Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "Just like today."

  Fingering the strap, I said, "Do you think keeping this on when we make love is 'normal?' "

  She burrowed a cheek into my chest. "Probably not."

  "Then why do it?"

  "I just don't want you to see me . . . wounded, I guess."

  "What, from the biopsy?"

  "Yes."

  "Nancy, I've seen you after this," I said, tapping lightly on the slight, puckering scar at her shoulder, from a bullet she took right after we first met. "And it didn't make a difference.”

  "I know."

  "Well?"

  "Not the same, John. This isn't some bump or bruise—"

  "—a bullet hole's not exactly—"

  "—this is almost a mutilation, and I have to be careful with it."

  "Careful how?"

  "In the way I deal with you about it. Me staying focused at work helps a little, by keeping my mind off everything else. But if the doctor . . . If the news isn't good, then . . ."

  "Then what?"

  "Then I want you to remember me as beautiful, the way you once told me I was."

  I shifted carefully, so as not to jar or even irritate whatever was beneath the bra cup. Now I was facing her, just enough light for me to make out the bone structure under the whites of her eyes. "Nance, the beauty doesn't come from what's on you, but from what's in you."

  "Easy to say."

  "I've been there, remember?"

  "And I don't ever want you to go through with me what you went through with Beth."

  "Nancy, whether that comes to pass or not, neither of us can say. But meanwhile, how about we both act normal?"

  Silence, then a playful tone. "Meaning you're going to unhook the strap?"

  “Unfortunately my Catholic upbringing makes me incapable of such a thing."

  "The snap's in front. Try it."

  I did, the fabric coming away in my hands. I touched her cross-hatched Band-Aids gently with just my left index finger, then ran the finger, gentler still, over the surrounding flesh. "Doesn't make a difference, Nance."

  She brought her hand behind my head and drew me toward her for a kiss.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning, I used Nancy's living room phone to check my answering service. Mingled with messages from Primo Zuppone ("My friends would like to know how you're doing") were three from Claude Loiselle, all the same: Call me, urgent. She left her number at the bank. I dialed it, figuring to get the voice-mail system, but instead drew Loiselle herself.

  "Where are you now?" she said.

  "Why?"

  "How soon can you get here?"

  "To the bank?"

  "Yes."

  "Claude, what's happened?"

  "I think you'd better see for yourself."

  Loiselle hung up.

  Behind me, Nancy said, "Problem?"

  I turned to her, standing in the fuzzy mauve robe. "Not sure. You still interested in going to your office for a while?"

  "At least until one or so."

  "How about if I drive us both downtown, then pick you up at two?"

  "Sounds good. Let me just brush my hair."

  * * *

  To the downstairs security guard at the scimitar counter I said, ".Tohn Cuddy. Ms. Loiselle's expecting me."

  A nod, and he hit some buttons on his telephone. After whispering into the receiver, he nodded again before hanging up. "She'll be waiting at fifty-four. You know which elevators to use?"

  "Yes. Thanks."

  * * *

  "You came quickly. Good."

  I followed Loiselle through the eerily empty reception area and corridors. It was as though some foreign power had dropped a neutron bomb that eliminated all the people but left the workstations standing. In her office. Loiselle went behind the utilitarian desk. Everything looked the same as when I'd been there on Friday, two mornings before.

  She said, "Have a seat."

  I took one of the chairs. "All right, what am I supposed to 'see for myself?' "

  Loiselle said, "Me."

  I stared at her. "Claude—"

  "I called the police about Olga. I even went over there, to the Missing Persons Unit."

  "And they told you . . . ?"

  "What you said they would. She's an adult, there's no sign of 'misadventure'—is that a real word?"

  "It is to them."

  "They also told me she wasn't missing long enough, and no indication that she'd crossed a state line. It was all very frustrating?

  I could picture Loiselle showing some poor report-taker just how frustrating she thought it was. "L0ok, Claude, why didn't you just tell me this over the phone?"

  "Because I want to hire you."

  "Hire me."

  "To find Olga."

  I stopped. "Olga's already my client."

