Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (22 page)

After an ear-popping ride, the elevator opened on an
office suite done in wall-to-wall carpeting the same shade as all the
stonework. A woman wearing a pilot's headset sat behind a teak desk
so highly polished it reflected like a mirror. The prints hanging
above the matching loveseats surprised me, though. Instead of
seascapes or foxhunts, they were abstract geometries of yellow,
orange, and purple.

The woman in the headset looked up from a computer
board in front of her. "May I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to see Olga Evorova, please."

A slight hesitation, then a smoothing over. "I'm
fairly certain she's in conference right now, but let me try for you.
Please be seated."
 
I took one
of the loveseats. Stiffer than I'd guessed, more a football bench
than a piece of furniture.

The woman clacked out a concerto on the keys in front
of her, then frowned, as though she were playing to the balcony. "I'm
so sorry, but it's as I feared. She's in conference and simply-"

"—cannot be disturbed."

A little frost heaved under the smoothness.
"Correct."

"Claude Loiselle, then. Please. And tell her
John Cuddy needs to see her."

Another concerto on the board, shorter this time.
"No, I'm afraid Ms. Loiselle-"

"Tell me, are there names on the doors here?"

"I beg your pardon?'

"Names. If I walk past you and start down one of
the hallways, will I see names that'll help me know which office is
whose, or do I just barge in, a door at a time, until I find the
people I've asked for?"

Her left hand moved almost imperceptibly on the
board, and I figured she'd pushed, quite reasonably, a panic button
connected to a monitored security panel somewhere.

I said, "H0w long do I have before the cavalry
arrives'?"

No answer.

"The reason I ask is, those women, if they're
here, would really rather see me than have you and the rent-a-cops
throw me on the sidewalk."

To her credit, the
receptionist showed teeth that bespoke more snarl than smile, but hit
some different buttons and said into her mouthpiece, "Ms.
Loiselle? I'm terribly sorry, but . . ."

* * *

It was a green tweed suit with reddish nubs today, a
pattern that highlighted her eyes and her hair, both of which could
use some highlighting, as she wore no makeup and had the hair pulled
back in a severe bun. There was a pie-wedge of harbor and airport
runway visible through the window, if you craned your neck a little.
Loiselle gave the impression that it wasn't worth the effort. Sitting
behind her desk, a utilitarian metal job that would have looked just
right on the movie set of 1984, she gestured at her computer in a way
that made me feel stupid for not understanding exactly what I'd
interrupted.

"This had better be good, Mr. Detective."

"Private investigator."

"What's the difference?"

"Detectives are confused police officers. I'm
just confused."

A studiously blank stare. "About what?"

"About why all of a sudden I can't reach my
client and your friend, either at home or at work."

Loiselle dropped the stare. "To be frank with
you, John, I can't either."

Leaning forward in my chair, I said, "When's the
last time you saw or heard from her?"

"Yesterday afternoon?

"What time?"

“
Around three."

About when I'd phoned Evorova from Vermont, telling
her what I'd discovered at the university and newspaper.

"She say anything to you?"

"I didn't talk with her directly. She just left
a message with Craig."

"Your secretary?"

"Yes. The message was that she had to go out,
think something through toward making a decision."

"About what?"

"She didn't say."

I shook my head.

Loiselle said, "But you have some idea, don't
you?"

I looked at her. "You a mind reader, Claude?"

She gave me one of the lopsided smiles. "You
know what my nickname is around here?"

"No."

"It's a play on Helen of Troy."

" 'The face that launched a thousand ships.' "

"Very good. Only mine's 'the face that launched
a thousand shits.' "

"Intimidation."

"It works, John."

"Not on me."

Loiselle stopped. Then, her voice quieter, "What's
happened to Olga?"

"I honestly don't know. Can you think of
anything else?"

"Only what I've told you, and the fact that her
secretary said she had two things on for this morning and she's blown
off both of them."

I processed that. "Anybody seen her?"

"Today'? No. I called Olga—at home, I mean—and
got just her tape. Left a message."

"Behind the ones on there from me."

Loiselle closed her eyes.

I said, "Can you try her at Dees' place for me?"

"Already did. No answer at his condo, and some
woman at his shop said he was out and she didn't know when he'd be
back."

"Can you try Olga at home one more time?"

Loiselle opened her eyes. "Now?"

"Now."

She dialed. After a moment, “Olga, this is Claude
again. If you're there, please pick up." Another moment. "Olga,
please!" A shorter wait before Loiselle slammed the receiver
back into its console. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands,
she said, "Goddammit. What's going on?"

"I can't tell you without Olga's permission, but
it could be bad. Can you get me into her office?"

Loiselle looked left-right-left in quick succession.

"Why?"

"I'd like to see whether there's anything there
that could help us."

Loiselle seemed to
consider that. Then she stood up and walked past me in a way I
remembered from the Army, a way that said I was supposed to follow.

* * *

"Have you heard from Olga?"

The secretary looked up at Claude Loiselle. When the
seated woman spoke, I recognized the formal voice from my earlier
calls. "No, not since the last time you asked me."

The secretary sounded more frightened than
insubordinate, and Loiselle blew by her and through an inner door
that showed a nicer view of the harbor than Loiselle's own. The
furniture was exotic, reminding me of the stuff in Evorova's
apartment and making me appreciate that bankers of her rank probably
bought—or at least got to pick out—their own office decor.

