The Concrete Pearl (6 page)

Two choices appeared on the screen. ANSWER or IGNORE.

I recognized the incoming number. It was Marino Construction. I hit SEND, placed the phone to my ear.

“Harrison.”

“Ms. Harrison?”

It was a woman’s voice. Bobbie, the red-headed receptionist.

“Please, I have to make this quick. But I was here when Mr. Farrell emptied out his offices on Saturday.”

“How would you know?”

“I was in the office catching up on some paperwork. Jimmy was packing up his office next door. Rather, he was overseeing a moving company do all the work. He brought some boxes here to Marino Construction. He met with Peter inside Peter’s office. They argued.”

“About what?”

“I couldn’t tell really, they were flinging so many names and accusations. But I do recall something that stuck out.”

“I’m listening Bobbie.”

“They were doing a lot of screaming. About money, cuts, fair shares and Tina. They argued about another girl too. I think her name is Natalie. It was like they both had an interest in her, whoever this Natalie is.”

“Whaddaya mean an interest?”

“You know, like their eyes are set on a woman besides Tina. And that wouldn’t be right.”

I rolled my eyes even though she wasn’t there to see them.

“What else can you tell me?”

“They fought over a baby.”

My stomach did a flip at the sound of the B word.

“What baby?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is Tina pregnant?”

“I don’t know. Peter hasn’t said anything.”

“Why you volunteering this information? Why place yourself and your job at risk?”

“Because I thought you should know. And like you said, ‘Ain’t no I in We.’”

“Thank you Bobbie,” I said.

She hung up.

“A baby,” I whispered to myself, picturing Tina pressing the palm of her hand against her exposed flat belly. Or maybe it was the mysterious Natalie who was pregnant? Pregnant with Jimmy’s or even Peter’s baby.

I gave up on redialing 911. What the hell was the nature of my emergency anyway? The
nature
was that something else was going on besides Farrell simply splitting town.

I backed out of the Farrell driveway, contemplated doing something that seemed entirely stupid, but that at the same time made perfect sense: heading north to Lake Desolation. Maybe Farrell hadn’t really gone fishing in the pure-sportsman-outdoorsy-one-with-Mother-Nature sense of the word. But what’s a skull-strong construction babe to do?

She goes fishing with the one lead she’s got left.

Chapter 9

Driving.

Highway 87 north until I came to exit twelve just below Saratoga Springs.

From there I drove west into farm country, following Rural Route 84 all the way out until I spotted the lake though the trees on the left and eventually the stream that fed it: the Desolation Kill. I drove the Jeep fast over winding, hilly country roads, not worrying about speed, only about trying to find Farrell before my absence from the PS 20 jobsite became more conspicuous than it already had to be.

Motoring around the pine-treed perimeter of the lake, I came to the bridge.

I recognized the short metal-span bridge as the same one my grandfather took me to back when I was a little girl. I took it slow over the bridge until I cut the wheel to the left, cruising onto a wide section of gravel-soft shoulder that had been cut out of the thick second-growth woods. I put the Jeep in park and  killed the ignition.

Looking up, I took immediate notice of a sign that had been nailed to the trunk of an old oak tree, the words “Public Fishing Access Area” engraved on it. It also displayed the hours of regulation fishing: 7 A.M. to 7 P.M. Below that in smaller script were the words “No Parking After Hours. Vehicles Towed at Owner’s Expense: $75.00.” Obviously Greenfield was concerned about providing its teenage lovers with a secluded place to suck face.

Also displayed on the sign was the name and phone number of the towing company: Dott’s Garage.

I opened my briefcase, pulled out a yellow estimating pad, jotted down the number in one of the slots normally reserved for a construction item. Naturally I had my doubts that Farrell had come here at all. But if he had come here, was it possible his car had been towed from this very spot? And if it had been towed, why had he abandoned it in the first place?

I set the estimating pad back down on top of the briefcase, opened the door, slipped on out of the Jeep. Immediately I was struck by the smell of pine trees. The sweet scent transported me back to my childhood. So did the stream rushing over the rocks under the bridge, the iron structure forming a kind of echo chamber that amplified the sound.

