The Big Dig (18 page)

Traffic was one problem, Lemon
another. I'd given detailed intructions; he'd told me to expect him in fifteen minutes. He runs a dojo in Somerville, but before his conversion to clean living and karate, he did performance art on the street and took every drug on the market twice. I decided to triple his estimate, dodged an SUV at the tricky intersection of Storrow and Route 2, drove outbound along Soldiers Field Road, following the river as it meandered along the Watertown border. The dogs got plenty of fresh air and sunshine running along the Charles, according to Walters, but I saw no sign of them. I U-turned, drove past the Everett Street lights, found the pack attended by a dark-haired woman and Harold, the man who hadn't called to offer the client list, near the Lars Anderson Bridge, heading east.

A terrific sight, all that golden fur, those waving tails. I'd never seen such elaborate leashes. They looked more like horse harnesses and enabled each walker to handle multiple dogs, although if all the dogs got the notion to take off racing at once I'd give the woman, slighter than the man, not much of a chance. Harold had eight dogs, the woman who was probably Erica, six. I strained to make out details of her appearance, but both humans wore layered running clothes and sneakers, the woman a close-fitting hat. She was youngish, short, and dark. I considered their position and direction; there was little chance they'd make it back to the shop in less than an hour.

I drove to the Store 24 lot. Lemon was nowhere in sight so I went inside, bought a coffee, and tried to set the counterman gossiping about his neighbor down the street. He didn't think the business had been open long. Started seeing the bus in the fall, and here it was almost spring already. Spring in Boston lasts about two days. You sneeze, you miss it. It was crazy, he thought, using a school bus, bringing pets to some lah-di-dah play school. You have a dog, you take it for a walk, your kid plays with it. Some people, he snorted, had too much money, not enough smarts.

I took my coffee outside, sat in the car, flipped radio stations. An airplane had gone missing off the South China Sea. A man had been struck and killed by an MBTA commuter train. The town was gearing up for the marathon and the great Patriot's Day debate at Faneuil Hall.
Where the hell was Lemon?
The dogs might want to run by the icy river forever, but Erica and Harold might cut the session short.

The jaunty dogs, the cheerfully painted school bus looked so normal and wholesome that I felt dirty even suspecting that the pet care place might be involved in Veejay's disappearance. And yet … Its doorway was hidden from public view. The shed behind the parking lot was a secret garage. A silent dog guarded the interior. An admittedly underpaid employee couldn't be bribed. Rogers Walters boasted that he ran the place like a military operation. I don't associate military precision with pet care.

When Lemon's van slipped into the parking lot, I switched to his car, and Hannibal, a large German shepherd mix, barked up a storm and tried to climb over the seat to eat my hair. Purchased as the dojo's guard dog, Hannibal never made it to that post. He proved untrainable, playful as a pup and dumb as a brick. My cat, T.C., can tie him in a knot.

“You clear on everything?” I asked.

“Sure,” Lemon said. “Performance art. Up my alley.”

“Obnoxious. Persistent.”

“Me and Hannibal, you kidding? We don't take no for an answer.”

He wanted to synchronize watches and I obliged, certain he'd strapped on a Timex for the occasion. I'd never seen him wear one before. I patted Hannibal, who went berserk, and departed, strolling up Western Avenue toward Charles River Dog Care. When I got to the door I pressed the bell, leaned on it, and waited, tapping my toe.

Walters, dressed in heavy corduroy slacks and a flannel shirt, his hair carefully plastered over his scalp, opened the door. My height, average build, no noticeable scars. When he recognized me he got a sour look on his face.

“Mind if I come in?” I moved before he could voice his opposition, and he bit back unwelcoming words. The unwelcoming expression remained.

“Did you manage to find her?” There didn't seem to be much interest behind his inquiry.

“Did Peter call, and explain that she was away?”

“I'm sorry, no. I've heard nothing, and it's a very busy day.”

