Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy Read online

  "Not very optimistic?

  Kira Elmendorf made a gesture with her hands that took in all around her. "Hey, man, you can tell me about it as they're throwing us out of here and onto the street, okay?"

  =7=

  As Kira Elmendorf closed up behind me, I could hear rap music coming faintly from the Robinette unit. I walked over, thinking I still hadn't learned very much about Andrew Dees, even with his neighbors telling me what they knew of him. Hope springing eternal, I pushed the button at number 43. The voice of the rapper jumped a few decibels, though still not very loud, when a young black guy swung open the door.

  He looked to be a little over both sixteen and six feet, in baggy basketball shorts, a baggy T-shirt, and a Miami Dolphins cap worn Yogi-style. A proud, handsome face framed steady brown eyes, not much hair showing under the cap. It would be a while before the flesh filled in the spaces around all the angular bones, though, and in the outfit he was wearing, a strong wind might have given him some difficulty.

  "Help you with something?"

  "My name's John Cuddy. I'd like to speak to your mother if she's around."

  Just the steady eyes before over the shoulder with a loud, "Yo, Mom?"

  "What is it?"

  "Man here to see you."

  "Jamey, I cannot hear you."

  He punched his own voice above the rapper's. "I said there's a man here to see you."

  "One minute."

  I smiled politely at Jamey Robinette, but evidently he didn't think that merited an invitation to enter. Ten seconds later a woman came to the door. About five-seven and slightly overweight, it was as though she were hoarding a dozen extra pounds in case her son decided he could use them. She wore aquamarine pants and a white blouse with a small scarf tied under the collar, like a cowboy's bandanna. Her skin was a few shades lighter than Jamey's, and you could see where he got his features. But her most striking aspect was the hair, almost an orange, yet somehow not unnatural.

  "Yes? Can I help you with something?"

  Reduced to a conversational level, her voice had a lilt and accent to it, maybe Caribbean, as Lana Stepanian had ventured. I introduced myself and showed her my identification.

  She looked up from the holder. "What is this about?"

  "I'm representing a condominium complex that's thinking of retaining the Hendrix company as its manager, and I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about how you've found their services here?"

  A very slight Baring of her nostrils without taking a breath. "Yes. Yes, I believe I can do that. Please, come in."

  I followed her, Jamey closing the door behind us. As we got to the now-familiar first-door layout, he said, "So, Mom, okay if I disappear for a while?"

  "If you turn off that music first."

  Jamey went by her, an affectionate hand on her shoulder. At the home entertainment center, he toggled a key, and the rapper stopped in mid-syllable. Over the shoulder again with, "You want something soothing?"

  "No, thank you."

  Jamey turned to me. "Drink, maybe? We got iced tea and Coke that I know of."

  "Iced tea would be great, thanks."

  "Mom?"

  “Coke, please."

  When Jamey moved toward the kitchen, I could see a rubber Halloween mask lying near the sound system. Pretty good likeness of the actor Tom Cruise.

  Mrs. Robinette noticed me looking at the mask. "For a party at his school."

  I nodded.

  She said, "One of his Jewish friends is going as Denzel Washington? Then a parental shrug, like a silent "Who can understand these kids today?"

  I shrugged back.

  Mrs. Robinette motioned me toward one of two tweedy chairs that matched a couch, she taking the middle of it. A dining room set bought for a larger space stood in front of the sliding glass doors, but I didn't see any furniture on their deck. Bookcases held a couple of framed photos showing a younger version of Mrs. Robinette with a broadshouldered, dark-skinned black man. One was a casual candid, the other a posed portrait from some formal occasion. Between them was a triptych of photos showing Jamey at roughly five-year intervals from ages three to thirteen or so. I looked back at the broad-shouldered man.

  "My husband."

  I nodded.

  She said, "He died, some years ago."

  I turned to her. "My wife too. I'm sorry."

  The beginning of a nod from Mrs. Robinette, a pause, then the continuation of it as Jamey brought us our drinks and went toward the front door with the words, "Back for dinner, don't worry."

