Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (37 page)

The door opened, Kira standing behind it in black
denim shirt and almost-matching jeans, no shoes or socks. Another
change of clothes since she'd visited Jamey Robinette earlier. "Oh,
hi."

"Hi, Kira. Can I come in?"

"Yeah, but my dad's, like, asleep, and I kind of
hoped I wouldn't have to wake him up."

"That's okay. It's you I wanted to talk to."

A shadow passed over her eyes, then, "Why not,
I'm sure not doing anything."

We walked into the living room, still awash in
magazines. Kira pushed a poker hand of them onto the floor so I could
have a chair.

She took the old print couch across from me, her left
leg folded under her rump. "So, what's the question of the day?"

"Andrew Dees seems to be missing."

"Missing? You mean, like, gone or something?"

"Yes. Have you seen him recently?"

Kira seemed to think about it. For the first time, if
she wasn't a great actress. "No, I haven't, but then, I don't
get out much."

"Just with Jude, for lunch."

"Right."

"When Mrs. Stepanian comes over to keep an eye
on your father."

A funny look. "Right."

"Or when Jamey Robinette blares his music."

Kira's eyes widened before she could control them.
"He doesn't do that often, but it really, like, bothers my dad,
so—"

"You call him, and he turns it down."

She seemed to relax a little. "Right."

"But then you can't go out the back door, even
though that would be more private, because the deck's right under
your father's bedroom window and he'd hear you. So you make up some
excuse and slip out the front."

The widening of the eyes again. "Look, I don't
know what—"

“
Wearing a T-shirt and shorts today, with one red
sock, one blue."

It seemed an effort to keep her voice down, but after
a glance toward the loft, Kira managed. "You've been spying on
me. Why?"

"Kira, I'm not spying on you. I just need some
information, and I'd prefer not to use things I've found out along
the way unless it's necessary."

"Blackmail?" She said the word almost as a
laugh, so much like Edie Quentin that I noticed it. "You're
trying to blackmail somebody who's almost homeless?"

"No blackmail, just information. What do you
know about Mr. Dees?"

"Nothing." Kira could tell I wasn't buying.
"Honest, nothing but what I told you last time."

"When you were next door with Jamey, did you
ever hear anything?"

"From Mr. Dees' unit, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Never. Jamey and I . . . we, like, have to see
each other when his mom's not around. She's real strict with him, and
my dad—huh, he found out and . . ."

Kira stopped, seeming to realize she might be giving
me more leverage than I already had.

I lowered my voice. "Kira, I'm just trying to
find Mr. Dees. That's all I care about."

The funny look. "I thought you were here for
some other condo place?"

"This is something different. Has Jamey ever
said anything to you about Dees?"

"No."

I watched her.

A shake of the head, the rings through the ear
clinking. "Honest, Jamey's never said a word about Mr. Dees."

"So Mr. Dees doesn't know about you and Jamey?"

"About . . . ? No. No, Mr. Dees is at his copy
shop during the day, and he couldn't know."

“
How about your father?"

"I already told you, he doesn't know, either."

"I talked with some people about him."

"About my dad, now?"

"Yes. His war record, for example."

Kira nearly laughed again, suddenly seeming relieved.
"God, why didn't you just ask me?"

"He wasn't hurt in the Gulf."

"No."

"He wasn't even over there, was he?"

"No, of course not. That's just something he,
like, made up, although he's said it so many times now, he might just
believe it himself."

"It's important to his pride."

"Mr. Cuddy, it's important to him to have
something. Originally, it was my mother and his job, but he lost both
of them. Then it was this place, which pretty soon is going to be
gone too. That'll leave him with his bottle and me, probably in that
order."

Kira stopped again. "No, I'm sorry, that's
wrong. My dad really does love me more than the bourbon, I think. But
he got it into his head that something from Desert Storm instead of
the booze makes him shaky and gives him those ucky blotches, and
that's all there is to it."

"But what if somebody else found out about
that?"

"You already did."

"I mean somebody from the complex. What if
Andrew Dees found out your father's stories about being in the war
were just that, stories?"

Kira ran a hand randomly through her platinum hair.
"I don't get you."

"What if Dees confronted your father with that,
threatened to expose him for—"

This time Kira did laugh, clamping a hand over her
mouth to stop the sound from carrying up to the loft. Past her
fingers, she said, "Mr. Cuddy, everybody, like, knows about my
dad not being in the Gulf."

"They do?"

"Sure." She dropped her hand into her lap.
"Oh, Mrs. Stepanian, she goes along with him on it, and Jamey's
mom does too, the little she ever sees him. But they all know it's
just so much bullshit." A look to the second floor that could
break your heart. "No, the only one my dad's fooling is
himself."

After leaving Kira, I walked down to the Stepanians'
end unit and pressed the button at the jamb. It would be professional
to actually hear Lana Stepanian confirm what I'd just been told about
Norman Elmendorf, but I wasn't really sorry when no one answered the
bonging sound inside the condo. Kira's version of
"everybody-knows-about-my-dad" had convinced me.

I left Plymouth Willows in the fading daylight,
feeling more frustrated than ever. At the "scenic overlook,"
I pulled into the empty parking lot and got out of the car. Moving to
the edge, I stared down at the rocks where Yale Quentin's Cadillac
must have landed. Plunging nose first, the bumper would've smashed
through the grille, the engine and steering colunm violating the
front seat, crushing anybody . . .

Shaking my head, I said quietly, "Olga, Olga.
Where are you?"