  "So, now I will be too."

  "Claude, I'm basically out of ideas for finding her."

  "That's what I mean." Loiselle squared her shoulders, fixing me with an almost pleasant smile. "You've been trying to help her, both before and after she disappeared. I understand that. But there's only so much you can do without serious money to do it with. And I'm prepared to help."

  "Bankroll me to look for Olga."

  "Exactly. Given what the police said they weren't going to do, I have to hire somebody. And you're already up to speed on everything." The smile got conspiratorial. "In fact, I'm sure you know things I don't know."

  "That might be the problem, Claude."

  A puzzled expression. "I don't understand?

  "Conflict of interest. There are things I learned working for Olga that maybe I shouldn't share with you."

  Loiselle seemed to look within herself. "All right, I accept that. I don't really care about what you know. What I care about is finding Olga."

  "Or just making sure she's safe?"

  Again puzzled. "What do you mean?"

  I chose my words carefully. "From what I've found out, I it's at least possible that Olga and Andrew Dees have taken off together."

  “Taken off where?"

  "I don't know."

  Another inward look. "No. No, Olga wouldn't have left without her PDA, without packing things at her apartment?

  "Maybe she didn't think she had time."

  From puzzled to exasperated. "Now what do you mean?"

  "It may be that Dees and Olga had to leave suddenly on Thursday night."

  Loiselle said, "Thursday? Why?"

  "One of the things I can't share with you."

  A shaking of the head, slowly at first. "Olga would have called me."

  Basically what Uncle Ivan had said, too. "Maybe she didn't want to give anything away."

  "Give anything . . . ?" Loiselle crossed her arms, hugging herself. "And here I thought hiring you would make me feel better about all this."

  "I'm sorry, but while there are some things I can't tell you, I don't want to lie to you, either."

  She watched me for a moment, then turned to her computer. "Where would they have gone?"

  "No idea."

  "How?"

  “How?"

  "Yes," said Loiselle. "How would they get wherever they were going?"

  “Car's the most anonymous, plane's the fastest."

  Nodding, she began punching buttons quickly. "Plane would mean airport, and the closest with the most flights is Logan."

  "Not necessarily."

  Loiselle stopped. "Explain?"

  "If they left from Plymouth Mills, Providence or Hartford might have been faster for them."

  Back to the computer. "It shouldn't matter for what I'm checking?

  "Claude, they probably wouldn't have used their own names."

  Studying her monitor. "What?"

  "If you're checking the airlines somehow, they probably used different names."

  "Not for the ATM. Olga may have been in love with that jerk, but I can't believe she wouldn't have hit up an automatic teller some place to have cash before she went anywhere with h
im."

  It was a good point. "You can check that on a Sunday?"

  Loiselle gave me a withering look, then went back to her screen. "Motherfucker!"

  "What's the matter?"

  "Blocked out."

  "Can you call that guy for the password again?"

  "Different. Hold a minute, let me try . . . Yes!"

  "You found it?"

  "Olga uses the same code I do, to keep prying eyes at the bank from getting into her account. I think . . . there we go." Smiling triumphantly, Loiselle rotated the monitor so we both could see the screen.

  A series of chartreuse ledger sheets on a black background. I said, "Nothing since Tuesday, right?"

  Realizing what that might mean, Loiselle stopped smiling. "And even before that, basically just lunch-money level of withdrawal."

  We sat in silence for a moment. Then Loiselle swung the monitor toward her, attacking the keyboard again.

  "Now what?" I said.

  "I'm breaking the law."

  "How?"

  "By violating the commercial privacy of one Horse's Ass."

  After a moment, she said. "Andrew Dees pulled six thousand six-fifty out of a business account on Thursday afternoon at three-forty-five."

  Consistent with what Tangela Robinette had told me. Loiselle clacked some more. "And another nine thousand live out of a personal account at . . ." She lowered her voice. "Fifteen minutes later."

  "Cleaned out both accounts?"

  "The business one, yes. Still a few thousand in the personal one."

  "Why would he leave any?"

  "Banking regulations. He goes over ten thousand cash withdrawal, there'd be a paper trail."

