Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy

  Invasion of Privacy

  Jeremiah Healy

  1996

  For Bonnie, still the best

  =1=

  The woman choosing one of the client chairs in front of my desk was attractive without being beautiful or even pretty. Wearing a gray herringbone business suit, carefully tailored, over a white blouse and Christmas-ribbon bow tie, she seemed around forty. At maybe five-five and one-ten, her body looked trim but not athletic. The hair was a lustrous brown, curling upward and inward just above the shoulders. High cheek-bones slanted slightly toward her nose while pale blue eyes slanted slightly toward her temples. Everything about the woman suggested sophisticated but foreign, and I wasn't surprised when she spoke English with a faint, precise accent.

  "I am sorry to come here without an appointment, Mr. Cuddy."

  I pushed a legal pad and pen to the side of my desk.

  "That's all right," I said, placing the accent as Eastern European or—

  "My name is Olga Evorova." She pronounced it "Ee-vor-oh-va." "I obtained your name from a computer search of recent newspaper articles."

  There are worse ways. "Which ones?"

  Evorova told me, then glanced away toward one of the windows behind me, the chair she'd taken giving her a view of the Boston Common as it sweeps up to the golden dome of the Massachusetts Statehouse. The trees were barely turning, the early October air on that Tuesday afternoon as mild as Labor Day weekend. When I'd come in, tourists were mobbing the guy who sold tickets to a sightseeing trolley from his carny stand across the street.

  Without looking back toward me, Evorova said, "I have never before needed the help of a private investigator."

  My office door has pebbled glass in the upper half, and I noticed that the reverse stenciling of "JOHN FRANCIS CUDDY, CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS” bowed over her head like the arch of a medieval church. "Why do you feel you need one now?"

  The pale blue eyes returned to me. "This June past, I met a man. I soon grew to care for him very much, and our relationship has . . . progressed to the point that I would very much like to marry him if he should ask."

  I nodded and waited.

  She moved her tongue around inside her mouth, as though trying to dissipate a bad taste. "I am, however, concerned about his background."

  "In what way?"

  More hesitation. "What we discuss, it remains confidential, yes?"

  "Unless a court orders me to talk, and maybe even then, depending."

  "Depending upon what?"

  "On how much I like you as a client."

  That brought a shy smile. "You are very easy to talk with, Mr. Cuddy."

  "It's a useful quality."

  "Useful?"

  "People who come to see me often have difficult things to talk about."

  A dip of the chin as she seemed to reach a decision.

  "Originally, I am from Moscow. It was nearly impossible, but I was able to immigrate to the United States for my master's degree in finance. After graduation, I obtained a job with Harborside Bank. When the Soviet Union began to break apart, I was promoted several times rapidly as someone who might bring to the bank a certain advantage in business dealings with the 'new' country of Russia. Even though the dealings have not come so far so fast, I am very well compensated for my work." Another hesitation. "I am talking too much?"

  "No. Go on, please."

  Evorova looked down at my desk. "You will not take notes?"

  "Not right away. I'd rather hear you describe things first."

  The chin dip. "In Moscow, my family is all gone, just one uncle here I am able to help. Many died from the Nazis in the Great Patriotic War. So, except for my Uncle Vanya—Ivan—I am alone."

  "And you're concerned that . . . ?"

  The pale eyes glanced toward her lap, then fixed me with an executive stare. "I am concerned that I seem a 'fat cat,' a potential target."

  "For someone like this man you've grown to care for?"

  "Exactly, yes. His name is Andrew Dees. He is a wonderful person, Mr. Cuddy. Andrew owns his own business and a condominium in the town of Plymouth Mills on the South Shore. He is romantic and intelligent and . . ." Evorova blushed. "Soon I will be blushing."

  "Then what worries you about Mr. Dees?"

  "As I said, his background. Or that he has no 'background.' I ask Andrew where he is from, and he says Chicago, but does not talk about it. I ask him about his family, and he says they are all dead, but does not talk of them. I ask him about his schooling, and he says he graduated from the University of Central Vermont, but does not talk about his time there or . . . anything."

