Chapter 10

Through the window of the trailer I saw Horgan jump into the back of the ambulance with the injured man and a female EMT. Mass General was closest. I’d spent time there with my bullet wound. Mrs. Horgan, still shivering, clutched my hand and asked me to fetch Leland Walsh. I couldn’t find him, but used the break to alert Eddie via cell phone. I tried to get close enough to the accident site to take a few discreet photographs, but the scaffold staircase was guarded by grim orange-vested hard hats. Later Marian told me Walsh had gone to the hospital, too.

Work didn’t stop for long. The east scaffold staircase remained closed, but the west staircase reopened quickly. Some grumbled about forging on so soon after a coworker had been lifted motionless from the trench, but no one walked off the job. Everyone knew that the project was a huge-bellied beast, that delay was costly. Marian rang project headquarters, assured me that they’d run with the ball, notifying insurers, OSHA, the Turnpike Authority. Marian and I started to assemble photocopies of weekly safety-inspection charts. The phone started ringing and didn’t stop: reporters; OSHA; the chief safety officer. Charlie Perez, the site safety officer, argued fiercely with Harv O’Day. In the midst of chaos, Liz Horgan, recovered and working, sent over coffee and Danish for the trailer staff, and even Marian was touched and grateful.

“Accident” was the only term I heard when I ate lunch on the cold ground with a bunch of laborers. Rotten fucking luck. So far behind, and now this. Getting to be a bad luck site. I tried to guide the conversation toward Kevin Fournier, what he’d been like, who his friends were, but the group drifted into awkward silence. No one wanted to speak ill of Kevin, which meant they weren’t optimistic about his recovery. Some of the workers had seen his injuries from a closer vantage point than I had, but no one, it seemed, had seen him fall. There was no rousing chorus of what-a-great-guy-Kevin-was. No one claimed to be a friend, to know his family. He wasn’t married, I gathered from remarks about numerous, hot-looking girlfriends. Good football player, somebody said. Liked a bet.

I half-expected Eddie to show up. When he didn’t, I rang him again and arranged an evening meeting. Marian had trouble getting through to the hospital, figured hard hats were flooding the line with cell calls. She sent me to spread the word that she’d act as liasion, phoning every half hour, letting people know if Fournier’s condition changed. It was initially described as grave, which meant he’d gotten there alive. It didn’t improve during the long afternoon. It couldn’t have worsened; in hospital-speak there was no term more perilous than grave.

I left at three o’clock, quitting time for secretaries, frustrated but feeling that there was nothing else I could do. I wasn’t Fournier’s next-of-kin; I couldn’t waltz into his hospital room and check out his injuries up close. I wasn’t a city official who could slap a “stop work” order on the site, or a bigshot Dig manager who could demand an immediate investigation. I wasn’t a cop working an attempted homicide, and I wasn’t a solo operative either. Eddie had warned me to stay undercover and keep my nose clean. Still, I might not have torn myself away if I hadn’t had a second job, a scheduled appointment.

It should have involved viewing Veronica James’s room, but it didn’t. Dana Endicott, in New York on unexpected business, had left neither a key nor a firm date for her return, simply a message on my answering machine. The delay annoyed me; I don’t like to skip steps. I wondered what the rich landlady had done with the dogs, whether she’d entrusted them to Rogers Walters and Charles River Dog Care.

I didn’t go home to change, didn’t have time. I stopped to fill the gas tank, stuck a Robert Johnson CD in the deck, and tried to let the thumping bass of the Delta blues soothe my mind. Driving usually helps me unwind, but images from the Dig tensed my fingers on the steering wheel—the swaying gurney in the shadowy light, the man who’d removed his hard hat and crossed himself as the injured man was carried by, the tense faces of the workers at lunch. Why had no one seen Fournier fall, heard him cry out?