  "But you found a trail anyway."

  Loiselle looked at me. "Yeah, but only because I'm searching for it, and illegally at that. The over-ten trail would go to the federal government, tip them to . . ." She hardened the look. "Is that why Dees is running, he's in trouble with the feds?"

  "I can't say."

  "Or with those guys who roughed you up?"

  "Same answer."

  The harder look got stony. "Is hiring you going to be worse than dealing with the police?"

  "There are all kinds of frustration, Claude."

  "Yeah, tell me about it." She turned away from the computer. "Okay now what?"

  "Can you check on Olga's bank accounts every few hours?”

  Loiselle just snapped her lingers. Then, "Dees would be tougher."

  "If he's running, he's not going to risk giving away his new location by trying to access a few thousand in a bank account."

  "Makes sense. So what are you going to do?"

  "Drive out to Logan."

  "But I thought you said—"

  "That they'd have used phony names. Right. If they're smart, they even took different airlines to different hubs, planning to match up again in a day or so at another airport."

  The lowered voice. "Assuming they're still together."

  "Yes."

  Puzzled once more, Loiselle said, "But then why are you going to Logan at all?"

  “Because it's the closest to where I am now, and they had to get to any airport somehow."

  She looked inward. “Their car."

  "His or hers, but maybe at least one of them."

  "And if you find it?"

  "Then maybe it'll tell me something. Or maybe somebody will remember seeing them."

  "Do you need any money now?"

  I told her how much, and how many days of my time it would buy.

  As Loiselle was writing out a check the old-fashioned way, I said, "You wouldn't happen to know Olga's license plate, would you?"

  "Of course not, but the computer will."

  "The computer's tied into the Registry of Motor Vehicles too?"

  "We make car loans, so it's a convenience to be able to access their records. Even on a Sunday," the last a little sarcastic.

  "While you're at it, get the tag for the brown Toyota Dees drives as well."

  Handing me the check, Claude Loiselle snapped her fingers again.

  * * *

  At Logan International Airport, there's short-term parking closer to the terminals and long-term parking farther away. The short-term is exorbitantly expensive, but I figured that people in a hurry would choose closer, especially if they weren't expecting to come back for their car. Starting at the first terminal after the airport on-ramp, I pushed the self-service button for a time-logged ticket, the Prelude going under the rising bar and over the tire treadles. Five minutes later, I was out again, paying the exit attendant for an hour's worth.

  I repeated the sequence twice more before reaching the fourth lot, waving to the slim, Latino attendant as I drove by him. He didn't wave back.

  I'd gone down only one row before spotting it, tucked into a corner space near the terminal. I checked the plate against the registration Claude Loiselle had printed out for me, but I almost didn't have to.

  How many orange Porsches have you ever seen? I parked behind it and got out. The lock buttons on both doors were down, a decal on the vent window advertising an alarm system. From outside the vehicle, I couldn't tell if the system was activated.

  "Hey, man?"

  I turned to the attendant walking toward me. He wore a maintenance jumpsuit—something like Paulie Fogerty's, only brown—the name ELMER stitched on the flap of the left breast pocket.

  He said, "Plenty spaces, two rows over."

  "I'm more interested in this one, Elmer."

  "My name is pronounce 'El—mare.' " A confident grin, like he'd been in this situation before and knew how to handle it. "Plenty people is interest in this car, man. Real hot, you know it?"

  "Kind of stands out."

  "Definitely."

  I showed him my ID. "Mind telling me who's been interested in it?"

  "Oh, everybody. Kids, couple middle-aged guys, think they have all the young chicks, they get a hot car like this one."

  "Sounds like you're kind of watching over it."

  "Me?" Elmer looked defensive. "No, man. Just keep an eye on the lot, don't want nobody break no windows, steal the radios."

  I nodded. "You wouldn't have been here when this one came in?"

  "Yeah, I was here."

  Bingo. "When was that?"

  "Thursday night, maybe nine, nine-thirty. I work nights, weekends. Need the money, you know it?"

  "You see who was in the car?"

