There went my angle.

The ribbon cutting when the completed mall opened next year would be a bigger story. I was just on hand to watch a few businessmen and politicians pretend to use a shovel.

The ground was actually already “broken”-rough grading had been done, and stakes here and there indicated where the next phase would begin. I found the construction supervisor, a gent by the name of Brian O’Malley, who in the course of introductions mentioned to me that he knew a Patrick Kelly.

“That’s my dad’s name.”

“Did your father go to St. Francis High School?”

“Yes, he did. You, too?”

“Yes. And you’ve something of the look of him. How is Patrick these days?”

“Fine,” I lied.

He wrote a phone number on the back of his business card. “That’s my home number. Have your old man give me a call.”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

He made sure I had a good seat for the ceremony. The event went the way every groundbreaking ceremony went. Speeches promising everyone that building a mall would lead to prosperity for the community. Guys in suits who hadn’t had their hands on so much as a gardening trowel in decades taking turns posing with a “golden” ceremonial shovel.

The paper hadn’t bothered sending a photographer, so I had to take the photos myself. I did the best I could, but I doubted any of the subjects would be asking if they could buy prints.

I interviewed the city council members, the mayor, the developer, the district manager for one of the department store chains. Not one of them said anything original.

I hung around long after the “show” was over-mostly, I admitted to myself, to avoid going back to the newsroom. While I dawdled, the suits drove off and the actual construction crew started to go to work. An idea struck me, and I approached Mr. O’Malley again.

“Mind if I talk to some of the real ‘groundbreakers’?” I asked.

He laughed and said, “That would be a first.” He studied me for a moment and said, “They’ll tease you unmercifully and their language isn’t fit for a lady, but I suppose a lady reporter is used to such things.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll bet you will.” He started introducing me to the crew.

They asked to see my credentials to prove I was a real reporter, and one asked me if Las Piernas was so hard up for high society that guys in hardhats now qualified. Others immediately and accurately accused me of playing hooky from the office and gave me some good-natured razzing, asking if I really couldn’t think of anything better to do than pester them when they were trying to get some work done. But when they saw I was serious about writing about them, they began to tell me more about their work, their equipment, and best of all, themselves.

A backhoe operator was showing me the accuracy with which he could scrape a layer of earth, when there was a screeching sound that was something like an amplified version of fingernails on a blackboard. It made my shoulders bunch up.

We turned toward the source of the sound-a giant bulldozer excavating an area a few yards away. I heard O’Malley shout for him to hold up.

By the time I walked over, the bulldozer had backed away.

“It’s a car,” O’Malley said.

“I thought this was farmland,” I said, snapping a photo. “It wasn’t a junkyard, was it?”

“No, but back before all these environmental laws started being passed, people buried their trash all the time.”

“Have you found a lot of other buried trash out here today?”

He frowned, then called the backhoe man over. Before long, an old, smashed-up blue Buick was uncovered. “From the fifties at least,” one of the men said.

“We’ve delayed enough,” Brian O’Malley said. “Let’s get the damned thing out of here.”

One of the men had moved to the trunk and had been working at opening it. When he heard Brian’s order, he said, “Wait, maybe there’s a briefcase full of money in here.” He managed to free the latch, but as he opened the trunk, his face went white. “Holy shit, Brian…”

We moved to take a look.

“People,” I said, staring in disbelief at the pile of bones and dried sinew before me. Two loose hollow-eyed skulls stared back from within.

“Fuck me, there goes the schedule,” Brian said in disgust. Then remembering my presence, said, “Don’t you dare tell your father I said that in front of you.”

26

T HE BODIES WERE SORT OF MUMMIFIED-DRIED OUT, YELLOWISH-BROWN sinew clinging to bone. Both skulls damaged. A man and a woman, judging from the long, stained dress and the man’s suit and knot of what looked like it had been a tie near one skull. Piled on top of each other, woman below. And small shiny objects glistened here and there. I took a deep breath and forced myself to take a few more photos before Brian slammed the lid of the trunk closed. “That’s it for now, my girl…”

I know that a true newshound should have been begging him to open it again, but I was really kind of relieved to have the bodies out of sight. I felt a little shaky.

“Doug!” he called to one of the burliest men. “You make sure no one else touches this thing, all right?”

“Sure, boss.”

Brian walked back toward his trailer, and I followed him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride.

“Did you see what was in there?” I asked.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I mean, besides the remains.”

He stopped walking.

“Diamonds scattered over the floor of the trunk,” I said.

“Or cut glass,” he said, but he didn’t believe that any more than I did.

I was ready to fight H.G. for the right to keep covering the story, had my arguments all lined up, and figured I’d have to take them to John Walters- the news editor-and Wrigley as well. But H.G. surprised me. He heard me out as I told him the basics of the situation, then, after a moment’s silence, he said, “I’m going to let you stay on this on your own for now. But you are going to have to make some promises to me right here and now-you’re not going to hold information back from me, and you’re going to call for help if you need it.”

I readily promised. “Actually, if I’m staying here to watch what goes on- do you think I could ask for help from someone who might be able to learn more about the property’s past? Someone who won’t try to take the story from me?”

He laughed. “Sure. Have anyone in mind?”

“Lydia Ames.”

“She’s in features.”

“Trust me. We did a story in our college paper about the university annexing some property-Lydia did all the county record work.” I gave him the details I had on Griffin Baer, which weren’t many. “The car looks as if it’s from the 1950s, but maybe it wasn’t new when it was buried. Lydia can find out how long Baer owned the property, and talk to the heirs to learn who lived out here if he didn’t.”

“If features can spare her from her work there, okay. If not, I’ll find someone else and make him keep his mitts off your story.”

I reassured him that I had a roll of dimes and that I’d call back if I needed any other help, then hurried back out to the pit that held the car.

Most of the outside of the car was so dirty, you couldn’t see much inside. I doubted that absolutely clean car windows would have helped much, because the front windshield had collapsed, and most of the passenger area of the car was filled with dirt, too. The grill was smashed in, making it look as if the car had been in an accident, but maybe that happened during the burial process. There were no license plates on the car.

The police arrived, ending my snooping. Uniformed officers, and not much later, two guys in suits. One of the suits was a broad-shouldered, gray-haired man I guessed to be in his fifties, with a pleasant, easygoing manner. He introduced himself as Detective Matt Arden. He ignored my presence almost immediately and focused his attention on Brian and the workmen.