“I had a heart-to-heart with Sebastian at the end of the day, and he seemed to be listening, but when he didn’t show up the next morning, I thought he’d chickened out, decided he couldn’t face the heavy artillery again. But they told me at Brentback that he hadn’t quit, that they didn’t know where he was.”
That seemed to be the end of what they knew about Sebastian. The young engineers had felt honor-bound to invite him for drinks after the senior engineer chewed him out, but he’d said he was going to the night game at Wrigley. We all whipped out our cell phones to look up the Cubs schedule. April 8, nine days ago.
“That’s right,” Tyler said. “We’d poured the deck for the tenth floor and he damned near put a foot in the wet concrete.”
The room was filling up as the other engineers arrived. The architects came, with changes to the design. The senior engineer left us, giving Aliana a master key so I could look in Sebastian’s locker.
“Take her back to the hoist as soon as she’s seen it, then meet me on thirteen. We have a problem with the soffits on the first recess.”
The engineers all had lockers where they mostly kept extra socks or earmuffs, Aliana explained, opening Sebastian’s. He’d left behind a gym bag with running shoes, shorts and a cup. I riffled through the bag and found wadded-up receipts for food or toiletries.
“Sebastian had to save money,” Aliana said, looking over the receipts with me. “He told us his mother left him and his sister with a humongous debt to pay off, so we weren’t surprised when he wouldn’t go out drinking with us. He didn’t really drink, anyway. And he tried to take care of his sister—it’s one of the good things about him. He isn’t a very good engineer, but he’s not a bad person.”
Among the receipts was a scrap of paper with “11 P.M., 131” written on it in a black felt-tip. Aliana couldn’t say whether it was Sebastian’s writing or not.
“We do everything by text, so I never see his handwriting, and anyway, it’s just a few numbers.”
She also couldn’t explain whether the 131 referred to anything in the Virejas job site. A building involved so many numbers, so many calculations, this could refer to almost anything, but not to anything that jumped out at her.
Her phone trilled—the senior engineer, texting her to wrap things up with the detective. She steered me to the hoist gate, then trotted to a rough-poured stairwell in a far corner to climb up to thirteen. A couple of the steelworkers catcalled at her; she laughed and bantered back, her beaded braids dancing under her gold Brentback hard hat.
The worksite had filled while I was talking to the project manager and the engineers. From twelve stories up, I felt as though I was looking at a movie set, something like the pyramid-building scene in The Ten Commandments. Lots of miniature figures crawled across the landscape hauling steel, mixing concrete, loading dump trucks.
While I was staring, the hoist passed me going up, carrying three men along with the operator. They all turned to look at me, the lone figure in the foreground. I’d seen one of them before, walking down Clark next to a frightened Jerry Fugher. I hoped my hard hat put my face in enough shadow that he wouldn’t recognize me.
When the hoist came back down to collect me, I asked the operator who he’d been taking up just now. “More engineers?”
“Nah, they’re with the cement contractor. You guys ought to join a dating service,” he said. “They wanted to know about you, too.”
“‘Engineers Measure Up,’ that’d be a good dating site for geeks,” I said, but my stomach tightened: the gravel-faced man had recognized me.
“Nah, if you want to meet them, you need to go to ‘Cementing Relations.’”
I laughed obligingly. “Who’s pouring for you? Ozinga?”
“This crew is with Sturlese. Brentback usually subcontracts with them on their big jobs. What dating site do you detectives use?”
“I don’t know. ‘Caught Flatfooted’ doesn’t sound attractive, does it?”
We stopped at the sixth floor to pick up another couple of guys and the conversation switched to the weather and the White Sox.
“The Mesaline kid was a Cubs fan,” I said. “Any of you see him at Wrigley Field?”
“Yeah, he would be a Cubs fan,” the hoist operator said. “He didn’t have the balls for this kind of work.”
When we got to the bottom, before he let the next upward-bound group onboard, I pulled out my cell phone and showed him the blurry shot I’d taken of Jerry Fugher at Wrigley Field. “You ever see this guy with your Sturlese Cement crew?”
“What, with Danny DeVito? Don’t tell me Nabiyev is making movies in his spare time—a dead carp on the sand has more emotion than he does.”
Nabiyev. At least I had the gravel guy’s name now. “Maybe deep down Nabiyev is a boiling pot of feeling and the hitman fa?ade is just that—a cover to keep us from seeing his profound emotions.”
“Hitman fa?ade? It wouldn’t surprise me if he was a hit man all the way to the bone. If you can’t detect that, better find a new line of work.”
ROACH MOTEL