The Big Dig Page 3

  Her home is not my home. She lives with her mother and three younger brothers in a tiny house in Watertown. I lend her a “legal” Cambridge address, so she can continue to attend the school she began as a freshman and loves for the social life instead of the academics. I’m the school mom, mainly because Marta, Paolina’s mother, speaks little English and could care less whether her daughter gets an education in anything beyond mascara application. More often than not, when I get off work, I go over to Rindge, enter a room where my little sister is supposed to be sweating algebra homework or playing drums with the jazz band, and find her gone.

  Often she and two or three boys have stepped out for a stroll. I have talked to her about her reputation, about what guys want and what she’ll get, but she is almost fifteen, and nothing I say penetrates her multiply pierced ears.

  She was studying for a change, but gave it up as soon as she saw me, turning sullen, pouting her lower lip, and announcing that she had no intention of going home. She and Amelia and Juan and maybe some other kids were gonna maybe rent a couple movies, go over to somebody’s house, and watch them.

  “Right. Somebody whose parents are home?” My eyebrows slid halfway up my forehead in disbelief. As far as I can tell, Paolina’s buddies have parents who work night and day, and are conspicuous only by their absence.

  “Who cares?”

  “Guess.”

  She simmered while I signed her out with the supervisor. She’s already broken so many promises, squandered so many opportunities, proved herself so untrustworthy that she’s on probation, a couple steps removed from expulsion. Outside, on the way to the parking slot I’d snared on Broadway, I got an earful about why she absolutely couldn’t go home. Marta treated her worse than a slave and would exit as soon as she entered, leaving her with dishes to wash, a meal to cook, three slobby younger brothers to watch, and it fucking wasn’t fucking fair.

  I almost told her to watch her mouth, but these days I pick my battles, and I’m no language saint. Besides, it’s not what comes out of her mouth that’s got me worried. Her grades have got me worried. She’s smart, but she won’t turn in her homework. Her clothes have got me worried. Today’s chosen outfit was low-slung pants, tied well below the waist, and most of a hot-pink shirt. Her attitude has got me worried, her belief that today is the only day, that now is the only time, that every immediate itch needs to get immediately scratched. Her survival has got me worried. Sometimes I think the only way I’ll pull her through this crappy adolescence without her getting addicted, pregnant, or—considering the kids she hangs with—knifed, is to rent a moated castle, throw her in, and raise the drawbridge. As if I could.

  “When are you gonna get a cooler car?” She slid into the passenger seat of my aged red Toyota with disdain.

  “Let me make a phone call, okay? I need to wrap up something from work.”

  Since I didn’t have the benefit of Happy Eddie’s guidance, I figured I’d better continue to ingratiate myself with Marian. I hadn’t wanted to risk phoning the vet from the trailer, with the constant threat of Liz walking in on me, so Marian had scrawled the number on a yellow Post-it. I took my cell out of my backpack and punched buttons, closing my eyes, raising my voice to a higher register.

  Busy signal again, dammit.

  The constant aggravating beep could mean the phone was malfunctioning. It could mean the practice was overwhelmed with barking and mewling customers, the help incompetent. I could give up, tell Marian I’d drawn a blank, but I didn’t like the idea. I wanted Marian to know I delivered on promises. I wanted her to owe me.

  My stubborn streak runs a mile wide and is probably my best private-eye trait. I’m not the most patient person in the world, God knows, but if I find the faintest trail, I will stick to it to the end. I also have more than my share of curiosity, and Horgan’s evasiveness about the dog didn’t make sense. If the dog was sick, why not tell Marian? If the dog was dead … well, maybe he didn’t want her to blame herself. Maybe he really was a dream boss.

  Marian had written the vet’s name as well as his number. Paolina waited in the car, glowering, while I ran into a drugstore and checked the Yellow Pages. No, she hadn’t copied Dr. Aronoff’s number incorrectly. Not only that, his office was temptingly close, on Pearl Street in Central Square. I walked back to the car, my tongue caught between my teeth, pondering options. Paolina wasn’t thrilled with the idea of a visit to a vet, but I told her it was either that or straight home. I had to do it for my new job. She said anything but home, so I dialed Marta.

