Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy Page 6

  "I just know the name on the checks they send in for their monthly maintenance."

  "Don't those go to Hendrix?"

  "Yes, but we on the board kind of . . . informally audit the financial statements Boyce prepares for us."

  "You have any reason to think those statements need to be audited?"

  "Oh. Oh, no, not in that sense. I think every condominium association that's big enough to need a management company kind of keeps an eye on that company. Doesn't yours?"

  "I rent."

  "I mean, doesn't the complex you're working for do that with their current manager?"

  "Well, yes. In fact . . ." I shrugged.

  "Oh. Oh, I see. Is that one of the reasons they're thinking of changing companies?"

  "You're very astute, Mrs. Stepanian."

  The small teeth. "Thank you, Mr. Cuddy."

  "How have you found working with Mr. Hendrix?"

  "Oh, very pleasant. He's always available by telephone, and visits the complex regularly."

  "How does he treat you when you visit him?"

  "Visit him?" The clouded look. "I don't think I ever have. Why would I, when Boyce is always happy to come here?"

  So a trustee has never seen Hendrix's office. "Does he produce or process the documentation on time?"

  "There's really just the annual meeting notices, and the monthly maintenance bills, but he also does a good job of analyzing things like 'reserve for replacement' and advising us on insurance rates and so forth."

  "How does he handle complaints?”

  "Well, there are very few, actually. The developer here might have gotten into trouble financially, but he made sure the buildings and systems were done right structurally. And our superintendent does a wonderful job of maintaining the grounds and pool."

  "I might have seen him on my way in. Baseball cap, rake?"

  The small smile, but with a tinge of sadness to it. "Yes. Paulie Fogerty. When Boyce first hired him for us, I was a little . . . well, I suppose it's 'politically incorrect' but I was a little concerned about Paulie being up to the task. However, I have to say, he's really turned out well, and even does the extra things."

  "Extra things?"

  "Yes, like helping you in with groceries if he sees you struggling at all, or accepting packages when you're not home. He can sign his name and everything."

  I wasn't quite sure how Stepanian meant that, but, again, she spoke without sarcasm, just that hollow sound to the words, as though she'd memorized them and trotted out a given phrase when she thought it might fit the occasion.

  "Has Mr. Hendrix's company always been the manager here?"

  "No. The developer did the 'managing' while he owned the majority of the units. He then stayed on as manager, but once the foreclosures and all started, we were kind of 'self-managing' which is very hard in a complex this size. Fortunately, when that realty trust took over, they brought in Boyce to run things for us."

  "And what's the name of this realty trust?"

  "The C.W. Realty Trust."

  "Which stands for?"

  The small teeth peeked out at me. "Nobody knows."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "You know how these realty trusts work. They're anonymous—no, that's not the right word. Confidential. They don't have to disclose who they are, not even at the Registry of Deeds. I even went there once to look them up. Zero."

  "So you don't know who stands behind the C.W. Realty Trust."

  "No, but I do know one thing."

  "What's that?”

  "Their checks always clear."

  "For the monthly maintenance on the units the trust still owns."

  "That's right."

  Back to the form. "Do you and your husband have any CHILDREN?"

  "No. Actually, I can't have any."

  That same neutral voice. I looked up.

  "But, as a result, we can afford to live here because we don't have to try to clothe, feed, and educate anybody else. Also, Steven's on the school committee, and I do the condo work, and I guess that's how we . . . compensate."

  There was something hollow about that comment too, but I had other things I wanted to cover with her.

  "NEIGHBORS is next. I promise whatever you say will remain strictly confidential, but it would be a help if you could describe your neighbors for me, to give my clients a sense of how comparable your complex's situation is to theirs."

  "Our neighbors. You mean here in our cluster?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. First, there's Mr. Dees next door."

  I sat as far forward in the marshmallow chair as I could. "Spelling?"

  "D-E-E-S."

  "And where is he from?"

  "From? You mean like 'hometown' again?"

  "Yes."

  "The Midwest somewhere. Chicago?" She looked away, to the wall her townhouse shared with his. "Yes. I'm pretty sure he said that to Steven once."

  "EDUCATION?"

