The Concrete Pearl Read Online Free PDF

far corner office. The head had thick black hair and a puffy, clean shaven face. When the eyes on the head saw that a woman was standing at the window above the reception desk, it quickly retracted back into its shell.
    “Hold all my calls,” Marino barked.
    A door slammed.
    Red jumped a mile. How she managed to work that smile back up was a mystery to me.
    “Mr. Marino is not available at the moment,” she said. “Perhaps we’d like to make an appointment?”
    I knew I would get nowhere trying to get some face time with the highly touted convention center construction manager. I also knew that something had shaken him up; that it might have had something to do with Farrell’s disappearance.
    “Can you leave Peter a message for me?”
    Red picked a pen up off the desk.
    “We’d be happy to,” she lied.
    “Tell him that Farrell not only reneged on his contract to perform the asbestos abatement removals at PS 20 according to contract specifications, but that he split town with the school’s two-hundred grand, plus another ten from a Harrison checking account. And I want it back…Today. Got that?”
    I looked down at her hand. She hadn’t written anything.
    “Perhaps we should have Mr. Marino call you when he gets the opportunity,” she said. “What number can we be reached at?”
    I dug for a business card in my jeans pocket, handed it to her through a narrow opening at the bottom of the window. She took the card, set it onto her desk. She kept smiling.
    “Sorry we couldn’t be more help,” she said.
    “Ain’t no ‘I’ in ‘We,’” I said.
    “Excuse me?” she said.
    I left.
     
     
     

Chapter 6
     
    Back behind the wheel of the Jeep, I checked my Blackberry.
    Four calls.
    I scrolled down them all.
    As expected, two more calls from Stewart and two back-to-back calls from Tommy. I deleted the messages without listening to them. Then I punched in the speed-dial for Tommy’s cell. When I heard the country music in the background I knew he’d answered from inside his truck.
    “Why aren’t you on-site?” I said.
    “Could say the same thing ‘bout you chief. That is you weren’t busy playing Agatha Christsakes…”
    “It’s Christie, Tommy. And I’m trying to locate Farrell, but failing miserably.”
    “Agatha who-gives-a-shit…To answer your question, I got out while I still could. They red-taped the whole place. Even the freakin’ trailer. Jesus, they got me so nervous I was shittin’ yellow. The news people pulled up in their camera trucks. Stewart’s out for blood.”
    I told him about A-1 Environmental Solutions being no more and about Farrell’s sudden departure from planet Earth. I told him about making an inquiry at the Marino Construction offices but getting nowhere.
    He said he was on his way to Lanies Bar, his home away from home in north Albany. He could better monitor the crisis from the television in the comfort of Lanie’s A.C. But I knew he intended to start on an early happy hour. I couldn’t blame him one bit.
     
    I sat stewing.
    By the looks of things, Farrell had exposed hundreds of kids to deadly asbestos fibers. That was one issue. The school’s two-hundred Gs was another. The third, more personal issue was my ten Gs. I stared at his empty building, at the empty parking lot. I wondered what tantalizing clues might lie inside the place if only I could find a way in without getting busted for a B and E.
    Maybe the risk was worth it.
    I set the mobile down inside the cup holder and got out of the Jeep. I reached under the seat, grabbed my equalizer. Shutting the door, I faced the abandoned offices of A-1 Environmental Solutions. I felt my right hand wrap itself around the rubber grip of the claw hammer. I walked.
    I skirted around to the back of the building to the overhead garage door and the locked solid metal door beside it. I raised up the equalizer, took aim, and brought it down hard onto the opener. The collision of metal against metal sent shockwaves up and