Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (24 page)

"You're kidding?"

"On the level." Murphy leaned back, lacing
his fingers together behind his head like he was in a hammock on a
summer's day. "Can you imagine the union here letting us put
information about families and hobbies and shit on a card with the
cop's photo on the front?"

“
Not in this century."

Murphy used both hands to move his head left to
right, a very limited calisthenic. "Most popular cards are
supposed to be the K-9 Unit's, account of the dogs. Never cared much
for dogs myself, but maybe I should have gone with the Mounted back
when I had the chance."

"You on a horse?"

"Hey, don't you remember Hopalong Cassidy and
Gene Autry? Besides, it's a good gig. Friend of mine from the academy
works the Mounted, he's on eight to four every day. Which really
means one hour beginning at eight over by the stable in Jamaica
Plain, and one hour beginning at three to take the horses back. So
it's actually only a six-hour shift. And this friend says the details
you get to work are the best. Events with kids, patrol alongside
pedestrians, everybody liking you because of the animal and all.
Usually, the only time citizens meet a cop is when they're getting a
traffic ticket."

"Yeah, but what about the weather?"

"I admit, I wouldn't fancy the duty come
January, but every time I draw a case like last night, I still think
about my friend, everybody liking him while he—what's that word,
not 'trot' or 'gallop,' but my friend uses it?"

" 'Canter,' maybe?"

"Yeah, 'canter,' that's it. Here I am, trying to
break the Townie code, and there's my friend, cantering his way
toward thirty years and out."

“
Lieutenant?"

"Yeah?"
 
"I
was wondering if maybe you could help me with something?"

"Oh, and here I thought you'd come by just to
cheer me up."

"Seriously. You know anybody in Witness
Protection?"

"You mean the federal program for cooperating
witnesses?"

"If that's what they call them, that's what I
mean."

Murphy rocked forward in his chair. "We talking
a witness now, or a marshal?"

"The U.S. Marshals run it?"

"Last I heard. 'Office of Enforcement
Operations' sticks in my head some place."

"So you do know a marshal in the program."

"One."

"Any chance I can talk with this person?"

"No."

"How come?"

"Cuddy, I don't think they even talk to each
other."

"Look, Lieutenant. I'm in a real bind here. I
have a female client who's involved with a guy I think's protected by
the program, and I need to find her."

"You need to find her?"

"Yes. I know who the guy in the program is."

A confused expression. "Wait a minute. You lost
your own client?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Well," leaning back as he drew out the
word, "the Witness Protection people aren't what you'd call
forthcoming, like I said."

"Any suggestions, then?"

Murphy ran a hand down his tie, smoothing nonexistent
wrinkles. "Might be they have a watcher on the one you think's
in the program. Might also be you push on the witness, you get the
marshals to come out and greet you."

Good tactic, except Olga Evorova had told me
expressly not to approach Andrew Dees directly.

I stood up. "Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Just be sure that advice don't come back here
with any shit on it."

Turning away, I said, "Do my best."

Behind me, Robert Murphy's voice trailed away. "A
palomino. That's what I'd want." His chair squeaked
rhythmically. "A big, bad-assed blond one, like Roy Rogers used
to have, you know?"
 

=16=

I used a pay phone on West Broadway across from the
Homicide Unit to dial my answering service. Nothing from Nancy, but
then I didn't expect she'd have heard from her doctor as yet, either.
The service operator also said no log entry showed for Olga Evorova,
but Claude Loiselle was already on record with "Call me if
you've learned anything." Primo Zuppone had left three messages,
essentially, "As soon as you get back from out-of-state, I need
to introduce you to some friends of mine." At least he'd come up
with a good dodge to hold off his Milwaukee people.

Hanging up the phone, I went to a coffeeshop for
lunch and tried to piece together what I knew so far. On Tuesday,
Olga Evorova appears in my office, wanting a confidential
investigation of her virtual fiancé, Andrew Dees. His past seems an
empty cupboard, and her closest friend, Claude Loiselle, is
suspicious of him. I think of an indirect way to interview Dees'
neighbors at Plymouth Willows about him on Wednesday, but to make the
cover story better, I first see Boyce Hendrix at the management
company for the complex. I'm barely back to my office from the South
Shore that afternoon when two sluggers come calling by the dumpster,
advising me to stay away from both the company and the complex. At
the University of Central Vermont on Thursday, I discover Evorova's
boyfriend isn't who he claims to be, while Primo Zuppone was finding
out the man's real identity. Now it's Friday afternoon, my client and
her lover—both unreachable in a way that scares Loiselle and Uncle
Ivan, neither of whom has heard boo from Evorova for almost twenty
hours.

And I've left Primo—the guy trying to do me a favor
by showing the photo of "Andrew Dees" to people who might
recognize him—hanging out to dry with his Milwaukee friends. Who,
having flown into Logan the night before, probably aren't by now in
the best of moods.

It seemed to me there were two ways to play it. One
was to violate Olga Evorova's express instruction and confront Dees,
as Lieutenant Murphy suggested. The other was to go innocently back
to my condo or office, pretend to have just picked up Primo's many
messages, and call him on his car phone, in which case the play might
be taken away from me.

Leaving half my sandwich
untouched, I came to a decision, choosing the office over the condo
since I had less there to break.

* * *

Sitting behind my desk, as ready as possible, I timed
it. Five minutes and thirty-five seconds after Primo rang off on the
car phone, the three of them came through my pebbled-glass door.
Without knocking first.

