Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (30 page)

Not mentioning the Milwaukee boys, I said, "It's
not that I think the mob did anything. I'm more worried about Dees
himself."

"Dees himself?"

"He runs away from the equity he has in the
condo, taking just the money from his bank, maybe realizing my client
was responsible for his identity being—what did you call it,
'compromised'?"

Robinette set her jaw. "Mr. Cuddy, I have no
reason to believe Mr. Dees could turn violent. When he was in . .
.Let us just say his history would be to the contrary."

"It's not his history I'm worried about. More
his current affair.”

I opened the door and got out. Tangela Robinette
drove off toward her unit before I could thank her for the lift.
 

=19=

Once in the Prelude, I looked down at the passenger
seat. Nancy's rose was standing tall against the door, but about half
the water seemed to be gone from the tube. It was a good reminder of
where I should go next.

"Am I lucky to catch you home on a Friday
night?"

"I guess so," said Nancy, wearing
loose-fitting sweat-clothes and holding the front door to the
three-decker open with a soxed foot. The bulge from her Smith &
Wesson Bodyguard barely showed under the towel in her right hand.
"What's behind your back?”

I said, "You'll see when we get upstairs."

Just before Nancy reached the second landing, Drew
Lynch's door closed discreetly. At the third, she turned the unlocked
knob of her own, Renfield trundling out and in and out again.
Something smelled awfully good in the kitchen.

Laying the towel and gun on the shelf by her
telephone, Nancy moved to the counter by the sink. "Homemade
soup in the crockpot. I stopped at the market on the way home."

"Ingredients?"

"Chicken tenders, lightly fried, then cut up
with fresh mushrooms, baby corn, carrots, onions, and a few spices.
Mrs. Lynch gave me some of her special broth for stock."

A shifting of stance, a canting of head. "So,
what's behind the back, chardonnay or cabernet?"

I brought out the rose. Nancy blinked twice, her
mouth forming a little "O." Then she came toward me. Taking
the flower from me, she held the bud to her nose. "John, it's
beautiful."

"Mrs. Feeney said be sure to give the stem a
fresh cut. With a knife, not scissors, so the 'pores' stay open for
absorbing water."

Nancy raised her chin. "Mrs. Feeney."

"The woman who runs the florist—"

"I know who she is. It's just that you've never
. . ."

Nancy shook her head, then closed her eyes, taking
another breath over the rose.

"You okay?" I said.

"Yes. I'm making a memory." She looked up
at me. "The blossom hasn't opened yet."

"That's why I asked for this one. I thought we
could kind of watch it open together."

"I'd like that, John Francis Cuddy." She
paused. “I'd also like just some cuddling again tonight."

"Probably be too full after the soup for
anything more strenuous, anyway."

A smile without showing her teeth. "Maybe an old
movie on the VCR too?"

"From your extensive collection, or do I call
the video store?"

"We can talk about it over dinner." Nancy
rotated the rose in her hand like a wineglass. "One more thing,
John?"

"Name it."

"Can we have a normal day tomorrow?"

"Normal?"

"I'll have to go into the office on Sunday to
prep some more for this trial, make up the time I lost Thursday at
the doctor's. But tomorrow, no work, no talk of tests. Just a nice,
simple Saturday, okay?"

I thought about it. On the one hand, Olga Evorova was
missing, which made me want to do something positive toward finding
her. On the other hand, I didn't have any more cards to play in that
direction, and another get together with the hitters from Milwaukee
didn't seem wise until I had something tangible to prove I wasn't
hiding Andrew Dees from them. And there were my memories of Beth just
after we'd found out she was sick, and how much time with her then
had meant to both of us.

"John?" Nancy was looking at me, her
eyebrows forming a worry line.

Cupping my palms, I rested
one on each of her shoulders. "A normal Saturday sounds great to
me, kid."

* * *

In the morning, we ate muffins and drank hot
chocolate at a little hole-in-the-wall near Anthony's Pier Four that
used to cater exclusively to the men who worked the sea, a
Fisherman's Prayer still nailed above a roster of those who could no
longer say it for themselves. After that, Nancy and I hopped a bus to
Back Bay and the Institute of Contemporary Art, taking in the Elvis
and Marilyn exhibit, goofing on the crucified Las Vegas lounge suit
and gold-painted shrines but lingering over some of the affecting
portraits and candid photos. We had a pub lunch at Charley's on
Newbury Street, then spent the afternoon walking hand-in-hand along
the river, all the way to the Larz Anderson Bridge and up into
Harvard Square, shopping the shops without buying the buys.