  Evorova seemed to nm down a little, like a wind-up toy after a long spurt. I gave her a moment, then said, "Have you done any investigating on your own?"

  She looked out my window again. "Some. I ran a D&B on Andrew. You know what this is?"

  "A Dun & Bradstreet credit report."

  "Exactly, yes." A small sigh. "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  Evorova came back to me. "Oh, Andrew has a personal checking account, and a business checking account, and a business credit card, which he never uses. But there is no personal credit card, no prior loan history, not even a current line of credit for the business."

  "What business is it?"

  "A photocopy shop in the town center near his condominium."

  "That would mean some capital investment to get started, right?"

  "Exactly, yes. But he paid cash for everything that is not leased."

  Cash. "And the condo?"

  "It is in a complex called Plymouth Willows."

  "But how did Mr. Dees pay for it?"

  "Oh. By cash also. Well, certified check, actually. Andrew purchased from a realty trust—do you wish the details in a banking sense?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Then just assume that he paid the deposit for his unit by certified check and the balance the same. Andrew also filed a homestead exemption. You know what this is, too?"

  "A protection of so much equity in his condo from any future creditors?"

  "Exactly, yes."

  "Did Mr. Dees have an attorney represent him?"

  "In the purchase, do you mean?"

  I nodded.

  "No," said Evorova. "Andrew told me he did not."

  I'd had a year of evening law school, and the homestead exemption in Massachusetts was a pretty advanced device for a layman from Chicago to know about. "Mr. Dees is willing to talk about that transaction, then?"

  "But only a little. And when we were reading in bed . . .One Sunday morning, casually I pointed to him a newspaper article in the Globe about antenuptial agreements. Andrew laughed and said he did not believe in those things and very quickly changed the subject to something else."

  "Do you know his Social Security number?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you also know there are other sources you can check by running that number through some computers?"

  "Yes. And I have done that." The executive stare again. "Nothing."

  "No prior employment?"

  "No."

  "Military service?"

  "No."

  "Divorce?"

  "No, no, and no."

  I stopped. A bit of what it must feel like to sit across a negotiating table from Evorova came through to me. She waved her hand in a way I found both alien and expressive. "I am sorry, but this is quite . . . upsetting, even just to discuss."

  Understandable. "Where did you meet Mr. Dees?"

  "In a bar, but not as you would think."

  "Tel1 me about it."

  "I was driving back from Cape Cod—my best friend at the bank, she has a summer house ther
e. My car is a Porsche, the 911 Carrera six-speed. Do you know it?"

  "Only by price tag."

  The blushing again. "One of my few indulgences, Mr. Cuddy. I even had the car custom-painted my favorite shade of orange, and I permit no one else to drive it.”

  "Not even Mr. Dees?"

  "No. But I have digressed. That day, when I am coming back from the Cape, I hear a noise in the engine which I do not like. So, I exit Route 3 at Plymouth Mills, where the Porsche manual says there is a dealership, and while my car is being examined, I cross the street and go into a bar, to wait."

  "And—?"

  "I am sitting at the bar, reading Forbes—the business magazine?—when this man on a stool nearby says to me,

  'He died on a motorcycle, like James Dean.' At first I would not have talked to him, but Andrew's voice is wonderful. I do not have a perfect sense for American accents, but I have developed some ear for them, and he sounded from the Midwest. So I did.”

  "Talk to him."

  Evorova dipped her chin once more. "For an hour, two. Andrew has very dark hair, and a very strong face. I almost forgot about my car. But when he asked me for my telephone number, I said, 'No, give to me yours, and I will call you.' "

  "And then you started going out?"

  "Yes. Andrew does not like to come to Boston much because of his business—to leave it alone?—but he enjoys the ballet, and the symphony, especially chamber music. And we go to restaurants. Andrew does not like Italian or Indian food, but he very much enjoys the Chinese and . . ."

