Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (12 page)

"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.

I reached into the portfolio to get one of my forms.
"It would only take——"

"I said I don't have time."

His voice nearly cracked, and Filomena's lips parted
briefly, as though she'd never heard him speak to someone this way
before.

I withdrew my hand from the portfolio empty. "Maybe
if I came back—"

"The answer is no, Mr. Cuddy. I don't have time
for you or your questionnaire. Is that clear enough?"

Dees turned and stalked back into the inner office,
closing the door just this side of slamming it.

Filomena's eyes went from the door to me. "I'm
really . . . sorry. Something . . . something must have . . ."

“
That's okay, don't worry about it. Probably just
hit him at a bad moment."

She gave me a very weak version of the gracious
smile, and I left the shop. Carrying the portfolio back to the
Prelude, I wondered how Andrew Dees knew I had a questionnaire to
work from before he'd ever seen me bring it out.
 

=9=

I drove north, sailing along Route 3 until the merge
at 128, then getting mired in afternoon traffic on the Southeast
Expressway just before the Dorchester gas facility. In the early
seventies, an artist had painted one of the giant tanks with bold
slashes of red, blue, green, and other colors. She'd since died, and
a couple of years ago Boston gas tore the tank down, pleading
obsolescence. There was enough cultural outcry that the company let
another artist painstakingly recreate the pattern on a new tank,
which from the highway looks pretty good, especially compared to the
skeletons of grandiose office and residential towers that ran out of
development money before anything but the structural steel got
erected.

Back in the city, I double-parked by a one-hour photo
place long enough to drop off the film I'd shot at Plymouth Willows,
asking in advance for a dozen copies of the fourth frame on the roll,
which I figured to be the best one of Andrew Dees. Leaving the car in
the slanted space near the dumpster behind my office's building, I
went upstairs and dialed the district attorney's office. A secretary
said Ms. Meagher was "on trial." Probably the attempted
murder case she'd told me about the night before. I asked the
secretary to let Nancy know I'd called.