The Fixer

45

He was at City Archives when they opened, holding a box from a high-end bakery in Harvard Square.

“I hope that’s not from the Tastee again,” Marie Gamache said. “Because that would be cruel and unusual.”

He handed her the box. “Raisin-pecan morning buns and carrot cake muffins. Both gluten-free.”

“Interesting,” she said. She opened the box. “Definitely promising. You are too nice to me.”

“Only when I’m being unreasonable.” He’d e-mailed her last night and asked for an appointment first thing in the morning. But that wasn’t the tough ask. He asked to see the city’s Transportation Department archives, specifically the repair records for a specific time period in 1996. Since 9/11, for some reason, these records weren’t open to the general public. But access could be arranged with special permission.

“It’s no big deal,” Marie said. She indicated a steel trolley that held gray file boxes. “If you know the right people. Have fun.”

Rick had a theory. Eighteen years ago there’d been an accident in the Ted Williams Tunnel. A bad accident, bad enough for three people to be killed. The tunnel was closed to traffic for at least part of the next day, according to the newspaper. Standard operating procedure: The damaged car would be left there long enough for an accident reconstruction team to map out what happened. Only then would the car be towed away and the tunnel reopened to traffic.

Both westbound lanes closed for a day or so. That was in the public record. A huge hassle for drivers.

But Rick was convinced there would be something else. There had to be some sort of record of the work done. He was hoping to find a document proving that there’d been a grease slick or a problem with the asphalt. Something. After two hours of searching through tedious files, his eyelids were like sandpaper. He was about to give up when something caught his eye.

It was a memorandum on Donegall Construction letterhead to the secretary of transportation. “Replace fallen NuArt fluorescent light fixture” was its subject line.

He read it over several times. A ceiling-mounted fluorescent light fixture in the Ted Williams Tunnel had fallen. It had been replaced the day after the accident that killed the Cabreras.

A light fixture?

He imagined a flimsy glass fluorescent tube dropping from the ceiling and couldn’t see what that had to do with causing an accident. He found a computer at one of the workstations provided for archives users, went online. Fairly quickly he discovered that the light fixtures used in the Ted Williams ranged from 80 pounds to 110 pounds. They were attached by means of bolts and epoxy adhesive.

Eighty pounds fell. On what? What if it fell on a car? He imagined the impact, the spider-webbed windshield. The blinded driver, the panic.

The car spinning out of control.

It was as simple as that. Now he understood what happened, what had caused the accident. Now it made sense. But nothing about a falling light fixture had been reported in the press. Somehow it had been covered up.

He had a pretty good idea how that might have happened.

He needed to take a few notes. He reached into his pockets. All he had was his wallet and, for some reason, Andrea Messina’s business card. He smiled. He’d been thinking about her and about how awful their dinner had been. Then remembered he’d brought one of his old reporter’s notebooks, long and thin and spiral-bound on the top, for his interview with Conklin later that morning. He wanted it to look like a real interview.

He opened the notebook and took notes. Now he knew exactly what he had to ask the ex-cop.

At the end of the afternoon he stopped by Clayton Street and found Jeff there, sweeping up with one hand. His other hand held his phone to his ear. “All right, cool,” he said. “Got it. That’s no problem. All right, later.”

Jeff flipped the phone closed, and it tumbled to the floor. “Shit,” he said, reaching over to retrieve it. He held it up in the air triumphantly. It was an old-model Nokia flip phone. “Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.” He flipped it open and closed a few times. “Oldie but goodie. Doesn’t talk to you and tell you what time the movie starts, but drop it and the screen doesn’t shatter.”

“True.”

“What’s up, boss?”

“Got a minute?”

Jeff shrugged. “Sure.”

“I need your help on something. You know anybody who used to work on the Big Dig?”

“The Big Dig?” He chuckled. “Oh, sure. A lot.”

“Let me tell you a story.” He gave Jeff the briefest possible summary of what he’d been investigating. As he finished up, he said, “There must have been a dozen workers on site there to replace that light fixture. Subcontractors. Electricians and lighting specialists and epoxy guys and all that.”

“Boston’s a small town,” Jeff said. “I should at least know someone who knows someone. I got a couple ideas; let me ask around and get back to you.”

“Thanks. And do me a favor-be discreet about why you’re asking, okay?”

Jeff paused a moment. Warily, he said, “Do my best.”

“Some people out there don’t want anyone asking questions.”