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 there. 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?"