Tewksbury, Veronica James’s childhood home, twenty-two miles from Boston, used to be poor folks’ farm country, but few of the old spreads remain and much of the rocky ground is occupied by treeless subdivisions. The Jameses lived near the town center, a crossroads with a village green and a steepled clapboard church, in a Cape-style house with a saggy porch and weathered gray paint. I didn’t see a doorbell so I knocked.

The woman who opened the door had no sparkle left in her brown eyes. She stared at me as though I were about to deliver bad news. I gave my name instead, reminded her that we’d spoken on the phone.

“We don’t have to talk to you. You’re not the police.”

“That’s right. May I come in?” The low-ceilinged foyer smelled of mothballs. There was noise coming from somewhere, chirpy little jingles from a distant TV.

“Well, Jack—that’s my husband—he’s in the back room. It’s kind of a mess. He’s been off sick, but then, you wouldn’t know that.”

Vague. Dana Endicott had described her phone conversation with Veronica’s mother as vague and uninformative. “I don’t mind about the mess.”

She shrugged and stepped aside. The vestibule emptied into a front room with an aged, overstuffed plaid couch. There were doilies on the sofa arms and chair backs, a cross-bound Jesus on the wall. The room into which she led me was an add-on larger than the living room, and the fifty inches of gleaming color screen at one end looked more like a religious shrine than the front-room Jesus did. Two fat armchairs were positioned like movie seats, a snack table between them. The man in the righthand chair was watching Jeopardy and the volume was loud.

Veronica’s dad was easily twenty years older than her mom. Pale and puffy, he looked like the act of raising a potato chip to his lips was his idea of vigorous exercise. His chair was in the reclining position, elevating veiny feet encased in furry slippers.

“Company, Jack,” the woman yelled over the TV blare.

“What? Who’s that?”

“That Carlyle woman come to ask about Veronica.”

He regarded me with irritation and reached for the remote. If he could have pressed a button to make me disappear instead of the game show host, I’d have dissolved in a puff of smoke.

“The hell you want?”

“You get good sound on that set,” I said admiringly.

He sniffed a little, nodded. Sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, grizzled patch on his chin, not quite a goatee, but trying. “You wanna talk, then sit down, the both of you. Go on now, Helen. Why you standing up so I have to gawk?” He craned his head at me. “I hurt my back. Makes me goddam irritable.”

Helen hovered till I lowered myself onto a small settee. Then she took her place in her big armchair.

“What’s all the fuss about Ronni anyway?” the man said. “She’s over twenty-one. It’s a free country, last time I looked.”

“Certainly is,” I agreed. “I just want to make sure I get a balanced viewpoint, include your input about your daughter.”

“I have four daughters, four, grown and gone. Two married, one at Fitchburg State—sophomore this year—besides Ronni. Plus four grandchildren.” He waved an arm at the framed photos on the side wall, relentlessly posed high school graduation shots mingled with Sears kiddie candids of the grandchildren. The frames were identical dime-store brass, and there were rectangular spots on the wallpaper that spoke of rearrangement as more grandkids came along. “Now our Elsie’s here at least three times a week, always stays for supper. Helen looks after the boys while she shops.”

“Can you point out Veronica for me?”

“One in the low-cut blouse,” he said disapprovingly.

The mother made a noise. “I told her to wear something with a nice collar, but she said all the girls were wearing those V-neck things.”

Veronica, on the lower right, wore her hair sleek and dark, parted to the left, hanging artlessly around a thin face. Her eyes, too big for her face, were dark as well. They stared somewhere over the photographer’s left shoulder. While I studied the photo, Mrs. James prattled on about Veronica’s high school wardrobe, how she always wore black or white, while Mrs. James preferred pretty colors, just like her oldest, Elsie, did.

“Hell.” Mr. James’s outburst stopped her cold. “Hell’s just the first part of my wife’s name—it’s not like I’m swearing all the time.” He gave me a look that said I ought to appreciate his subtle humor, so I contorted my face in what I hoped was the right kind of grin. “Let’s get this over with. What do you want to know about Veronica?”