I pictured Farrell standing in the gravel lot, dressed in overpriced Orvis waders and vest, fly rod in hand. I saw him trekking the short path down to the stream. But then that was stupid. If he had come here, his pockets bulging with mine and the school’s money, it hadn’t been to fish. That much I could be sure about.

I followed the path. Its dusty gravel floor was stamped with footprints from the dozens of fishermen and women who’d come and gone since the fishing season began back in the early spring. I came upon the stream and its strong-flowing, metallic-smelling water.

I took a look around at the spent cigarette butts that littered the bank along with an empty beer can. Tossed in the mix was a used condom. Just looking at it made my stomach turn. Not far away from that: an empty can of Skoll chewing tobacco.

It pained me to see the litter. Made me downright angry to see the filth scattered about the same pristine stream bank where I used to share a picnic lunch with my grandfather. Turning, I started back up the embankment towards the parking area. I didn’t get three steps before it hit me.

Skoll tobacco.

Farrell might have been one hell of a gifted dumb jock back in high school. But I knew from experience that he did harbor one very bad habit that I found particularly repulsive. He chewed tobacco. He had chewed it back in high school and he chewed it now when making the rare visit to the PS 20 jobsite.

Reversing, I trekked back down the embankment to the stream bank. Careful not to step on the used condom, I stared down at the chewing tobacco container. Had it belonged to Farrell? Was it proof that he had truly been here?

I bent down, picked up the tin, opened the lid. It was empty. I stuck my nose inside, inhaled the sick, rich tobacco smell. It was a smell I associated with Farrell; with his breath and his mouth.

A mouth I once kissed.

I wasn’t sure what good it would do me, but I carried the empty tin with me back up the embankment to the Jeep.

Opening the door, I set the Skoll tin inside my briefcase along with the estimating pad. The mobile was lit up like a Christmas tree. Four missed calls, three new messages to go with them. The first was from Tommy, the next two from the Tiger Lady. The fourth and last was a number I matched up with the business card stored inside the cup holder: Damien Spain, Licensed Private Detective. Ignoring the messages, I speed-dialed Tommy’s cell. When he answered it, my ear filled with background noise coming from Lanie’s.

“Where the hell you been, Spike?”

I told him.

He assured me that he’d been fielding calls as they came in since our project trailer answering service had been programmed to automatically forward them to his cell. He too had been hounded by Stewart, assuring the OSHA chief that we were doing everything in our power to rectify the asbestos contamination.

He’d also received a call from a field reporter at the local Channel 13 news. A woman named Chris Collins, who was looking for comment regarding the asbestos leak at the public school. I asked Tommy for her number, jotting it down on the estimating pad.

“What’s your directive, chief?” he asked.

I didn’t have one.

I said, “Turns out I can’t locate Farrell by the end of the workday, we figure out another plan of action.”

“What kind of plan?”

“Fucked if I know,” I said.

“Confidence is a good attribute in a situation like this,” Tommy said. “So is being pigheaded.”

I hung up, sat back, thought the communications situation over.

On my behalf, Tommy had already fielded OSHA’s calls. He’d taken care of calming the big guns down. Short of calling my lawyer, giving him the green light to burn through what was left of my cash reserve to oversee the communications issue, Tommy was the best I could do. I sensed that at this point, if I personally spoke with the Tiger Lady without a solid explanation as to how Farrell’s asbestos removal screw-ups got past me—the general contractor—I would not only begin implicating myself, I might say something for the record I might regret later on. That is, I should end up the target of a few more major fines. Which, at this point, looked inevitable.

I did however, have a plan, no matter how fragile.

What if I took the initiative, contacted the media directly? What if I put on my best public relations hat and contacted Collins at the Channel 13 news, offered her an exclusive on the PS 20 asbestos affair? Maybe by cooperating with her I could get my message out to Farrell, wherever the hell he was. Maybe he would be tuning into the news; tuning into the blame which I was about to toss onto his skinny-ass lap.