  "I don't know. He certainly seems like he went to college, if that's what matters to you, but I don't remember ever talking with him about it."

  "OCCUPATION?"

  "He owns the photocopy store in town."

  "Owns or just manages?"

  "Owns, I think." The cocking of the head. "Why don't you just ask him?"

  "I plan to, but I saw him leaving just as I was arriving."

  "Oh. Oh, that would be late for him, but I was on the deck, reading, so I might not have heard him."

  "Does Mr. Dees have any family?"

  "That lives with him here, you mean?"

  "Or that visits."

  "Well, he lives alone, and he's never introduced me to anyone."

  "To any family, you mean."

  "Anyone, period. He stays pretty much to himself. I believe he's kind of dating a . . ."

  Stepanian stopped.

  "What's the matter."

  She looked at me. "I just realized I was starting to sound like a gossip. I don't think it's right to invade his privacy."

  Olga Evorova had used the same phrase with me, and I realized I'd have to watch how deeply my "condo clients" would be interested in the personal life of Andrew Dees. "I understand, and I certainly don't mean to pry. It would just help my clients to know this general 'census' information?

  Stepanian nodded, but more in wariness than agreement, I thought.

  To protect my cover story, I said, "How about the other two townhouses here?"

  "Well, next to Mr. Dees is Mrs. Robinette. And her son, Jamey."

  "Do you know where they're from?"

  "I'm pretty sure Jamey was born in the states, but she has a little bit of an accent, so maybe from the islands."

  "The Caribbean, you mean?"

  "Yes, she's . . . well, if she's from there, I'm not sure whether you'd call her African-Arnerican or whatever-American, but she and Jamey are black."

  "How old is he?"

  "Fifteen, sixteen."

  "What does Mrs. Robinette do?"

  "l don't know. I've never seen her going off to work anywhere. Her husband died, so maybe there's some kind of pension or death benefits, because she can afford a car and those baggy clothes for Jamey that you see all the kids wearing now."

  "Do you socialize with them much?"

  "No." A pensive pause. "I'm not sure how to put this, but everybody here at the Willows pretty much stays to themselves except around the pool in the summer, and the Robinettes aren't 'pool people.' " She gave me the cocked head look. "Don't you want to know how long they've lived here?"

  I hadn't thought of it, but Stepanian was right, I "should" want to know that. "You said almost six years for you and your husband, right'?"

  "Right. Well, Mrs. Robinette and Jamey moved in just, oh, two years ago, maybe. And Mr. Dees about a year after that, so only the Elmendorfs have been here as long as Steven and me.”

  Guessing "Elmendorf" was Paulie's "Eh-men-dor,” I tried to stay on track. "Did Mr. Robinette die before they moved here, then?"

  "
Oh, yes. Sometime before that. I'm not sure when, though."

  "And now, how about the Elmendorfs?"

  "That's Norman, and his daughter, Kira. K-I-R-A."

  "Wife?"

  Stepanian looked away, a pained expression on her face this time. "Norman's wife left him. After he got sick."

  "Sick?"

  "Yes, he . . . it has to do with the war."

  "Which one?"

  "The Persian Gulf." Stepanian came back to me. "I mean, can you imagine, just abandoning your husband, and child, and . . . taking off?"

  "Any idea why she did that'?”

  "None. It's so . . . abnormal to me," looking to the framed photo on the shelf. "But I'm starting to sound like a gossip again."

  Okay. "How old is his daughter?"

  "Kira? About the same as Jamey Robinette, only . . . I don't know, I guess I have this feeling that she's a year older than he is? I'm not sure why."

  Lana Stepanian had given me more than I thought she would, but I didn't want to overdo the questionnaire on its maiden voyage. I also had the feeling that Stepanian was running out of information on her neighbors. "Last point, then. Where are the Elmendorfs from?"

  "His wife was from the South, somewhere. I never knew her well." A bitter laugh. "I guess that's obvious, isn't it? Anyway, Norman's originally from Massachusetts. He did photography for the Brockton newspaper until—wel1, you can ask him yourself."

  Brockton was a small city, also in Plymouth County, and a number of reserve units from the South Shore had been mobilized for Desert Storm. "I wonder if you could just review and sign this form I've filled out."