“I take it she doesn’t visit as often as Elsie.”

Helen James looked up from picking invisible lint off her skirt. “Once, maybe twice a month.”

“Is she regular about visits?”

“Not really. She comes around birthdays, anniversaries.”

“Last weekend, the weekend her landlady expected her to stay here, was that somebody’s birthday?”

Her eyebrows were brown, but her hair was platinum, straw dry, badly bleached. She shook her head. “No. Our Elsie’s oldest boy had a big party three weeks ago. Six years old. Lovely party. Had a magician and all, made those cute animal balloons.”

“Was Veronica at the party?”

“Yes, but she hardly stayed.”

“And you weren’t expecting her at all last weekend.”

“Well, the girls know they can always come home. Our door’s always open. Once there was trouble with her husband, and our daughter moved—”

“Hel, that’s none of her business.”

“Jack, I’m only saying Ronni knows she can come home without arranging for it in advance.”

“Well, it’s nice for me to know ahead of time,” he said. “Not like it’s a hotel.”

“When did Veronica leave home? Go off on her own?” I glanced at Helen, but it was Jack who answered.

“Out of high school one day, out the door the next. Big city girl in a two-bit town. Says she has to live somewhere she can see a new movie every night. Now, our Elsie lived right here all the way through college.”

I was starting to hate Elsie. I’d already decided on her photo, the one with the stuck-up nose and superior sneer.

“Jayme lived here till she married, too, but little Jackie, she wanted to try the dorm this year. Jackie’s our youngest.” He sounded fond of Jackie.

“Which daughter is Veronica?”

Helen said, “You know, I always thought she’d study hard, be a vet. She’s a smart one, she is, but it’s always animals with her. Momma, can I bring home the hamster, the rabbit, whatever they’re keeping at the school.”

“Hel, this lady doesn’t care a fig about those damn animals.”

“Jack, reason that woman’s all upset is Ronni left her dog.”

“Yeah, well, she can afford to feed the damn thing. What’s the difference, three mutts or four? She’s a damned busybody is what she is. I mean, think about it. Veronica’s a pretty girl. I’m not saying she’s an angel, maybe she’s a little wild. She goes out, and that woman wants me to report her missing? Hell, I’m lodge brothers with half the police officers in town. Half the girls in town are shacked up with some man not their husband. I’m not shocked by it anymore, even if I do think some of them ought to be horsewhipped. If you raise a child right, they’ll turn out right, that’s what I always say.” His face was reddening.

Here’s what I always say: If you believe that bullshit bromide about child raising, you pretend nothing’s wrong even when it is wrong. Because your daughter’s conduct reflects on you. I dropped the idea of asking the Jameses to file a missing persons report and, staring at Jack James’s mottled cheeks, decided I wouldn’t even mention the Jeep. Man might have a heart attack in his Barcalounger if he thought a daughter of his was suspected of car theft.

“Helen, goddam it.” He touched a button on the side of his chair and his massive body jerked upright. “Why’s this woman wasting my time, anyhow? You told her about that phone call, didn’t you? Honest, Helen, I don’t know what’s wrong with you sometimes.”

His wife bit her lip, stared down at her lap. “Well, I didn’t talk to Ronni.”

“Did she phone while you were out?” I asked. “Leave a message?” If they hadn’t erased it, I’d make a copy. “Did she say where she was?”

“Well, just this morning, what happened is, a man name of Peter called, said she was fine, not to worry. Asked me to call her landlord. So I did, left a message.”

“Peter?” I repeated. “Peter who?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember the last name. He gave it, though, very polite. Nice friendly voice, like a talk show host. I thought it was gonna be some come-on for a bank, maybe I won some contest. I always send in those contest forms, gives me something to look forward to. He said I could save him some bother, make the phone call, like he was at a pay phone or something. You know how they eat up your change.”

“Did he say the landlord or the landlady?”