“This won't take long.” I plunged down the stairs, moving briskly toward his office. Not much he could do but follow, other than threaten me with a dog. Most of the cages were empty. I gave them a seaching glance, saw two small terriers, but didn't spot the weimaraner.

One wall of the office was lined with louvered closet doors. The metal desk had a shallow top drawer, three deeper side drawers. His notebook computer was on; the screen saver displayed photos of wolflike dogs or doglike wolves. The filing cabinet had four drawers, one of them slightly ajar. Not many places, but I wouldn't have much time.

“Look, I don't see how I can help. I'm expecting a phone call, and—”

“I've hit a dead end,” I confessed.

“I'm sure she'll turn up.”

“You look like a shrewd judge of people, Mr. Walters.” The praise brought him up short. “I know how you feel about giving me your client list, even though I've assured you I have no interest in upsetting any of them.”

“Well, I'm glad you—”

“But I'll bet you know your clients. If I could ask you a few questions, I wouldn't have to bother with the list.”

“Well, I—”

“First off, do you have a client named Peter, possibly Peters? Last name, first name?”

“No.”

“You're sure? It could be the husband of a client. If you could check your list, you'd see—”

His eyes flicked toward the file cabinet. “I know my clientele.”

“How long could it take?”

“I don't have time for this.”

“Did Veejay show any interest in any particular client? Not necessarily named Peter. I mean, was there someone she was helping in an obedience class, a client she might have made friends with?”

C'mon, Lemon,
I was thinking.
What's the point of wearing a watch if you don't use it?

“I told you, she was good with the clients. She was professional.”

“Did she ever date a client?”

“No.”

“You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I really don't know what she did on her own time, but no one ever mentioned anything like that to me, and if they had I'd have disapproved very strongly.”

I sighed deeply. That took about two seconds.
Lemon, where are you?
Walters's irritation was almost out of hand.

The doorbell rang sharply, twice, and then the door opened with a loud creak. I'd slipped the latch as I entered. Barking, loud and furious, followed. The barker went nuts, to tell the truth, all those good doggie smells.

“Hey! Anybody home?” Lemon called. “Hannibal, put that down!”

“I guess that must be a client,” I said.

“Nonsense. Excuse me.”

“I have a few more questions. I'll wait.”

I settled into my folding chair, made no move to leave. The barking grew louder, punctuated by Lemon trying ineffectually to call the dog to order. There was a clatter and a crash, and I thought they might have succeeded in knocking over some of the cages.

As soon as Walters was out of sight I went for the computer mouse, jiggling it to call up the open file, a seemingly harmless dog food invoice. I moved to the filing cabinet. Let's hear it for military precision, spit-and-shine polish. The files were alphabetized, in perfect order. A is for airedale, B is for beagle. Shit. If there was no single centralized client list, if records were kept by breed, I was in trouble. But who'd—C is for clients. I grasped the neatly typed sheet and pulled. A through G on the first page. I flipped the stapled sheets. H. Horgan. Brookline. At least I had that right. There was
some
connection.

Of course, it proved nothing, except that Boston is a small town, that circles overlap, that a family in Brookline might kennel their dog in Cambridge … My fingers raced over the files, looking for Erica Mullen's address and phone, for something that involved, mentioned Veejay or the Horgans. The noises outside the office swelled to a crescendo. I abandoned the files. I could hear barking and running footsteps, and Lemon yelling, “Well, fuck you, too, bozo. Shit, I thought this was a fucking place for dogs!”

That was the signal. He was getting ready to leave, getting thrown out, more likely. I crossed to one of the louvered doors, gave it a tug. An unremarkable closet, jackets, leashes. On the floor in a pile were three, maybe four, orange mesh construction vests, identical to those used on the Horgan site. I gawked at them for a moment, quickly shut the closet, retreated to my seat, crossed my legs. When Walters returned, I was idly examining a fingernail.

“Some people,” he thundered, “shouldn't be allowed to have a dog.” His clothes were rumpled, he was out of breath, and there was a red weal across the back of his left hand. He scowled. “I think you'd better go now.”