  No more than an hour late, she insisted in urgent Spanish. She needed to go out. Paolina would stay with the boys.

  I hung up, asked Paolina if she had homework.

  “Nothing important.”

  I took Broadway to Inman, made a left at Mass Ave.

  “No way I’d dye my hair or dress like that, not for any crummy job.”

  She’s trying to pick a fight, I told myself, and she’s doing a good job. I drove, staying between the white lines, listening to imaginary music while Paolina searched the radio for stations she knew I couldn’t stand.

  Sometimes I think about deserting her, forgetting we ever met. She’s been my little sister since she was seven; she’s not blood kin. When I was a cop, a volunteer from Big Sisters sold me on the idea of mentoring a neighborhood kid. When I met Paolina, seven and smart, with a bad family situation and an ocean of potential, I was more than sold. I was enchanted.

  I tried to revive the image of that staunch seven-year-old as I searched for on-street parking, traveling slowly enough to earn a blaring honk from a passing Buick. I gave it up and headed for the municipal lot behind Blockbuster Video. “We can get ice cream at Toscanini’s after,” I promised Paolina. Ice cream usually brought the seven-year-old back for a short-term visit.

  The vet’s office was further down Pearl Street than I’d figured, a small storefront halfway to Putnam Ave. When I opened the door a bell jangled and the waiting room inhabitants collectively glanced my way. If I had that kind of crowd in my waiting room, I might turn off the ringer on the phone, too. The bell set off a wild round of barking. Two pugs tried to leap off an elderly woman’s lap, disturbing a huge mutt who lay in the center of the seating area, imitating a rug. A schnauzer was busily humping the corner coatrack. A man cradled a metal cage on his lap. I couldn’t see what was inside, and wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  The reception desk was in an alcove, a tiny desk, a laptop, a silent phone, all under the care of a motherly woman with soft brown curls, a saggy face, and pink cheeks, possibly due to the overheated room. I wondered if the thing in the metal cage was the reason for the heat.

  An elegant woman in a gray suit and impeccable pumps stood near the receptionist, entirely out of place in the shabby office, shaking an angry and insistent finger. She wasn’t tall, but she was thin and imperious enough to give the impression of height.

  The receptionist spoke wearily, “Now, Miss, I’ve told you and told you, I haven’t seen her. I do know who you mean, and yes, she did come in, but not on Friday—”

  “It’s in her book. I can show you.”

  “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter what it says in her book. I can’t—”

  “Well, when did you—”

  I made a noise in my throat.

  “Can I help you?” The receptionist turned to me with relief.

  “I’ll wait,” the elegant woman said defiantly.

  “I don’t know what for,” the receptionist muttered under her breath.

  Paolina, who’d veered off to take a look at the denizen of the metal cage, now stood at my side, bridging the gap between me and the well-dressed woman. Prada bag, Italian shoes. I did a little calculating and almost whistled. You don’t often see a couple thousand dollars’ worth of clothing on the hoof, not in Cambridgeport.

  “What can I do for you, Miss?” the receptionist prompted.

  “Horgan,” I said firmly, deciding on the spot that if Liz didn’t have time
for her kid she probably didn’t ferry the dog to and from the vet. I’d taken the precaution of raising the register of my voice so it wouldn’t seem totally different. I also hadn’t given a first name; I could be Liz’s sister-in-law, if this woman turned out to be utterly familiar with Liz Horgan in person. “I wonder if I could have a quick word with the doctor about Tess.”

  It was simply an opening gambit. No way she’d let me see the doc, not with a full waiting room. Paolina shot me a glance out of the corner of her eye, but she knows never to correct me about matters of name, address, or occupation when I’m on a job.

  “Oh, Tess, such a lovely dog.” The receptionist might not know Liz, but either the mention of Horgan and Tess together had rung a bell, or all dogs were lovely. A buzzer sounded, and she consulted a list on her desk.