“I don’t know. Don’t recall.”

“Did this Peter say why Veronica didn’t want to say hello, make her own phone calls?”

“Oh, he was just doing her a favor.” Helen picked at her skirt some more. “I hope I didn’t do wrong. When I called Miss Endicott, I left a message, saying I heard from Ronni, and not to worry.”

“But you didn’t. Hear from her.”

“Well, not in so many words.”

“You calling my wife a liar?” Mr. James said loudly. “That’s it. We’ve answered enough of your questions.”

“I’m certainly not calling anyone a liar,” I said smoothly, “and I appreciate your time. This Peter, do you remember your daughter mentioning him? Did she work with him, go to school with him?”

“We don’t know her Boston friends,” Helen ventured. “I don’t remember any Peter from her high school crowd.”

“Gal didn’t have any high school crowd. Ronni’s a loner. Not like Elsie. Elsie was a cheerleader her junior year. She—”

“Ronni sang with the choir,” Helen said defensively. “That was her crowd, the choir kids.”

“And look what they dragged into the choir,” her husband said angrily. “That’s why she never met any decent boys.”

“She met Rick.”

“Who’s Rick?” I said.

“Her goddam husband,” Jack said in a disgusted voice. “Hel, you would have to go and mention the bastard. Was her husband, the asshole.”

I’d run a document search on Veronica James, first thing. No record of a marriage, or a divorce. Dana Endicott hadn’t mentioned a marriage. Jack James hit the remote and the television boomed full volume. I tried to ask another question. A grinning model piloted a silver SUV about a hundred miles an hour down a rain-slicked road to a deafening rock-and-roll beat. James glared at me, shouted good-bye, turned his full attention to the set.

As she ushered me into the hall, Helen James glanced at me shamefacedly. “Ronni and Rick, they were never really married. He knows. Not by the church and not by the law, but she lived with him and all, so he calls Rick her ex-husband.”

Standing in the tiny foyer, I convinced her to part with Rick’s last name, Garrison, and to give me an address, even though she thought it was no longer a current one.

“I don’t think she’d go to him. Honestly.”

“Where would she go, if she were in trouble?”

Mrs. James’ face closed. “We don’t believe in abortion.”

I hadn’t even been thinking of that kind of trouble. “Is she close to any of her sisters?”

“There’s such an age difference between Ronni and Jayme.” She bit her lip and her fingers tightened on the door handle. “And Jackie, well, she’s still in school….”

I insisted on their phone numbers, too.

“Helen!” Jack had quite a voice when he let it fly. It boomed over the TV blare and made the woman glance guiltily over her shoulder.

“Have Ronni call me,” she whispered, “soon as you find her. I’m worried to death. We watch TV all the time. You’d think he’d know what it’s like out there.”

TV ain’t life, lady, I felt like saying. Turn off the fucking machine, breathe the real air. Instead I thanked her. Then I sat in my car and phoned each of the sisters, one after the other. Neither Jackie nor Jayme had seen Veronica, neither knew Peter. I saved Elsie—Mom and Daddy’s darling—for last.

“Certainly not,” she said firmly when I asked whether Veejay was staying with her. Her voice, low and gentle, annoyed me, since I’d imagined it nasal and hard.

“Do you have Peter’s phone number?”

“Who?”

“Do you know a friend of Veronica’s named Peter?”

“No comment.”

“Listen, lady, I’m not from the National Enquirer. I’m trying to help your sister. I didn’t tell your parents, but Veronica took off in a car she doesn’t own.”

“She stole a car? Oh, my lord.”

“No one wants to press charges. Not if I find her soon.”

“Maybe Ronni doesn’t want to be found, you ever think of that? Oh, just leave me alone. Leave my folks alone, too. You people never quit, do you?” She hung up with a righteous bang, leaving me wondering what “people” she was talking about.

Had Dana Endicott phoned? Or was someone else asking questions about Veronica?