I held his gaze. The damn screen saver hadn't flipped back on yet. “Have you managed to replace Veronica?”

“No.”

“Would you mind giving me Erica Mullen's address? I'd like to speak to her, see if she's in touch with Veejay.”

“I'm sorry. I can't give out that information.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the wolf-dogs prance on-screen. I tried not to gulp with relief, thanked Walters politely, shaking his hand, noticing hard calluses on his palm. On the way upstairs, I wondered where he kept the weimaraner. I hadn't noticed it racing along the Charles with the others.

Lemon's empty van was parked
in front of the house. Indoors, I deduced from the yelps, my cat had treed Hannibal on the third floor. His noises were pitiful, but I ignored them and made tracks for the fridge. I'd missed lunch and a consultation with my gut told me I wasn't going to hold out till dinner. A carton of milk smelled okay. There were eggs. I could make what I call a frittata, what Sam used to term, less kindly, scrambled eggs and leftovers. I found some suspicious Chinese food in a goldfish container, tossed it in the sink. Eureka! Salami, some cold roast potatoes in a deli take-out box, an onion barely starting to sprout. I stuck a lump of butter in the frying pan.

Lemon appeared as soon as the onion started to sizzle, drawn by the aroma.

“Good work,” I said.

“Guy doesn't appreciate Hannibal, what's he doing working with dogs?”

“Eggs?”

“Sure. Did I give you enough time?” He disappeared before I had a chance to reply, maybe to rescue his dog. Construction vests in a heap at the bottom of a closet. I cracked an egg sharply on the side of a white pottery bowl. Two missing girls, Veronica James and possibly Krissi Horgan. Two dead people, Leslie Ellin James in 1993, Kevin Fournier on the Horgan site. I broke eight eggs, splashed in milk, whipped the mixture with a fork till it frothed. The various bits of information seemed as separate as the ingredients spread on the countertop, a chunk of salami here, an egg there. I glared at the phone, willed Claire Harper to call
now
. The onion sizzled and I turned the flame low, added the potatoes.

Lemon reappeared. “Hey, I looked in the shed, but there wasn't any Jeep.”

“Empty?”

“Nope.”

“Did you get any plates?”

“Sorry. Looked like a Porsche or a Jag or something in there. Nice car, but I couldn't read it. Sorry.”

“Walters says you've got no business owning a dog.”

“Hannibal owns me, so it's okay.”

“Roz around?”

“Online. Checking that design.”

“Ask her if she wants food.”

He sauntered out. I dumped thinly sliced salami in the pan, inhaled the smell, added the egg mixture, stirring, keeping it from sticking to the pan.

“She says go ahead, she'll grab something later. Oh, and give you this.” He slapped an assortment of printed pages, some stapled together, some loose, on the kitchen table. I hadn't sat there since Leland Walsh stood behind me, hands pressing my shoulder blades.

I divided the frittata onto two plates, found that Lemon had already set two places at the table. I sat in the same chair Walsh had used, imagined him smiling, holding the ice pack to his head. The eggs were so hot I burned my tongue. I read the handwritten note on top of Roz's pile while I sipped Pepsi.

“Eddie's running the prints,” read the first line. “No problem. More than 6000 hits on Leslie James Harrow. Massacre victim. Either 19 or 21, depending which site you hit.” On the subject of Waco, Roz, using Google as a search engine, had scored over 10,000 hits. “Some way-out stuff,” she'd scrawled. “Here's a sample.”

I started to read, kept on reading while the eggs congealed on my plate. There were photos, appalling shots of the devastation of April 19, 1993. Some sites featured straightforward descriptive passages, some passages of heat-seeking purple prose, declaring the Branch Davidians martyrs, used as guinea pigs for chemical warfare, as targets for experimental assault rifles. I read the manifesto of the New Revolution, the call to arms of the Kingman Militia, what passed for logic from the Patriot Sons of Valor.