  “Your jacket."

  "It's hot out, Mom."

  "Then just take it, even if you will not wear it."

  "Okay, okay."

  I could hear a closet open and close before the front door did the same.

  Lifting my glass, I said, "From the little I know about it, I'd say you've done a pretty fair job raising Jamey on your own."

  That slight flaring of the nostrils again. "You did not have any children, then?"

  The iced tea was laced with lemon and just enough sugar. "No."

  "They make a difference? She regarded me a bit differently. "Since you know I am still alone, I assume you have been talking to some of my neighbors."

  Sharp lady. "Yes." Putting my glass down, I took out one of the forms. "I'll be writing your responses on a copy here, but it's sometimes helpful to have the questions in front of you too. I can assure you that all your responses will remain confidential with me."

  Robinette looked up from her form. "Go ahead."

  "FULL NAME?"

  "Robinette, Tangela."

  "T-A-N-G-E-L-A?"

  A sip of her coke. "That is correct. My father was from Jamaica, and when he saw my hair, he said, 'Why, she looks just like a tangerine."

  "You were born in Jamaica, then?"

  "No. Haiti, Port-au-Prince."

  I stopped writing. "Still have family there?"

  "Some. I left so long ago, I stay informed from CNN more than anything else, but I was glad President Clinton finally sent in our troops. The attachés and the Fraph—that is the 'Front for Advancement and Progress?'—are the younger brothers and older sons of the Duvaliers' Ton-ton Macoutes, and I saw enough of them while I still lived there."

  "How long have you been in the States?"

  "Since I was ten years old."

  I went back to the form. "MAIDEN NAME."

  "Ste. Hilaire. That's S-T-E and H-I-L-A-I-R-E."

  "EDUCATION?”

  “Bachelor's degree from UMass Boston, some graduate credits but no degree from Northeastern."

  “I'm sorry to have to ask this, but . . . your husband?"

  Robinette placed her glass carefully on a side table. "He died before Jamey and I moved to the Willows."

  We looked at each other for a second before she said, "And therefore he could not have known anything about Hendrix Management."

  "Right, of course. How long have you lived here?"

  "About two years."

  Again from the questionnaire, "PURCHASE OR RENT?"

  "Purchase."

  "Based on what I've learned so far, I understand the original developer had some problems?"

  "Yes, or rather that is what I heard too. But I bought directly from the new owners."

  "The C.W. Realty Trust?"

  A hesitation. "I believe that was the name. I just send the monthly maintenance checks to the Hendrix people."

  "Have any FAMILY MEMBERS visited you here?"

  "Well, Jamey lives here, he does not 'visit.' But no, no family otherwise."

  "OCCUPATION?"

  "Jamey is still in school."

  "Here in Plymouth Mills?"

  "No. He commutes as a day student to Tabor Academy."

  I'd heard of it, an expensive boarding school maybe half an hour away, in Marion. "Impressive."

  "He has always been a fine student."

  I wrote on my paper. "And you?"

  "I am no longer a student."

 
"Sorry. That next question stands for your occupation?"

  "I do not work."

  When I looked up at her, Robinette seemed prepared to wait me out. No job, but she purchased a condo, pays monthly maintenance, and covers tuition at Tabor. However, my "clients" wouldn't be interested in how she handled all that.

  Back to the form. "How have your DEALINGS been WITH THE HENDRIX COMPANY?"

  "No complaints."

  "None?"

  "When there is something wrong, I call them, and it gets fixed. We have a resident superintendent, Paulie."

  "I've met him."

  "Well, he takes care of the grounds just fine, and the only thing I can think of that has gone wrong was the mosquitoes from the bog, and when a number of us complained about that, I believe the company had the town go in and spray."

  "And that took care of things?”

  "Or knocked them back some, which was enough."

  "And no other problems that Hendrix didn't fix?"

  Robinette shifted a little on the couch.

  "Not that I know of."

  "NEIGHBORS is the next item. Again I want to stress the confidence in which I'll hold your answers."

