The Big Dig by Linda Barnes Read Free Book Online Page A

differential, the youthfulness, feigned or otherwise, of the women as opposed to the men. I wondered how many of the ladies hailed from nearby colleges, how many had been ordered from escort services the way you’d order a lamb chop off the menu. One large group, more male than female, at a corner booth had the weary cheerfulness of an after-office drinks session that had stretched into dinner and more drinks. I marked a couple of women on bar stools as pros, trolling for out-of-town conventioneers. I thought maybe I’d booked one of them when I was a cop. Same narrow eyes, but the brassy wig gave her a different look. I was glad I’d dressed down. Slacks and sweater, minimal gold jewelry. I didn’t want to be mistaken for a pro.
    The only TV was a small one over the bar, tuned to CNN. Not enough screens to attract a sports crowd. I found myself wondering if Sam Gianelli ever strolled over from his Charles River Park apartment. Not that I was actually hoping he’d walk in and give me the kind of lazy smile that tingled up my backbone. It was simply that he’d be good cover; a date is always good cover. Couples fit in a bar, blend into the background. A single at a bar is either interested in losing that designation or in getting quietly and thoroughly drunk.
    I have considerable bar experience. My ex and I hung at a series of Irish pubs, but I expanded my repertoire after he left. For a while, I barhopped with a vengeance, picking up a different man each night, bringing him home. I was lucky, I insisted on protection, and I got over it. And then there was Sam and I haven’t gotten over him, although I haven’t seen him in some time. I can still dial his number from memory, but damned if I wanted to do it in response to a business query from Eddie Conklin. I ordered another beer, tugged at a strand of my wrong-colored hair.
    You can divide missing persons cases into categories. Start with the absentminded frequent flyer who forgets to tell the wife about the conference in Dubuque. Then consider missing stockholders and no-show heirs, usually sought by attorneys rather than anxious family members. Those are bread-and-butter cases for PIs like me. I also handle adoptees searching for birth parents and birth parents searching for a long-surrendered child. The common denominator in the above is that the missing person has no idea they’re classified AWOL. They take no evasive action.
    Those who intentionally disappear make for dicier trade. Loan skips spend and run, and professional skip tracers make a good living tracking them through the bureaucratic labyrinths of banks and utility companies. Teenage runaways are another special group; I keep an updated list of runaway shelters and hotlines to help track them. Custodial kidnappings turn small children into divorce-settlement pawns. Those who disappear intentionally are harder to find; they live on alert, change their names, alter their habits.
    The missing woman, Veronica, Veejay, didn’t fit neatly into any of my categories. On the face of it, she’d gone off voluntarily. On the other hand, she’d left her dog.
    My cat is an independent operator. He goes his way; I go mine. As long as the water dish is full and an occasional can of Fancy Feast appears, T.C.’s fine, and I strongly suspect he could fend for himself if I forgot all about him. According to Dana Endicott, Tandy, Veronica’s Norwegian elkhound, required both vigorous walking and elaborate grooming. I sipped beer, hardly noticing its taste.
    I’d called area hospitals before leaving the house, not that I thought I’d locate Veronica that way, since amnesiacs with no identification only inhabit the world of daytime soaps, but because I knew I’d feel dumb if I ignored the possibility and she turned up in a coma at the General. I’d also dialed the morgue, because I’m thorough and because I know a guy who works there. No 5'6", thin, dark-haired