Loiselle closed the door. "All right, how many
rules do you want me to break?"

"You know her routine better than I do. Where
would we look for where she might be?"

Loiselle moved past me to the desk and sat near the
computer, adjusting the monitor on a kind of ball-bearing stand for
her own eye level. "Olga probably didn't come in early this
morning and leave early."

"Because?"

"She'd have logged on, then used a screen-saver
to avoid burning an image."

Loiselle flicked a switch on the side of the machine.
After some humming and bleeping from inside it, her fingers began to
hammer the keyboard. "Calendar for this morning shows just the
two things her secretary mentioned. One was supposed to be a
face-to-face, the other a conference call from . . . huh?"

"What's the matter?”

"The conference call. Given the time zone for
one of the participants, she wouldn't have been able to match
everybody up again easily till tomorrow."

"Meaning it's not likely she would have blown it
off today?"

"Not likely."

"Oould Olga have just forgotten about the call
altogether?"

"Not possible, John. Her PDA would have it."

"Her 'Pee-Dee-Ay?' "

"Stands for 'personal digital assistant! The PDA
is a mobile modem, kind of a traveling appointments calendar and
address book."

"A computerized thing?"

"Yes." Loiselle hammered some more on the
keyboard. "And both items for today were entered into it. Or
from it."

I glanced quickly around the office. "Do you see
this PDA?"

Without looking up, she said, "No. Olga would
have it with her. You never leave anywhere without . . . Shit!"

"What?"

"I'm into her voice-mail now, but I'm getting
blocked. Hold on a second." She picked up a phone, smashed three
buttons, then drummed her fingers. "Hello, this is Claude
Loiselle. Who's this . . . Well, 'Feckinger,' I need Olga T Evorova's
voice-mail override .... Stop. Drop that and find the override ....
No, not now, Feckinger. Twenty seconds ago, when I first asked you
.... Good, go."

I saw what Loiselle meant about "the face that
launched . . ."

Into the phone, she said, "Finally .... Right,
bye." Then to me, "That birdbrain doesn't know the
difference between CD—ROM and k.d. lang." Returning to the
computer, Loiselle began hammering away again. "Here we go."
She hit another button with a flourish, and from a speaker at the
side of the machine flowed clear but incomprehensible messages, about
faxes, accounts payable, stock quotes, etc., followed by a heavily
accented voice, saying something like "Oh-litch-ka," then
"It is Vanya, why do you not call me?"

I didn't recognize any of the voices. "That last
one, her uncle?"

Loiselle nodded. "O-L-E-C-H-K-A is a familiar
form of 'Olga' in Russian. A term of endearment."

My recorded voice came out next, sounding tinny,
thanks to the airport arrival lounge behind it, from the night
before. Then my voice again, this time quieter, from Nancy's
apartment that morning. Finally, an electronic voice enunciating each
syllable independently, saying, "End of messages."

Loiselle looked up at me.

I said, "Can you tell if Olga picked up any of
those?"

"Yes. She didn't."

"When was the first?"

"I was watching the screen log them off."
Loiselle rotated the monitor toward me and said, "Wiz-ee-wig."

"Sorry?"

“ '
What you see is what you get.' You never heard
that acronym?"

"I'm kind of an anachronism, myself."

A shake of the head.

I said, "So, when was the first message
received?"

"Just after Olga left that message with Craig
yesterday."

"About coming to a decision."

"Yes."

I couldn't see what else her office would tell us.
Loiselle said, "You have any more questions, John?"

"Just one."

"What?"

"Can you get me into
Olga's condo too?"

* * *

After Claude Loiselle keyed the upstairs lock, I put
my index finger to my lips and motioned for her to step aside so I
could open the door. I only cracked it first, sniffing the air. No
trace of that high, sickly smell a closed room holds when something
dead is inside.

I nodded to Loiselle, and we entered Olga Evorova's
apartment.

At the end of her entrance hall, the living room
seemed normal, no indication of a struggle or search. I said,
"Anything strike you as wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"Anything out of place. Or missing?"

She glanced around without moving, then walked a
little farther into the room. "No. It's like Olga would have
left it."

"Let's look in the back."

The bathroom was clean, tub curtain closed. Opening
it, I checked the liner. No beads of water. Soap stuck to its dish,
towels like they'd been blown dry.

I said, "She might have used this room today,
but I doubt it."

There were more of the elaborate draperies over the
bedroom window, more of the exotic dolls on a mantelpiece over its
fireplace. The bed was made, the closet closed. I opened the louvered
door. All in order, including a matched set of luggage stacked on the
floor.

"What are you looking for?" The tone
Loiselle had used with her people at the bank.

"I don't know. Is this Olga's only luggage'?"

Loiselle came over and stood beside me. "That's
what she carried any time I had her down to my house on the Cape."

"Where's her answering machine?"

"In the den."

Loiselle led me to another room, with more of the
bric-a-brac from halfway around the world. The machine, on one corner
of a black, lacquered desk, was blinking.

I said, "Do you know how to work this?"

"How hard can it be?" She moved toward it,
scanning the buttons for a moment before pressing one. "
'MESSAGES,' " she said.