  She shifted some more. "I do not quite see what my neighbors have to do with your interviewing me. You have ta1ked—or will talk—to them too, correct?"

  "Yes, but it's helpful for me to get a sense of how everyone in your cluster here sees everyone else, so my clients can judge whether your responses correlate with their situation."

  The Baring of the nostrils again. "Then it does not sound as though my answers are going to be 'held' very 'confidentially.' "

  I shook my head. "What I meant, Mrs. Robinette, is that I'll know who said what, and that will remain confidential with me. I'l1 summarize those individual answers, in an identity-blind way, for my clients. That's how they want it, too."

  A slow blink. "Ask your questions."

  I was afraid of losing her, so I cut to the car chase.8 3

  "Let's start with next door. Andrew Dees. That's D-E-E-S, I believe?"

  "Correct."

  "HOMETOWN?"

  "I do not know."

  "EDUCATION?"

  "I do not know that, either."

  "Okay. OCCUPATION?"

  "Andrew runs the photocopy store in the town center."

  "Owns it or just manages it'?"

  "I am not sure, but he refers to it as 'his shop.' "

  "FAMILY?"

  "Of Andrew?"

  "Yes."

  "Why would you not just ask him?"

  "I plan to, but I haven't caught up with Mr. Dees yet."

  More shifting on her cushion. "He has never introduced me to any relatives."

  "Any PROBLEMS with him?"

  "Problems?"

  "Yes. Any difficulties you've had with Mr. Dees as a neighbor?"

  "No."

  "Loud parties, that sort of thing?"

  Robinette stared at me, then the slow blink. "Mr. Cuddy, why would your clients be interested in Andrew's social life?"

  "Well, they're not, really. It's more if there've been any difficulties, and the Hendrix people had to be called in—"

  "They have not."

  "You're sure?"

  "At least not by me."

  "Anything else you can think of about Mr. Dees that might help me?"

  "Help you with what?"

  Her voice had some steel in it, the kind of command-demand tone you get from being in charge of others at some point in your life.

  "With my job here," I said.

  "Mr. Cuddy, I am not quite sure I still understand what your job is."

  "How about the Elmendorfs?"

  "I think you should go."

  "Mrs. Robinette, I'm sorry if—"

  "Or would you like to be able to tell your clients how well the Hendrix company can call the police for me?"

  The steel was back in her voice, and I decided that I might be overstaying my welcome just a tad.

  * * *

  Walking to the car, I also decided my cover story was wearing thin quicker than it was producing much new information on Andrew Dees. Once behind the wheel, I drove around the other clusters, thinking I might spot Paulie Fogerty again. I even checked in the rear, by the pool, the tennis courts, and his little house. No rake, no Fogerty. To head back toward town, I went down the front driveway this time. At the intersection with the road was Paulie, facing away from me, at a white, vertical post with a cross-bar. Balanced awkwardly in his hands was a rustic PLYMOUTH WILLOWS sign I'd missed on my way in, maybe because it had fallen. Fogerty was trying to hang it back on hooks screwed into the crossbar.

  I stopped and got out. "Give you a hand?"

  "No."

  "You sure?"

  He half-turned, tears in his eyes. His palms were red with little streaks of blood-from the rough edges of the sign, I guessed. —

  Paulie shrieked at me. "I can do my job! I can do my job! I'm the super!"

  Then he began to cry, and I apologized for interrupting him before getting back into the Prelude.

  =8=

  Reaching the shore road again, I turned north, passing on the right the "scenic overlook" where the developer of Plymouth Willows had ended his problems the hard way. After the bridge, I entered the downtown section of Plymouth Mills and slowed to fifteen miles an hour. Sliding past the photocopy shop on my left, I could see the lights on and a person behind the counter helping a customer. I found a parking space against the opposite curb.

  Crossing Main Street, I walked to the shop's door, holding it open for the man coming out. Inside, the counter occupied the rear of a shallow front room, a door beyond the counter closed. There was no visible furniture, the paneling reminding me of the cheap stuff in Boyce Hendrix's office back in Marshfield.