  “Miss Tepper, Ruffy and Tuffy can go right into Room Three.”

  The pugs moved and the thin woman said, “If the doctor has a moment, maybe I could ask him if—”

  “Really, it would be a waste of time. I told you she wasn’t here.” The receptionist checked Miss Tepper off her list, consulted her watch, and beamed to show me I was not the object of her bad temper.

  By feigning confusion over a bill, I learned that Tess was not currently at the vet, and hadn’t been a patient for at least two months, beyond which the harried woman would have to check records stored elsewhere. Mission accomplished. I could relieve Marian’s mind, and surely she’d continue to confide in such a cooperative coworker.

  Tess was overdue for a checkup, the receptionist told me. Either she’d skipped an appointment or there had been a mix-up. The schnauzer knocked the coatrack down and the mutt yipped his congratulations. I thanked her and said I’d be sure to schedule Tess’s checkup soon. When I turned, Paolina wasn’t there.

  Shit! In Central Square, one of her prime stomping grounds. She could be in the cut-rate makeup store or the ninety-nine-cent shop or hiding in the narrow aisles of Pearl Art. The Food Co-op has front, back, and side exits, a felon’s delight. She might be halfway to a friend’s house, ready to join the video-watching, dope smoking, and sex play. I’d have to track her down, or go to the cops, who’d already hauled her back a couple of times, sharing a few jokes at my expense. I’d have to call Marta …

  She was barely ten yards from the door, deep in conversation with the elegantly dressed woman. I blew out a breath and watched the steam rise in the frigid air.

  “Miss Carlyle,” the woman said when I approached, “your sister says you might be able to help me.”

  “With what?” I may not have sounded gracious.

  “It’s okay, Carlotta, I’ve seen her around.” Paolina was smug. “At school. She’s, like, one of the do-gooders, drop-inners, ya know. Would I, like, get a finder’s fee? If you take the job?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let me explain—” the woman began.

  “I already have a job, Paolina.”

  “But this is totally up your alley.” Behind her back, so I could see and the well-dressed woman couldn’t, my sister rubbed her thumb across her fingers, the universal code for cash.

  “Your sister says you’re a police officer, Miss Carlyle.”

  “Hey, no, you got it wrong. She’s a private investigator now, finds missing people all the time. Miss, uh, Endicott, right? is looking for a friend of hers. Miss Endicott, this is Carlotta Carlyle, my sister—a big deal private eye. You’ve probably heard of her.” Paolina spoke rapid-fire, like she was selling a used car.

  “Please,” the woman said. “Please, it would be such a relief to talk to someone who could tell me what I ought to do. Couldn’t you just listen?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “But you are a private investigator?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have done missing persons work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please. Can’t we just talk?”

  “I’m trying to explain. I already have a job.”

  “Whatever you charge an hour, I’ll double it. Triple it. An hour of your time. Please.” She wore a heavy gold chain around her neck, a Rolex on her wrist.

  Missing persons cases are more my line than construction fraud. Plus it’s been a long time since I’ve heard a trace of admiration, let alone respect, in my little sister’s voice. I didn’t think it would take long or lead anywhere. Sometimes a person just needs to talk things out, to hear her own thoughts, put them in order.

  “Come on,” Paolina urged. “Somebody has to find people if they disappear. You’d look for me if I was missing, even if I ran away. Wouldn’t you?”

  “You’re not—”

  “I’m not planning to run.” She looked me straight in the eye, but I couldn’t say whether she was telling the truth or not. Years of experience listening to cons try to scam themselves out of holding cells, and none of my lie-detector skills work with my little sister.

  I gave Dana Endicott my card and agreed to meet her at my office in an hour. She didn’t want to wait, but I’d promised Paolina ice cream, and I try to keep my promises.

  Chapter 5

  My office is my house; my house is my office. My Great-aunt Bea left me a three-storey Victorian within walking distance of Harvard Square that does double duty with room to spare. The mortgage is history, all paid off and a good thing, too, because the sky-high property tax more than makes up for it. My last case, the one in which I got shot, took its toll, but the structural damage from the fire has finally been repaired. I repainted the interior walls myself.

