The Big Dig (5 page)

I brooded about the dark waters not half a block from Raquela's, nursed another beer. I left when the guy on the next bar stool started to remind me of Sam, a sure sign I'd had too much to drink and would regret my next move.

Fourteen billion bucks to perfect
a concrete path from suburbs to airport, streamline auto travel to and from the financial district, and here I was, waiting eighteen minutes on an overcrowded T platform the next morning before the train arrived. Onboard, heat blazed in the front car while passengers in the rear cars shivered. Jammed nose to elbow, clinging to metal poles, commuters stared glumly at grafitti-covered walls.

At Government Center, I escaped and headed east. Over the bleak, windswept plaza, down the steps, the salt tang hinting at the closeness of the sea. Cars streamed down Congress Street till the light forced them to give way to the pedestrian tide. A man held up a sign in front of Faneuil Hall, a protester, maybe, or a tout for a tour bus. Faneuil Hall, Cradle of Liberty, is a major stop on the Freedom Trail, the redbrick path that leads from the Boston Common to the site of the Boston Massacre, and the area was full of tourists even on a chilly April morning. A school group marched behind a flag-toting teacher who expounded briskly on Sam Adams, Paul Revere, and the Sons of Liberty. They had to pass practically single-file in front of the Hall because of the concrete Jersey barriers that walled it off from the street.

They've got barriers at the airport now, and in front of the White House, I hear, the result of and hopefully the antidote to the Oklahoma City bombing. Anywhere a lunatic can drive a bomb-rigged truck, the concrete abutments rise. Most of the tourists didn't seem to mind the added security, but then most would rather visit the generic shops in Quincy Market than climb to the second floor of Faneuil Hall, view the old meeting room, listen for the echoes of long-dead rabble-rousers. I noticed more cops than usual, but maybe that was because Eddie had mentioned the increased security for the Patriot's Day gathering.

I replayed Eddie's phone call in time with my footsteps.
Routine. Stuff walking off the Horgan site.
Was Eddie trying to tell me I shouldn't go out of my way to find the answers? Had Eddie changed since he'd left the force? Was he assuming I'd changed too, subscribed to some new, private-enterprise concept of truth as whatever the client wanted, whatever the boss assigned?

Maybe Eddie simply figured that as a field-office secretary, I'd never have time to discover the truth. In between the data entry, file retrieval, and inspection of change orders that made up my morning, I had plenty of time to sneeze if I skipped the tissue. And when my first break came, the ever-present Marian was ever-present.

I told her about my trip to Dr. Aronoff's office, found her suitably impressed by my enterprise and grateful for the news. No problems with the Horgan family pet; she could forget about her needle causing irreparable damage. I didn't mention that she'd done me a favor, helped me land a rich client. Instead I engaged her on the subject of security, starting with whether it was safe to leave valuables in the trailer.

Keep your purse locked in your desk drawer. Guys are always walking in and out, and who wants to take a chance?

And what should I do if I forgot something on-site? What time were the gates locked at night?

Depends on the schedule. Just wait till morning.

“They don't have guard dogs or anything?”

They didn't. I shrugged into my coat, went outside, and gawked at a passing construction vehicle with wheels bigger than my car. Then I took an inspection stroll by the high chain-link fence. No razor-wire, top or bottom. Signs proclaimed this a hard hat site and assured me that safety pays. Uneven ground made crawling underneath the fence possible in several places, and at least one area, tucked behind a storage shed, was neatly shielded from passing traffic. At night, with light only from distant street lamps and caged, sparsely hung work lights, illegal entry would be a snap.

And then what? You can't pass a boom crane under a fence.

I'd tried to get Marian going on equipment theft, but either she was unaware of any or had been warned against discussing it. I planned to rifle the insurance files as soon as I got an unobserved moment. If equipment had been stolen, the Horgans would have filed claims.

Moving deeper into the shadow of the overhead highway, I skirted stacks of rebar, sacks of cement, coils of heavy cable. Behind a corrugated storage unit, I found a spot where I could stare down into the excavation, watch the crews toil, their breath frosting the air. Listening to the whoosh of overhead traffic, I considered the tons of steel supporting the old highway; I knew that used steel beams had “walked off” a nearby site.

On the whole, I wished my assignment were in the trench instead of the trailer. Oh, I'd had my problems on other sites; I'd been awkward and slow at first, even though I'd worked construction in my teens, side-by-side with my off-duty-cop dad. Some of the hard hats assumed I'd earned my union card by sleeping with a shop steward, some assumed I was a stone dyke. A few leered and one yelled “woman on the site,” as a warning to clean up the fuckin' language. It didn't bother me. I hadn't stayed long enough on either site for anyone to know me as
me,
or even as the me I pretended to be. I was a woman the same way they were micks or paisans, the way Gianelli was Mafia. But whoever they were, wherever they came from, they were building something that would change the city, something that would last—a graded curve, a twisting off-ramp, an underground highway their grandchildren would travel and admire.

“Incredible, huh?”

My head turned so quickly my neck almost snapped. The distant thud of a pile-driver, the sputter of jackhammers had prevented me from hearing the tall black man's footsteps. His teeth gleamed in the shadow and his eyebrows almost met over a jutting nose. Part American Indian, I thought. He looked like he'd been carved out of dark stone.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

“Can you smoke here?” Whenever I don't want to answer a question, it's my policy to ask one of my own. I'd been considering smoking ever since the bar, thinking about reviving a bad habit. Marian smoked; I could smell it on her clothes. We could bond during cigarette breaks.