  As the shop door closed behind me, an Asian woman looked up from the cash register on the counter and smiled. She was perhaps early thirties, in a blue oxford shirt with some designer's squiggle on the pocket. Her hair was pulled behind her head in a simple ponytail, her nails short but polished, her makeup modest. She also wore a wedding band on the left ring finger.

  "May I help you?"

  A slight, singsong accent. "Yes. I'd like to speak with Mr. Dees, if he's available."

  She glanced at the telephone next to the register, a tiny red light glowing through a clear button. "He's still on the phone, but if you don't mind waiting, I'm sure he'll be done shortly.”

  I said, "My name's John Cuddy, by the way."

  The woman just nodded. "Fee."

  "Fee?"

  "Fee."

  "Short for . . . ?"

  A gracious smile. "Filomena, but I could never stand that name. 'Filomena the Filipina,' you see what I mean?"

  "Manila?"

  "Just outside." Filomena reached under the counter for some forms that she began counting. "Met my husband there." She waggled the ring finger at me. "He's in the service here, the South Weymouth Naval Air Station."

  I liked the way Filomena answered my question by also answering one I hadn't asked. "I came by before lunch, but you seemed to be closed."

  Still counting the forms, she shook her head. "Sorry about that. Andrew was working at home this morning, and I was supposed to open up when the car blew some kind of belt on the way. I'm just part-time here, but I hate to let Andrew down."

  "I didn't see any competition to worry about."

  Filomena looked up. "Do you mean here in town?"

  "Yes."

  She went back to the count. "No, but that doesn't mean you can take customers for granted, either. Andrew says that if you have a shop in the suburbs, you make your mark by giving 'persona1ized service.' "

  I decided to nudge things a little. "Sounds like the voice of experience?

  "Who, Andrew?"

  "Yes. He's done this kind of thing before?"

  "Not that he ever said."

  Best not to nudge too much. "Have you worked here long?"

  "Almost
since the place opened. I'd been in the market for a part-time job. Cover when the kids are at school, you know'? I was lucky to stop in just when Andrew needed somebody to help out."

  I heard a faint click, and Filomena glanced again at the phone. The red light was off, but as she reached for the receiver, the light came back on again. "Sorry, I didn't catch him in time."

  "That's okay." I gave it a beat I hoped seemed natural. `

  "Ever work in a photocopy shop before?”

  "No."

  "How do you like it?"

  "What's not to like? The work isn't exactly challenging, but at least you don't go home worrying about it afterwards. And the closest thing there is to danger on the job is a paper cut."

  "Danger?"

  Filomena looked up from the telephone before going back to her forms. "Like an industrial accident, or getting robbed. Plymouth Mills is a pretty quiet town, but a liquor store or even a convenience mart can be a target. Who's going to hold up a place that charges eight cents a copy?"

  I grinned, and she showed me the gracious smile as she finished her count. "Is there anything I can do for you while you're waiting for Andrew?"

  I was about to risk another background question on Dees, when the faint click sounded again. Filomena grabbed the receiver immediately and pushed a button that made a buzzing noise. "There's a gentleman here who'd like to . . . Good." Hanging up, she said to me, "He'll be right with you."

  The door behind her opened, and the man I'd seen leaving unit 42 at Plymouth Willows came out. Up close, Andrew Dees was about six feet tall on a medium build, the thick, curly hair barely speckled with gray at the temples.

  His prominent eyebrows almost knit over a perfect nose, the strong chin jutting out nervously as he spoke.

  "Who are you?"

  I thought it was an odd reaction, given the little that Filomena had told him about me. "My name's John Cuddy, Mr. Dees." I offered him my ID holder. "I'd like to ask you some questions about the Plymouth Willows condominium."

  He didn't take the holder, hardly even looked at it.

  "Why?"

  "I represent another complex that's thinking of changing management companies, and I'm talking with people about how they like Hendrix as—"

  "I don't have time for that."

  The voice was strained, and from over by the cash register Filomena shot Dees a concerned look.