Then I shook my head some
more.

* * *

"Does this mean we have something to celebrate?"

Nancy didn't answer as we moved through the entrance
to Skipjack's, a great seafood place in the huge New England Life
building. The restaurant's only a few years old, the decor
aggressively Art Deco. But somehow it's welcoming too, and if I could
figure out why, I'd be in a different business.

At the reception podium, Nancy shifted her briefcase
from shoulder to hand and asked the hostess if they were serving
outside. After a nod, the hostess asked us to follow her through the
indoor dining area to the patio at the corner of Clarendon and St.
James Street. The tables here were black iron and the chairs white
resin, set off from the rest of the sidewalk by a black curlicue
fence.

A young waiter with what they used to call a Madison
Avenue haircut materialized immediately, introducing himself and
asking if we'd like to start with a drink. Nancy set her briefcase on
the cement next to her chair and ordered a bottle of Murphy Goode
fumé blanc.

"Would you folks like to hear tonight's
specials?"

"After you bring the wine," said Nancy, and
he was off and running.

I reached across the table for her hand, having to go
only halfway to find it. "Same question?"

"Something to celebrate? In a manner of
speaking. The attempted murder trial pleaded out this morning?

"Based on your side of the case alone?”

"Plus the defendant's attorney persuading him
that his version of the incident was just not going to the top of the
flagpole."

"The trial the only good news?"

The waiter appeared with our wine. He opened the
bottle and poured Nancy a taste. She approved it and he gave each of
us a half-glass before reciting the specials in duly elaborate
fashion. We decided to split a Caesar salad, anchovies on the side
for me. Nancy chose the Swordfish "Skipjack's Style" and a
baked potato, while I ordered the Hawaiian Moonfish special with
barbecued french fries."

As he left us, Nancy raised her glass. "To a
great waiter."

"I can ask around, see if he's unattached."

The Loni Anderson smile. "I'll bet you don't
even remember his name."

"You're right, and they always put so much
effort into saying that at the beginning."

Nancy touched her glass against mine. "To
Jason."

"You remembered?

She managed to nod and sip, all in one fluid motion.
Jason brought us a bread basket, the contents wrapped in a napkin.
The napkin was still warm, and the contents turned out to be rolls,
spiced up something like focaccia. After Jason moved away, I said,
“So, do I finally get a real answer to my question?"

Nancy dipped into her briefcase, coming out with the
rose I'd brought her Friday night.

"It's halfway open now," I said.

She extended it toward me. "And it looks like
we'll get to see it—and many more—open all the way."

I felt a great sloughing deep inside my chest. "The
test results."

Another nod. "Benign."

"Jesus, Nance." I stood and came around the
table.

She got up as well, and we hugged long and hard for a
good twenty seconds.

Into my neck, Nancy said, "What will Jason
think?"

"No jokes for a minute, okay?"

"Okay."

We broke the hug and sat back in our chairs. A gentle
breeze riffled the napkin, but the day's sunshine was still on it.

"You picked a good place and a better night,
Nance."

I watched two tourists photographing the John Hancock
Tower diagonally across from us, the parallelogram skyscraper of
aquamarine glass that rises sixty-some stories like an improbable
special effect to dominate every long view in Back Bay.

Nancy caught my look. "It's gone from eyesore to
icon in what, twenty years?"

I turned back to her. "That's pretty deep."

"I've been thinking deep thoughts lately."

"How about we postpone them till another day?"

"That sounds awfully tempting, John Francis
Cuddy."

With no indication he'd seen us hugging, Jason
brought the Caesar salad, and at some point the entrees, and at some
point after that two slices of key lime pie with shredded coconut on
top and a dollop of raspberry sauce to either side. It was one of
those meals you eat one bite at a time, chewing thoughtfully and
actually having an engaging, roving conversation that has nothing to
do with work and everything to do with life.

Then the check arrived and Nancy paid it just as the
air temperature dropped at least ten degrees. Only a cold front
coming through, now not an omen of anything, and I draped my suit
jacket over her shoulders for the six-block walk back to my place.
 

=23=

At the office that next Tuesday morning, there was a
message with my answering service to call Claude Loiselle. I did, but
the brusque Craig told me she was at a meeting outside the bank and
would call back when she could. After hanging up, I didn't bother to
try Primo Zuppone because he was supposed to be "in the trees"
again for another surveillance of the cluster at Plymouth Willows,
though I couldn't tell him what I hoped he'd see. I was about to lose
my thoughts in some old paperwork when five envelopes slid through my
mail slot and onto the floor.

Picking them up, I saw that one was from Boston
University.

Three sheets were folded inside. The first page was a
BU transcript for Lana Stepanian, the second a form explaining what
the grades on the transcript meant. The third sheet was a puzzler,
though: an earlier, abbreviated transcript from the University of
Idaho, in a town named Moscow, showing that Lana Stepanian had spent
a full year there before transferring to BU, where she received her
degree, a bachelor's in Spanish.

I put the pages down, then pulled my Plymouth Willows
questionnaire file to check Stepanian's form. I'd noted only Boston
University for her, husband Steven having the University of Idaho
connection. Lana had been vague about his hometown and generally
reluctant to discuss a lot of their background, but I was sure that
she'd told me they met at a party while she was attending BU. Yet the
Idaho transcript showed her as Lana Stepanian, not Lopez, with a
mailing address in Cedar Bend, Idaho, not Solvang, California, the
hometown she'd given me.