Free The Big Dig by Linda Barnes

take the train to Beacon Street, or walk, which might be faster. I felt the need to inspect items belonging to the missing woman, to observe her space. Did she have prints or posters on the walls? Flowered pink sheets or black satin? Did her closet hold raggy jeans or leather pants? Did she wear perfume, shave her legs? I wanted to know what she’d taken with her, what she’d left behind. I’d never seen the woman and she seemed an insubstantial ghost, hinted at by strangers.
    A recording told me that Miss Endicott was not available. I left a message asking her to return my call as soon as possible. Damn. I didn’t even have a photograph.
    I double-checked to make sure I had the correct address for Veronica’s day job, decided a phone call would be unnecessary. Someone would be on the premises of Charles River Dog Care, located on Western Avenue in Allston. Dogs need care; dogs aren’t cats.
    You can’t get to Allston directly via the T. You need to transfer to a bus, and if you think the trains have gone to hell, the buses have descended to a lower level. Last time I took one, two guys swearing in Portuguese started a brawl, bleeding on their fellow commuters until a third passenger bellowed and pulled a .38. I decided to save the aggravation, take the T home, and switch to my car.
    Charles River Dog Care, with a big red sign in the window, shared a block with two shabby auto repair shops and a fast-food mart. The parking lot was behind the building, down a long narrow drive. It held an old brown Volvo station wagon and a former school bus, painted sky blue. No sign of Dana’s Jeep. The entrance to the low brick structure was also in back, cheerfully painted, red letters and cartoonish paw prints on the glass panels of the inner door. I didn’t need to press a buzzer or knock. The minute I approached, raucous barking filled the air.
    â€œWhat?” The man wore gray overalls that looked like hospital scrubs. He stuck his nose out of a narrow crack.
    â€œI’d like to see the owner, please. I’m not selling anything.”
    â€œYou gotta dog?”
    â€œTell him it’s about Veejay. Veronica James.”
    â€œYou that Dana woman?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’ll see if he’s gotta minute.”
    I would have thanked him, but he’d already shut the door in my face. Just as I was starting to wonder how long I was going to listen to dogs howl, Gray Scrubs returned, smiling to show me he hadn’t dawdled on purpose.
    â€œDogs won’t bother you,” he said, swinging the door wide.
    Dogs don’t bother me. I have a slight preference for independently arrogant felines, but as long as dogs don’t slobber all over me, I think they’re great.
    The business occupied an area that looked like it might once have housed a dance studio, a large wood-panelled room down a flight of stairs, with a partitioned corner big enough to hold a threadbare couch and a couple of sprung armchairs. It didn’t smell like a dance studio. It smelled like essence of wet dog. Dogs there were, terriers, and Labs, and golden retrievers. Wire cages lined three walls, not small cages either, more like zoo enclosures. I stopped counting at twenty-seven waggly tongues only because I’d crossed the large room and was entering the small office beyond.
    It was tiny, sparsely furnished with a metal desk, a couple of chairs, and a lone file cabinet. The nameplate on the desk said Rogers Walters, both names plural. A man sprang to his feet when I entered. His welcoming smile dimmed when he confirmed that I was not a prospective client.
    â€œI’d like to ask you a few questions about Veronica James.”
    â€œReally? On whose authority?” Walters wore brown wool slacks, a beige checked shirt, nothing fancy, but probably the dogs didn’t mind, and it was a step above the outfit worn by his employee, more suitable for meeting the public. A thick sweater,