  The confident grin. "That is worth something to you, man?"

  I took out my wallet and held up a twenty.

  The grin broadened. "There two people in it, that is forty, no?"

  I brought out another twenty. "Description?"

  Elmer took the bills, put them in his chest pocket. "Guy and his woman."

  "What did the guy look like'?"

  "I don't know, man. Dark hair." A shrug.

  "White, black?"

  "Not black, I don't think."

  I gave him one of my photos of Andrew Dees. "Could this be the guy?"

  Elmer held it up, moving his hand back and forth like a trombone player, and I felt a little twinge.

  "Could be, man. Dark hair, and your guy here, he is tall, no?"

  "How do you know that?"

  "I don't see him too good when the car go past my booth. You don't need me to get in, just to get out, you know it?"

  "Yes."

  "So I counting the money in my drawer, and I see this Porsche come in. I watch the guy take it to the space too, hot car like this."

  "The man was behind the wheel?"

  "Like I said."

  That didn't sound right. When I first met Olga Evorova in my office, she told me no one drove the Porsche but her. "You're sure?"

  "Sure I'm sure. He park the car over here, then they get out, with some luggage. The guy look over to me, and he wave."

  "He what?"

  "He wave to me, like you did before, man."

  That didn't sound right, either. "The woman wave, too?"


  "No. I don't really see her too good. It is dark, and she is behind the other cars, walking.”

  "Walking?"

  "With one of the suitcases. To the terminal."

  I looked around. "So he was over here when he waved to you."

  "By his door."

  I gestured toward the lot entrance, a hundred feet away.

  "And it was dark, and you were at your booth."

  "Like I tell you, man."

  "Elmer, tell me something else."

  "What?"

  "You need glasses?"

  A sheepish grin. "Kind of." He tapped his chest pocket. "What I maybe use your forty for, you know it?"

  * * *

  Inside the terminal, I showed my photo from Plymouth Willows to skycaps, ticket agents, and custodians. Unlike Elmer, most of them hadn't been working Thursday night, but even those who had said they didn't recognize Dees-DiRienzi. On the way out, though, I noticed a mailbox next to a coin-operated stamp dispenser.

  I stopped in my tracks. If Evorova was running with "Andrew Dees," he probably would have told her that he was really Alfonso DiRienzi. He also might have warned her against using any telephones. But maybe, just maybe, she would have mailed me something from the airport, something that wouldn't arrive till long after they were gone but still let me know that she was all right. Thursday night mail from Logan could have arrived at my office on Friday, but Saturday was more likely. And I hadn't been there since late Friday afternoon.

  I walked out to redeem my car from Elmer's lot.

  Driving back through the Sumner Tunnel, I went over what I had so far. Alfonso DiRienzi fears his cover might be blown after I pay him a visit Wednesday at the photocopy shop. He doesn't run that night, but he's nervous enough the next day to leave work in the afternoon and withdraw most of his money. About the same time, I'm telling Olga Evorova from Vermont that "her Andrew" isn't on the level. According to Filomena, DiRienzi doesn't come back to work Thursday afternoon. That night, when the Robinettes are off at a band concert, a woman argues with DiRienzi in his townhouse at Plymouth Willows loudly enough for both the Stepanians and Norman Elmendorf to hear. Probably the woman is Olga, since Steven Stepanian notices “Dees" loading luggage into a car like hers around eight o'c1ock. Between nine and nine-thirty—or about driving time from Plymouth Mills to Logan that late at night—Elmer the attendant sees the orange Porsche arrive, a man and a woman getting out. He can't see well enough to really identify the man as DiRienzi, and the "tall" is probably more reliable than the "not black" and "dark hair." Elmer says the guy was driving, which doesn't sound like something Olga would allow, and the man waves to Elmer, which doesn't sound like something anybody on the run would do. Also, if DiRienzi and Evorova are taking off together, why leave the more conspicuous Porsche at the airport rather than the drab Toyota? I looked through my windshield, maybe twenty cars ahead. It was a little brighter at the far end of the tunnel, but somehow that didn't make anything clearer.