Were the Branch Davidians, a reclusive Seventh Day Adventist sect, dangerous, a threat to themselves and others? Did they hoard illegal firearms and sexually molest their children? By the time I'd finished scanning the material, I realized I'd never know, so I focused on another question: Were the offshoot groups out to avenge the Branch Davidians dangerous? I could answer that one with a resounding
yes
. Proof rested in the ashes of Oklahoma City.

Leslie James Harrow, 19, was listed among the victims. And there: Zachariah Harrow, infant. Another photo that should have hung on the Jameses' wall.

At the tail end of several Web sites were what amounted to hit lists. The head of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was identified, pictured, his home address given. Louis Freeh, former head of the FBI. Janet Reno, of Justice. Senators who'd chaired the investigating committees that had exonerated the FBI. Judges who'd sentenced surviving sect members to jail. Several sites applauded Tim McVeigh, the Oklahoma City bomber, for his heroic role in evening the score. The Republic of Arizona Freemen thanked him for taking the blame, although they were confident he had not acted alone.

I didn't hear Roz till she spoke. “I've got a lead on the wavy circle.”

“What?”

“A tat man. A guy does tattoos. Either I'm gonna run up and see him, or he'll drop by. He's in New Hampshire. Depends on his schedule. Hey, I didn't know all that shit about the FBI roasting babies at Waco, did you?”

“Roz, you can write
anything
and stick it on the Web. There's no gatekeeper.”

“Like a newspaper.”

“
Not like a newspaper
. A newspaper's got an editor, a publisher, a legal staff.”

She gave me a look that said “big deal” and I hoped the literature hadn't converted her. Roz's politics are weird, but they've always been odd verging on anarchy rather than odd verging on extreme right-wing.

“That Eddie guy says he wants his report. Seemed kinda disappointed I hadn't brought it.”

I'd locked it, unfinished, in my desk. I'd taken two or three unsatisfactory runs at it—chronologically, most important discoveries to least important discoveries, person by person. Finally I'd tried to split events into two groups: those that were definitely site-related, like missing tools, rats, a permanently locked storage shed; those that might be personal, related to the Horgans' marriage, like the aborted Fournier-Liz meeting, the Marian-Gerry flirtation, the constant tension.

I considered Krissi. Was the girl the key to the Horgans' personal problems? Did she know Veronica well? Could they have run away together, a young girl with a crush, an older lesbian? But what the hell did those construction vests piled on the floor of the closet mean? Were they used in dog training? Was I trying to manufacture a substantial connection where only the most inconsequential of connections existed, the link between dog trainer and client? I kept seeing that black Cherokee in the shed, the one with New Hampshire plates, and then later the same night, a Jeep with New Hampshire plates visiting the Horgan site, driving slowly, without headlights.

The Cherokee is an ordinary vehicle, I told myself, scraping cold eggs into the sink. Common as dirt. Maybe the fevered prose and conspiracy theories of the Waco Web sites were leading me off the deep end. I drank Pepsi, bit my lip, and let the kaleidoscope of images spin, hoping to catch a thread, a theory, something that would bind the separate ingredients like eggs and milk, transform them into a new substance. On the Horgan site: dead rats, live rats, missing tools, a storage shed with no key. At the Horgans' home: an empty dog dish, a missing daughter, tension verging on paranoia. At Dana Endicott's: a missing woman, a missing Jeep, a missing photograph.

Why steal that photograph? Let's say Veronica knew that Dana had hired me, never mind how. Or hired someone. The photo could have been stolen so an investigator wouldn't make the link between Veronica James and Leslie Harrow. Therefore the connection was important …

My cell made the run up the scale that passes for a ring, and I grabbed it. Claire at the DMV had a news flash: The plate I'd called in belonged to a silver Jaguar on the New Hampshire stolen vehicles list. I don't think I said a word, but I may have because Roz and Lemon looked at me strangely as I hurried out the door.