Zuppone was the point man, looking greatly relieved
to see me actually there before he put the poker face back on and
motioned the other two into the room. The balding guy walked in
second, sing1e-breasted coat unbuttoned, watching me and nodding
once, his expression the one you'd wear taking the space next to a
stranger on the bus. The younger man brought up the rear, looking all
around my office without even glancing at me. His doub1e-breasted
suit was buttoned, which at least told me the action would come from
the balding guy, if any action there'd be.

Still not looking in my direction, the younger one
said, "City's a fucking shithole compared to Milwaukee, but
cooling my fucking heels outside your apartment building, I'da
thought the office here'd have a little more class."

The flat, midwestern "A" was lodged in his
voice and pitched it a bit high, as though he were twenty pounds
lighter. I said, "This part of the country, we tend to decorate
down to the clientèle."

Zuppone said, "Hey-ey-ey, everybody, let's not
get off on the wrong foot here, huh? How about I make some
introductions?"

The younger man just looked at him, still ignoring
me, and moved to one of the two client chairs in front of my desk,
rearranging the angle of it so that he'd be focusing past me toward
the Statehouse dome. The balding guy positioned himself at the wall,
shoulders against it, hands at his side, watching me and nothing
else.

Primo laid a palm lightly on the back of the younger
man's chair. "Rick Ianella, John Cuddy."

Nobody made to shake hands.

Sitting down next to Ianella, Zuppone thumbed toward
the balding guy. "Coco Cocozzo."

To Cocozzo, I said, "Sorry there's only the two
chairs."

"I want one, I can always just take yours."

Same accent, but deeper voice. Primo jumped in with,

"So, Cuddy, you're back from out-of-state, and
you got in touch. That's good. These gentlemen flew in last night,
and they need some information?

I looked from Ianella to Cocozzo and back again.

The younger guy said, "Now, dickhead."

"What's the matter, Rick, you leave your manners
on the plane?"

Zuppone winced.

Ianella's face grew mottled, the eyebrow with the
scar through it twitching, as though maybe some nerve damage went
along with the scar. Within seconds, his grip on the arm chair was so
tight, you could see the man shaking and hear the wood creaking. "Now
you listen, you little piece a shit, and you listen good. My father's
doing a long fucking stretch, time that's gonna probably kill him,
account of a fucking bean counter saved his own ass by selling us out
to the fucking feds. DiRienzi wasn't family, but my father treated
him that way. And my father gets rewarded not by loyalty, but fucking
betrayal. So, we're here in this filthy fucking city, and it's just
as easy to do two as one."

"Not necessarily?

Ianella looked to Cocozzo, but the balding man just
kept watching me, which seemed to bother Junior enough to turn back
in my direction. "All right, dickhead, where's DiRienzi?"

"I don't know."

"The fuck does that mean—'I don't know'? Primo
here showed us the picture you took of him."

"I'm going to tell you some things, Rick. You're
patient, I'll tell you some more."

Zuppone closed his eyes for a moment. Cocozzo, so far
as I could tell, came from a species that didn't need to blink.

Ianella crossed his arms, bunching the fabric of the
suit jacket. "Just start talking, dickhead, and don't fucking
stop."

I said, "A woman asked me to look into the
background of her boyfriend. I started to, finding out he wasn't what
he seemed. I gave her a hint of that, and she seems to have
disappeared."

Junior coughed impatiently. "Look, I don't give
a shit about—"

I took a little leap. "And your bookkeeper seems
to be gone, too."

Ianella stopped, the eyebrow twitching again. "Gone
where?"

"Like I said before, I don't know."

"The fuck you mean, you don't know."

Old ground. "I was out of state, Rick, checking
on this guy's supposed education for my client. After learning he
wasn't who he claimed to be, I called her long-distance, and she
said, 'Thanks, don't do anything more.' Now I'm starting to think
that she contacted her boyfriend and something happened. I don't know
what, and if they're really gone, I don't know where."

Cocozzo, still watching me from the wall, said, "She
tells you to butt out, how come you know she's taken off somewhere?"

Damned sharp question, since it was Zuppone's
information on the ride to the airport about who Dees really was that
prompted me to try contacting her again. I thought Primo was holding
his breath.

"One of her friends called me," I said.
"Worried about her."

Cocozzo nodded. "And how did you know DiRienzi
was a bookkeeper?"

"What?"

The balding man inched his right hand a little closer
to his beltline. "A minute ago, you said 'And your bookkeeper
seems to be gone too.' How'd you know what DiRienzi was to us'?"

I looked at Cocozzo, then to Ianella. "Rick here
used the word 'bean counter.' That's what makes me think bookkeeper
or accountant?

Junior uncrossed his arms, waving off the
cross-examination. "Look, 'bookkeeper,' 'bean counter,' whatever
the fuck he was, that's none of your concern, dickhead, you hear what
I'm saying to you? What your concern is, you had this fucking Judas,
and now you say you can't find him, am I right?"

"That's right."

"Well, then, here's what you're gonna do for us.
You're gonna get up from behind your shit-eating desk here, and out
of this shithole of an office, and you're not gonna sleep till you
find him. And when you do, you're gonna sit the fuck on him till we
get there. I got to clarify any of that for you?"

"Maybe the part about why you think my office is
a shithole."

The mottled face, with the twitching now more like
jumping jacks and the grip that set the chair to groaning.

"Coco, how's about you clarify that for dickhead
here."

Cocozzo still hadn't taken his eyes off me. "Not
a good idea, Boss."

Ianella acted as if he'd never heard the phrase
before.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

The balding man said, "I'm ninety percent sure
he's holding a piece in his lap."