Chapter 10

I dialed the number Tommy relayed to me for Collins’s cell phone, waited for a connection. When she answered I politely identified myself, kindly offered her an insider’s exclusive to the asbestos leak story, then proceeded to tell her most of what I knew. Just the facts—no opinion or conjecture. From OSHA’s jobsite invasion first thing this morning, to the school’s hasty evacuation, to the on-the-spot asbestos test results proving inside air contaminated with asbestos fibers, to my failed attempts at contacting the man responsible for the crisis.

What I did not tell her about was the money he took off with. Mine or the school’s. Nor did I tell her he hadn’t shown up to his East Hills home in two days.

Why did I choose to hold back?

I’m not a detective. But I did know this: if Farrell couldn’t be located, then the authorities would no doubt focus every bit of their attention and blame on me. No point in giving them a head start by advertising the fact that Farrell had flown the coop.

“All I’m really aware of,” I told Collins as I peered out the Jeep onto the pine-tree-lined road, “is that I’ve acted according to the contract documents for the safe and effective removal of existing asbestos material inside Public School 20.”

“But as the general contractor, aren’t you ultimately responsible for the health and safety of the school’s inhabitants?” she asked. “Even in the event of death?”

I didn’t want to lie. She might have had a copy of the asbestos specification laid out on her desk.

Scratch that…

…I didn’t want to get
caught
in a lie.

I told her I was responsible in so far as my subcontractor, A-1 Environmental Solutions, was responsible. But I was passing the buck. And being in possession of her own finely tuned built-in shit detector, Collins must have known it. Because her next question nearly took my breath away.

“Ms. Harrison,” she said. “Hypothetically speaking: what if it so happens that one of the school’s students or faculty members should develop an asbestos-related cancer like mesothelioma or asbestosis? How would you react to an accusation of negligence? Would you assume full responsibility?”

How was I supposed to answer that one without a lawyer present?

This wasn’t me playing up to the media. This was me on trial.

Outside on the sleepy road, a rare car was making a pass. It was an old, restored Dodge Charger. The Charger was going by slowly, the driver no doubt taking an interest in who had parked in the public fishing lot. A fisherman probably, looking for a secluded place to drop a line. Having passed, he suddenly sped up, the Charger engine roaring as the car crossed over the bridge.

Collins asked me for an immediate face-to-face interview at the school jobsite.

“Take just fifteen minutes of your time,” she said, like it was some kind of enticement.

“Not convenient,” I said. “I have a crisis to diffuse first.”

“This is important news.”

I pulled the Blackberry from my face.

“Chris, you’re breaking up on me,” I lied.

“Can you hear me now?” she barked.

I thumbed END.

I speed-dialed Tommy.

“I need for you to look into something.”

He told me to wait while he grabbed a pencil.

“Shoot, chief,” he said.

“I want to know how much asbestos needs to be in the air in order to cause lung problems for people ingesting it. Also, how long do those same people have to be exposed to the fibers before they’re affected?”

I could tell by the silence that Tommy was writing it all down.

“Number of asbestos fibers per cubic centimeter of air,” he mumbled. Then in a louder voice, “What else?”

“Keep a low profile until I tell you different. Take a spin back to the jobsite, make sure it’s secured. I don’t care if the joint is red-flagged. Padlock the trailer door. I don’t want the cops or OSHA or EPA nosing around anymore than they already have.”

“Maybe you should have hung around the site more than you did today?”

“Maybe I should wrap a coaxial cable around my neck, hang myself from the scaffolding.”

“What would your old man say to that?”

“He’d tell me to take a long fucking deep breath and count to ten.”

“’Cept he wouldn’t use the F word.”

“Sometimes the apple doesn’t fall far, but it can roll a long way away.”

“You got a call from some guy, calls himself Spain, like the country. Says he’s a private detective.”

“That how he got my mobile number?”

“Says he can help, Spike. Says he’s been looking into Farrell’s screwups for a while now and that he can help you.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” I said.