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.