  Stepanian looked at it, then to me. "Is this really necessary?"

  "It just shows I spoke with you and have a basis for my eventual recommendation on the Hendrix Company."

  More hesitation, but she finally picked up the pen. When Stepanian gave the form back to me, "Lana Stepanian" was scripted in a precise hand at the bottom.

  I said, "Do you think Mrs. Robinette would be home now?"

  "I wouldn't know."

  "How about Norman Elmendorf?"

  Lana Stepanian smiled sadly, without showing any of the tiny teeth. "Mr. Cuddy, Norman's always home."

  =6=

  Leaving the Stepanians' townhouse, I felt pretty good about the cover story I'd given Hendrix and the way the questionnaire had "tested" with the first neighbor, especially how Lana Stepanian's reactions tipped me to some of the more "questionable" parts of it. However, I really hadn't learned anything about Andrew Dees beyond what Olga Evorova already had told me.

  I walked down the Stepanians' path to the sidewalk and past the Dees unit At the next path I went up to the door with number 43 on it and ROB1NETTE under the button. When I pushed, another bong sounded inside, but nobody answered. After trying the button twice more without success, I tracked back down their path and over to the Elmendorfs at number 44.

  Their bong was answered by Kira's muffled voice saying "Just a second,” and then she herself at the door. Up close, the eyes under the platinum hair were brown, some silver glitterdust sparkling at the comers. A stainless steel ring pierced her left nostril, its triplets through her left ear but an inch above the lobe. She carried a Sony Walkman in her right hand, the headpiece to it down around her throat like a necklace.

  Kira looked at me oddly, as though aware that she ought to know me. "Can I help with something?"

  I introduced myself and gave her my ID. There's no photo on the license, but she still compared what was written on it with my face, saying, "You were in The Tides today, right?"

  "Right."

  Kira handed my holder back to me, with a little flourish I took to be her idea of coy. "So how come you're following me?"

  "I'm not. I represent another condominium association that's thinking of hiring the Hendrix company to run their complex, and I'm just checking on how well people who live here think Hendrix performs for them."

  "Well, I don't know much about it, but come in anyway."

  I'm not sure what I expected after the Stepanians' place. In terms of structural layout, the Elmendorf unit had exactly the same design, but mirror-imaged, so the kitchen was on the left and the staircase to the catwalk on the right. While the Stepanians had overstuffed furniture and carefully selected knickknacks, this place seemed more cluttered than decorated. Magazines covered all the horizontal planes. Teen, Outdoor Life, Elle, Popular Mechanics. Some technical photographic journals were sprinkled into the general mess. The couch, chairs, and table in the living room looked twenty years old, used pizza boxes and Chinese food cartons stacked on the counter separating kitchen from dining area. No sign of Norman Elmendorf. But some sound of him.

  A gravelly male voice called out from the upstairs.

  "Kira, who is it?"

  "No problem, Dad. Just a man wanting to know about the condo management."

  Kira said the words sweetly, no condescension toward him or me in her manner.

  "Well, send him up.”

  She looked at me, spoke very quietly. "If you don't go up to see him I'll, like, hear about it for a week. Do me a favor, though?"

  "What?"

  Kira bit her lip once and let out a breath. "Be gentle and patient with him, okay?"

  Watching her, I said, "Okay."

  She sat down on the old print couch, putting the headpiece to the Walkman back on and picking up a magazine. Climbing the stairs, I noticed only two chairs at the dining room table. Looking down at the staircase itself, I saw a number of indentations on the wooden steps. The marks were round and roughly the circumference of a half-dollar. As though somebody on crutches had been making this journey for a while.

  When I arrived at the threshold to what I predicted would be the master bedroom, the door was half open, but I knocked anyway. The gravelly voice said, "Come on in."