  Another blush. "Again, I am sorry."

  It wasn't hard to see why Evorova was so troubled. She suspected the guy was a little off, but she was nuts about him too.

  I said, "From the way you met, it doesn't sound like a set-up."

  "A . . . you mean that Andrew arranged that we would meet?"

  "Right."

  Evorova shook her head vigorously. "No. No, I think that would be quite impossible. The bar is one near his business, one he goes to very often, I think. But Andrew could not know I would be driving back from the Cape that day and develop engine trouble."

  I picked up my pen for the first time. "The name of the bar?"

  "The Tides, in the town center, also." She tensed a bit. "You will go there?"

  "That depends on what you want me to do."

  Evorova seemed relieved. "What I want you to do is . . .find out things. Perhaps to watch Andrew, to . . ." She admired the Statehouse again. "Find out things."

  "But without Mr. Dees knowing I'm doing it."

  Back to me. "Exactly, yes. I do not wish to threaten our relationship by committing an invasion of privacy."

  I put down the pen. "Ms. Evorova, that won't be easy, and it may not even be possible."

  "Why so?"

  "It's difficult to do more than what you've done already without Mr. Dees hearing from other people that I've been asking around about him."

  "You could perhaps follow Andrew, yes? With discretion?"

  "Do you have a photo of him."

  Evorova looked toward her lap once more, speaking almost to herself. "He does not like the camera very much, my Andrew."

  My Andrew. I brought both hands onto the blotter, folding them. "Ms. Evorova, even with a photo, following somebody isn't quite as easy as it looks on television."

  "Why so?"

  "Everyone can tell after a while that they're being tailed unless the followers use a team approach, like the police or FBI could mount."

  She seemed to digest that.

  I said, "Is there anybody you know who I could talk to about Mr. Dees without it getting back to him?”

  A slow shake of the head. "My uncle has met Andrew, and likes him very much. If you talk to Vanya, it would . . . get back."

  "How about people from work?"

  "Andrew has only one employee, and she is loyal to him, I believe."

  "No, I meant at your bank. Has anyone met Mr. Dees?"

  "Only my friend, Clude, who owns the house on the Cape."

  "Clude?"

  "She is French-Canadian, but born here. The spelling is C-L-A-U-D-E."

  I wrote it down. "Last name?"

  "Wah-zell, L-O-I-S-E-L-L-E." Evorova seemed troubled. "I would prefer you not speak with her."

  I placed the pen back on the blotter. "It might help if you could tell me why."

  The troubled look grew deeper. "Probably I will talk to Claude about coming to see you. However, she has had dinner with us—with Andrew and me—twice. I think she made up her mind about him the first time, but she agreed to meet him again."

  "And—"

  "Claude is a very . . . instinctive person, Mr. Cuddy. She believes Andrew is hiding something from me."

  "Did Ms. Loiselle suggest you see a private investigator?"

  "No." The executive stare again. "She suggested I stop seeing Andrew."

  I'd already heard enough not to contest Evorova on that one, but she kept going anyway. "You see, I have not had a very . . . secure life. Before I am born, my mother was pregnant with twins, another baby girl and me. When she reached her sixth month, my mother was passenger on a bus in Moscow that collided with a truck. Afterward, she felt sick, so she went to the doctor. He said to her, 'I am sorry, but one of your babies is dead.' He said also that it would be safer for the other baby-me-if my mother carried both babies . . . to term. She did what the doctor advised, and so I lay in the womb three months next to my dead sister." A tear trickled over the comer of Evorova's left eye. "I never met her, but I . . . I still miss her.”

  A moment. Then, "As my other family, the ones who survived the Great Patriotic War, began dying, I dreamed of the United States, and a different life here. A secure one. And now I have that. But for me, life has been only study and work. All my time, all my energy, all my . . . heart. Until I met Andrew. And my heart tells me I cannot lose him just because my banker head—or my banker friend—tells me some things are perhaps not quite right. Do you see this?"

