”

  “You think I’d need to get drunk to get up the nerve to call you?”

  “Not at all. I hope not. What’s with the hair? I’m not complaining; it’s fine. It’s just not—”

  “Yeah, it’s not me. I’m not supposed to be me.”

  “So who are you?” He lit a cigarette, offered me the pack. I shook my head.

  “Just a secretary.”

  “You need work? I can always use a secretary, especially if you take dictation.”

  “Nobody takes dictation anymore, Sam.”

  We’d settled easily into the old routine, speaking with our eyes, saying what we had to say between the lines.

  Heidi appeared at the table, a lot more quickly than she’d come to take my order when I’d been alone. I wondered how much of that had to do with the Gianelli pull. “You wanna order?”

  “I’ll have a margarita,” I said.

  Sam lifted an eyebrow. “A martini for me. Bombay Sapphire.”

  “How’re you doing?” Heidi’s smile sparkled in a way it hadn’t when I’d been traveling solo. “You talk to Veejay?”

  “No. You?” Her smile went to Sam, hoping for an introduction.

  I decided not to oblige.

  She said, “Carl found somebody else for her job. You want salt on that margarita?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s that about?” Sam asked me as she left.

  “I’m looking for a waitress. A woman who disappeared.”

  The clink of glasses and the tinkle of laughter ebbed and flowed around a Sinatra tune. The lighting seemed dimmer than last time, the plants greener. The ceiling fans spun rising smoke into mist. I glanced up and my eyes met other eyes in the mirror over the bar. The man looked down abruptly, muttered to his companion.

  They wore suits too expensive for cops, but they had the look of cops. The heavier one should have told his tailor to allow more room for the shoulder holster. The slimmer one wore a pinkie ring.

  Sam said, “Is it this missing woman you want to talk about? Or did you just …”

  “Miss you?”

  “That’s what I want to hear.”

  “It’s not the missing woman.”

  “Sure you don’t want champagne?”

  “It’s a different case.”

  “Oh …” He took a long drag on his cigarette and I wished I had one to hold, to wave for punctuation.

  “Eddie Conklin says hi. I changed my mind, can I bum a cigarette?”

  “I wouldn’t want to corrupt you, Carlotta.”

  “Too late.” The motions of lighting up will never be foreign to me. Like riding a bike. I can always flick a match or guide a gold cigarette lighter to my lips.

  “I heard you were working for Eddie.”

  Boston’s a small town disguised as a big city. You hear about people you know, people you don’t know. I inhaled, felt the smoke stir in my lungs. I was pleased that Sam listened to what people said about me.

  “It surprised me,” he went on.

  “Why?”

  “I thought you were so damned independent. Working for Eddie.”

  “It’s partly the insurance.”

  “How’s your leg?”

  “Fine. Yours?”

  His was shattered when a bomb went off in the Green and White offices. For a long time I considered it my fault. I regretted mentioning it, wondered if he’d waited for me at a table instead of the bar because he didn’t want me to notice his limp.

  “Fine.” The silence might have been awkward if not for the cigarettes. “How’s the kid?” I fished in my backpack, found my wallet, and passed him a photo.

  Paolina’s most recent class picture is almost too revealing. It’s not the low-cut blouse, or the too-red lipstick, or the over-styled hair. She looks proud of her femininity, but I see fear behind the arrogance. To me, she looks scared of how grown-up she’s getting, how grown-up she is.

  “She’s gorgeous. A babe.”

  “She’s smart.” My voice was sharper than I intended. “She’s also pretty messed up.”

  Paolina used to play this game where I’d marry Sam, we’d adopt her, and we’d all ride off into a glowing sunset. That kind of shit is pernicious, especially for girls. They market it in fairy tales, in movies geared for the six-to-ten-year-old set. Happily ev
er after. It’s the sort of thing that puts me off marriage. Permanently, I think.

  “You seeing anybody?” Sam asked.

  I was ready for the query, parried it. “Mostly I’m working, looking for the missing waitress, doing this stuff for Eddie.”

  “On the Dig.”

  “Some questions came up and—”

  “You figured it was dirty so you came to me.”

  “I figured you’d give me the word. It’s not that Eddie’s people are gonna step in and shut it down or mess it up. It’s that we want to know what we’re dealing with.”

  “It’s always good to know what you’re dealing with,” he said.

  Heidi brought the drinks, my margarita the size of a birdbath. We clinked glasses. I rolled salt crystals around on my tongue and watched the two men in the mirror watch me.

  “You’re dealing with me, Sam. Nothing’s gonna come back on you.”

  He shook his head. “You’re asking me is the Dig dirty? Come on. How mobbed up can it be, with politicians up the wazzoo? You wanna know about the Dig, I’d say it’s a different kind of dirty. Cover-your-ass dirty. Who-gets-the-contract-and-why dirty. There’s a trail of dirt goes all the way to Washington and all the way back to the Reagan administration and before. It’s dirt with governors and congressmen and lobbyists involved.” It was a long speech for him, and I was surprised by the passion in it.

  “Let’s drink to old Tip O’Neill,” he suggested. “And to all the congressmen who supported the Dig in order to thank Tip for all the pork over all the years.”

  “What I’m talking about, specifically, is Horgan Construction. Gerry and Liz Horgan.”

  “Horgan? How’d you pick them?”

  “I didn’t. Eddie did.”

  “Eddie’s not as smart as he used to be if he thinks the Horgans are paisans. Horgan, he’d be into the Irish.”

  “Is he?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m a paisan.”

  “Norrelli Trucking.”

  “Probably paisans, too,” he said flatly.

  “Sam, what do you hear about kickbacks on dirt hauling?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s the big deal Eddie’s working?”