  Entering the room, I saw a man of six feet or so lying in bed, propped up by two pillows behind him, a pair of metal braces like polio victims might use leaning against the night table next to him. The bedclothes covered his body up to the waist, but on top he wore a hooded, navy-blue sweatshirt which I would have thought too warm for the mild temperature on the second floor. Elmendorfs smiling face was cheery, but the rosy cheeks, bulbous nose, and crooked teeth caricatured him like an engraved portrait out of Dickens. He was about my age with homecut hair, the rosy color of his cheeks extending in blotches down his neck and onto his chest along the zipper of the sweatshirt. I could see why Kira had asked me to be gentle with him.

  A liter bottle of Jim Beam was nearly dead on the night table, two fingers of the bourbon in a glass next to the bottle. Probably why his daughter had asked me to be patient as well.

  "Pull up that chair. Kira uses it to watch over me when I have nightmares, but they're hours away yet."

  I tugged over a wooden armchair that might once have stood at the head of the dining table downstairs. A print on its seat cushion matched the one on the living room couch.

  "Nightmares from what?” I said.

  A tolerant laugh, though it came out more a grunt, like he had phlegm in his throat. "The war, what else? Desert Storm." Taking a swig of his booze, Elmendorf squinted at me. "You?"

  "Vietnam."

  "Army?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "I was MP, so mostly Saigon, occasionally the bush."

  "The 'bush.' God, what we would have given for some 'bush' where old Bushie sent us. Even a branch or a twig, anything to throw a little shade."

  "How did you get sent over?"

  "My own stupid fault." Another gulp of bourbon. "I went into the Reserves after college. Make a little extra money, you know? Then I got married and Kira came along, and the extra money looked even better, so I reupped each time. Never thought I'd ever go anywhere, just weekends at Fort Devens or wherever we did our training for two weeks in the summer. Kind of fun, actually, be with the guys away from home every once in a while."

  "Until."

&nbs
p; "Until is right. Should have known better." Elmendorf set down his glass. "My father was in WW II, the 45th Infantry. He's from Lowell here, but he gets stuck in the 45th with all these National Guard guys from Colorado and Oklahoma, he can barely understand how they talk. And where do they send him first? Martha's Vineyard, to practice amphibious landings. Then he ships out for Sicily somewhere. Here he is, this son of a German immigrant himself, trying to take Italy back from the Italians and the Germans. Crazy, huh?"

  I wanted to be patient, for Kira and for me, so I said,

  "Crazy."

  "And that's not all of it, either. When he's in Sicily, my dad gets to see the first Bob Hope USO show, the very first ever. There's Dorothy Lamour, Jerry Colonna, and Hope himself, coming out on stage and telling jokes and dancing some, then comedy skits. The show had to be held during the daytime, account of they were afraid the German bombers'd see the lights at night. All that and wounded at Palermo to boot, and he still gets called up for Korea seven years later. Which is why I should have known better than to stay in the Reserves."

  "Where were you in the Gulf?"

  "Oh, here, there, and everywhere."

  Which seemed a peculiar answer, as vague as Lana Stepanian had been about her husband's hometown.

  Reaching for the glass, Elmendorf shook his head, then downed the remaining liquor like a shot of tequila. "They talk about Desert Storm as a war, and I guess it was, I don't have anything to compare it to, myself. But you know how long the actual shooting lasted? I don't mean those air raids in January and all, just the actual ground war."

  "Not long, as I recall."

  "Not long is right. A hundred hours. Saturday, twenty-four February, to Wednesday, twenty-eight February. I heard one guy call it 'the Andy Warhol War,' account of it was like somebody being famous for fifteen minutes, you know? Well, all I know is I saw enough death and destruction to last me a lifetime. It wasn't war so much as slaughter. A video game where you just racked up points from planes or tanks or even the little bit of house-to-house there was. The Iraqi Republican Guards, they were well-armed enough, with nice green uniforms and these scarves around their heads and necks, fishnet pattern, like desert chieftains or something. But the poor regular soldiers? Shit, we just plowed them under, right under the sand. The ones that surrendered, the EPWs—Enemy Prisoners of War?—you could see them miles away, like long lines of ants, marching across the horizon with their hands up, praying to Allah because they were going through a minefield. I swear, I was on guard duty one night, and there was a windstorm, and by morning you could see all these mines the Iraqis had laid, a whole line of them, forty or fifty, maybe five meters apart. And I looked down at my LPCs and-"