“Nope. Too close to the acetylene. I'm Leland Walsh, by the way. Foreman. Haven't seen you around.”

“Laborer?”

“More than just grunts and dirt jockeys here. I'm a carpenter. Local Thirty-three. You?” He wore a heavy flannel shirt and a zipped hooded sweatshirt beneath his orange safety vest. His voice was unaccented, maybe just a touch of broad Midwestern A.

“Carla. Secretary.”

“Heard there was somebody new in the trailer.” He gestured toward the trench. “So, what do you think?”

Steel reinforcement bars protruded from concrete slurry walls. Gizmos, gadgets, machines I couldn't name, were scattered and piled on dirt beneath the beams and girders that temporarily held up the old highway. I knew time would wave its wand and the trench would be transformed into a hidden high-tech superhighway. City planners spoke of reclaimed land, fountains, gardens, an open-air theater. There would be bright daylight where we stood, no trace of the old elevated eyesore, not even a shadow.

“Hell of an expensive hole,” I said. “With a hell of a lot left to do.”

“You've got no idea what
was
down here, what we had to dig through. Utilities, gas, electric. Water. Sewer lines. Big damn sewer tunnels. Steam, in high-pressure pipes. Everything had to be rerouted, changed, with no interruption in service.”

“So that's why it costs so much.”

“Just wait.” His teeth were white and even.

“Till it's more expensive? When's that gonna be? Tomorrow?”

“Wait till it's done. Nobody's gonna give a good goddam how much it cost then. You like working here?”

“Haven't had a chance to find out yet,” I said. “How's the work going? I heard a couple guys say they'll need a miracle or overtime to stay on schedule. What do you think?”

He pressed his lips together. “Well, number one: I think a lot of guys talk too much. Number two: I think some of the crews need to work harder. Not my crews, of course. My crews are full of terrific guys. Like me, for instance.”

I didn't get to find out where that line might lead, because we were interrupted. Liz Horgan wore a heavy black coat, and her high-heeled boots sank into the dirt.

“Carla, isn't it? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” I said easily, moving away from the foreman, joining her in an alcove between two storage units, wondering if she were going to admonish me for taking too long a break. “I've been meaning to come see you, really introduce myself. Saw the picture of your daughter on your desk. What a great-looking kid. I've got a little sister maybe a couple years older.” I caught a glint of desperation in her eye and paused.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.” She hadn't heard a word I'd said. Her face hadn't even registered pleasure when I'd complimented her daughter. Maybe Marian was right. She didn't care.

When she tried a smile, lines cross-hatched the corners of her eyes. “It's really nothing.” Her voice petered out, leaving me wondering what on earth she could be planning to ask.

“Your meeting go okay yesterday?” I said to help her along.

“Oh. Oh, yes. The meeting. That's it. I had another one this morning, a political thing, a breakfast deal, and that's what I wanted to ask. I'd go myself, but I'm not wearing the right—And I'm running late—”

“What can I do?”

“I want to get a message to the man who came into the trailer yesterday. Kevin Fournier. Do you think you'd recognize him? He ought to be down in the trench, near the Gradall, that monster truck behind the bulldozer.”

The man with the watery blue eyes.

“Could you give him a message? From my husband? Just tell him three o'clock.”

“No problem.” There'd been the faintest hesitation before she said “from my husband.” Maybe she'd realized how the words would sound coming from her—like an assignation.

“Oh, yeah, there is.” I wondered whether the black man had been spying on me or on Liz Horgan. He sounded faintly amused.

“Leland,” she said softly. “If I'd seen you, I'd have asked you to—”

“Kevin's not here today. I dunno where he is, maybe off sick.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

I said, “I'll grab a hard hat and go down anyway, just in case he—”

“No,” Liz Horgan said. “If Leland says he's not there, he's not there.” Her voice was so flat, I couldn't tell whether she was relieved or increasingly worried. She might have been talking to herself.

“I've been meaning to ask.” The dark man stepped forward and I noted his wide sloping shoulders. “You find the key to that storage shed, Ms. Horgan?”

“Not yet.”

“I'll talk to O'Day about getting another one made, ordered from the company, whatever.”

“Let me talk to Harv, Leland. No need for you to bother. Everything going okay today?”

“No more rats, if that's what you mean.”

Before I could inquire about rats, which might mean rodents and might mean informers, Liz slipped her arm into mine. “Let's go inside,” she said with a shiver. “It's freezing out here. I hope you're adjusting okay, Carla. Any problems, just come to me.” Her tired smile and easy friendliness made me feel uncomfortably like a spy.
Another kind of rat.

I worked undercover as a cop, but it was a while ago, and I never forgot who I was and to whom my allegiance belonged. I knew cops who'd gone over, who'd bonded with crooks, who'd forgotten where the line fell between us and them. The line seemed blurry on this site; I didn't have the sense that I was infiltrating a criminal organization. I felt like I was deceiving a kind woman, deliberately giving a false name to a good-looking man.

We ascended the wooden steps to the trailer, Liz Horgan's smile pasted in place like a mask. I closed the door before Walsh could ask for my phone number, or I could ask for his.

By two-thirty I strongly suspected that no insurance claims records were filed in the outer office. Investigating the inner office looked impossible until luck stuck in an oar. First, Marian left early to deliver some papers to a consultant at Bechtel. Then, a guy in a hard hat hustled in, muttering about groundwater. He mentioned rats as well. I didn't catch a lot of other words, but those two were sufficient to march O'Day and both Horgans outside double-time.

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.