  I thought about my wife, Beth, before the cancer took her, and about Nancy Meagher, who'd very nearly come to replace her. "I think so."

  Evorova suddenly shrugged heavily. "I am sorry. I am one professional coming to consult with another, and instead, I . . ." The expressive wave again.

  I picked up my pen. "We need to talk about my retainer and how you want me to stay in touch with you."

  She looked at me. "You will try to help, yes?"

  "I'll try."

  A sense of relief came into her voice. "Thank you so much. "

  Evorova thought my usual rate was fine, giving me her home number but asking that I use her voice-mail at the bank, "just in case Andrew is . . . might be at my apartment."

  "And where do you live?"

  She reeled off the street address. "A condominium of my own, on Beacon Hill."

  Which triggered an idea. I said, "You told me Mr. Dees lives in a condominium too."

  "Yes. Unit number 42 at Plymouth Willows in—"

  "Plymouth Mills."

  Evorova seemed pleased that I'd remembered the name of her Andrew's town.

  I said, "He has neighbors close by, then?"

  "Exactly, yes. Townhouses on either side. In little 'clusters,' he calls them."

  "How big a complex is it?"

  "Plymouth Willows? A total of perhaps fifty units, sixty?"

  Good. "So there's some kind of property company that manages it?"

  "I believe so." Evorova's eyes seemed to search inside for a moment. "Yes. I remember Andrew saying once the name of it, when he was writing his monthly maintenance check."

  "Do you remember the name?"

  More searching. "No, I am sorry."

  I put down the pen and smiled at her. "Can you find out?"

  Olga Evorova smiled back, but I could tell she wasn't sure why.

  =2=

  Knocking lightly on the jamb of the open door, I said, "Mo, got a minute?"

  Mo Katzen glanced up at me. He was sitting
behind a desk that looked roughly like the Charles River Esplanade after the July Fourth fireworks' concert. Pieces of waxy sandwich paper jockeyed for position with empty soda cans, the straws still bent at the angle Mo preferred while drinking from them. Discarded stories were scattered around the old manual typewriter he wouldn't consign to the junk heap despite the fact that every other reporter at the Boston Herald had computerized years ago. A half-smoked, unlit cigar was jammed in the corner of his mouth, the eyes sad beneath an unruly wave of snow-white hair. Seventy-something and looking every day of it, the man himself was in his standard uniform, the vest and pants of a three-piece suit, the jacket nowhere to be found. Only this time, the suit was black instead of the usual gray.

  "John, John." Mo motioned listlessly. "Come on in."

  I took the seat across his desk. "Something wrong, Mo?"

  He shrugged, the cigar doing a sit—up. "Nothing much. Just the passing of a generation, that's all."

  "Somebody died?"

  "Of course somebody died. People die every day, John. Every minute, probably every second, you want to stretch the net wide enough. Why do you think I'm in this outfit?"

  "Sorry, Mo. Someone c1ose?"

  A smaller shrug, the cigar rising only halfway. "Close enough. Guy I went to school with, back in Chelsea."

  The city north of Boston. "How did it happen?"

  "How? How. I'll tell you how." Mo came forward, some animation flowing back into him. "Freddie—that was his name, Freddie Norton—Freddie was walking by the McCormack Building downtown. He was trying to figure out where the feds had hidden the Social Security offices so he could ask them a question, since of course trying to get them on the phone is just this side of establishing radio contact with Mars. Well, Freddie looks the wrong way stepping off the curb and gets pasted by this truck, pedal to the metal in third gear trying to pass a police car on the right. I mean, what kind of jerk does that? Pass a cruiser, and in the slow lane, yet. Anyway, Freddie gets thrown fifty feet—he was always just a little guy, and he hadn't grown any lately—and despite the cops already being there and calling for an ambulance and all, he's DOA at Mass General, like seven blocks away."

  "I'm sorry for your troubles, Mo."

  "Huh, tell me about it. People dwell on how they're afraid to ride planes or even cars in this city. You know how dangerous it is just to walk around here?"