  I decided to give Miss Prada-bag half an hour, then change into sweats and head over to the gym. I was pouring myself a Pepsi when the bell rang.

  Three rings means the doorbell is for Roz, my third-floor tenant, housekeeper, and sometime assistant, a post-punk artist with alien hair, a pierced left nostril, and tattoos in unusual places. When I heard no encore to the single bleat, I put down my glass and reversed my steps.

  The woman made no comment as I ushered her down the single step from foyer to living room. I like to think she didn’t notice the sparse decor, but she was probably too well-bred to mention it. I wasn’t too well-bred to take a guess at her age. Thirty, give or take five years, with beautiful skin, the kind that’s never been outdoors without sunscreen and a wide-brimmed hat.

  The living room used to have a velvet sofa, a high-backed rocking chair, an Oriental rug—all courtesy of Aunt Bea—but I haven’t gotten around to replacing them. My big rolltop desk was ruined as well, but at least I have a substitute, even if it is a slab of oak that started life as a door. With black legs under one side and a filing cabinet under the other, it’s serviceable, not elegant. For a client chair, there’s a canvas butterfly job on loan from my bedroom.

  I invited her to sit.

  “I appreciate your time.” She sank gratefully into the chair and then I waited while she opened her mouth, closed it, clasped her hands, and finally came out with, “Your sister is charming.” Earlier I’d noticed her clothes. Now I observed the small neat features in the perfectly oval face, the glossy brown hair, the sprinkle of freckles across the otherwise patrician nose.

  “She can be.”

  “Such lovely eyes.” Her voice, which was probably pleasant enough when she had control of it, sounded high and tight, almost tinny. “I know I said an hour of your time, but, well, I made a few calls. My attorney speaks well of you.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “Arthur Goldman says you’re honest and you don’t give up easily.”

  I knew Goldman. I wasn’t sure about his honesty, but what the hell, he was a lawyer so it didn’t count. If he was her lawyer, she numbered her bundle by the millions, not the hundred thousands.

  “I want to hire you.”

  “To find the person you were asking about at the vet’s office?”

  Light glinted off three heavy rings, none of them on the telltale third finger of her left hand. “Listen, I’m not a fool. I’m not given to dramatic displ
ays. I went to the police first, but the officer seemed to think it was none of my business. I really don’t know where to begin—”

  “It’s Miss Endicott, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry.” She plunged her hand into the side pocket of her bag, leaned forward, and handed me her card. Thick and creamy, with raised dark print, it said Dana Renee Endicott, and hadn’t come from the cut-rate printer with whom I do business. It gave a Beacon Street address, a local phone number, and nothing so vulgar as a place of business. “Call me Dana. Please.” She tried to reposition her slender body comfortably in the sprawling chair and I made a note to replace it sooner rather than later.

  “So, who’s missing, Dana?”

  “A young woman. Veronica James.”

  If I’d been considering taking the case, I’d have scrawled notes on a yellow legal pad. I wasn’t, so I simply listened. “And she is?”

  “I suppose Veejay has been my tenant for almost two years, although I don’t think of myself as a landlord. I live on upper Beacon, one of those old brownstones. It’s been in my family for—oh, generations. It’s too big for me, but I haven’t wanted to split it up—and sometimes through charity work, I meet potential tenants—roomers, you might call them. At times, the place is almost a halfway house, but right now, there’s only Veronica. And the dogs.”

  Slivers of upper Beacon Street brownstones, converted to condos, go for seven figures, often eight. An Endicott with her own upper Beacon Street manse defined what Bostonians mean when they say “old money.” Coupled with the “charity work” reference, the pricey attorney, and the kind of clothes I can’t afford at rock-bottom reductions in Filene’s Basement, chances were I’d fulfilled a fantasy and encountered a living, breathing philanthropist.

  “I met Veronica at a fund-raiser,” she said. “We talked, the way you do at those things, and it turned out she was looking for a place downtown. I trusted her on sight, and I don’t do that with many people.”