Dinner was at Grendel's Den, a large restaurant of
surprisingly intimate little tables and superb food priced for grad
students and assistant professors. Across the alley is the House of
Blues. Passing the tourists clucking over T-shirts on the first
floor, Nancy and I climbed to the second level. The cathedral ceiling
has skylights, each a silhouette of a seminal blues artist with names
and places of birth underneath. Rick Russell's band played wonderful
riffs, from guitar to brass, and while it wasn't exactly dance music,
we found ourselves doing a modest bump, hip against hip, here and
there.

By eleven-thirty, I was hailing a cab that delivered
us back to Southie twenty minutes later. Inside her apartment, Nancy
gave Renfield a midnight snack.

Then she turned to me. "That ought to keep him
diverted." Winking, Nancy took my hand and led me into the
bedroom. "Only thing is, I want to leave my bra on while we make
love."

“
Nance—"

"Please. We can talk about it afterwards, but
not before, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

I lay on my back, spent.

Nancy leaned over me in the near-dark, her lips just
brushing the right side of my nose. "Sailor, you sure know how
to show a girl a good time."

The past half-hour had been intense, each of us
moving with the other for reasons selfish and sharing. Nancy had
spoken first.

I lifted my right arm, and she cuddled frontways
against my side. Using my right hand, I stroked her gently along the
spine, up and down below the bra strap.

"That feels so good."

"Nance?"

"Yes?"

"I thought you said last night that until we
heard from the doctor, you wanted to lead your life as normally as
possible."

"Just like today."

Fingering the strap, I said, "Do you think
keeping this on when we make love is 'normal?' "

She burrowed a cheek into my chest. "Probably
not."

"Then why do it?"

"I just don't want you to see me . . . wounded,
I guess."

"What, from the biopsy?"

"Yes."

"Nancy, I've seen you after this," I said,
tapping lightly on the slight, puckering scar at her shoulder, from a
bullet she took right after we first met. "And it didn't make a
difference.”

"I know."

"Well?"

"Not the same, John. This isn't some bump or
bruise—"

"—a bullet hole's not exactly—"

"—this is almost a mutilation, and I have to
be careful with it."

"Careful how?"

"In the way I deal with you about it. Me staying
focused at work helps a little, by keeping my mind off everything
else. But if the doctor . . . If the news isn't good, then . . ."

"Then what?"

"Then I want you to remember me as beautiful,
the way you once told me I was."

I shifted carefully, so as not to jar or even
irritate whatever was beneath the bra cup. Now I was facing her, just
enough light for me to make out the bone structure under the whites
of her eyes. "Nance, the beauty doesn't come from what's on you,
but from what's in you."

"Easy to say."

"I've been there, remember?"

"And I don't ever want you to go through with me
what you went through with Beth."

"Nancy, whether that comes to pass or not,
neither of us can say. But meanwhile, how about we both act normal?"

Silence, then a playful tone. "Meaning you're
going to unhook the strap?"

“
Unfortunately my Catholic upbringing makes me
incapable of such a thing."

"The snap's in front. Try it."

I did, the fabric coming away in my hands. I touched
her cross-hatched Band-Aids gently with just my left index finger,
then ran the finger, gentler still, over the surrounding flesh.
"Doesn't make a difference, Nance."

She brought her hand
behind my head and drew me toward her for a kiss.

* * *

On Sunday morning, I used Nancy's living room phone
to check my answering service. Mingled with messages from Primo
Zuppone ("My friends would like to know how you're doing")
were three from Claude Loiselle, all the same: Call me, urgent. She
left her number at the bank. I dialed it, figuring to get the
voice-mail system, but instead drew Loiselle herself.

"Where are you now?" she said.

"Why?"

"How soon can you get here?"

"To the bank?"

"Yes."

"Claude, what's happened?"

"I think you'd better see for yourself."

Loiselle hung up.

Behind me, Nancy said, "Problem?"

I turned to her, standing in the fuzzy mauve robe.
"Not sure. You still interested in going to your office for a
while?"

"At least until one or so."

"How about if I drive us both downtown, then
pick you up at two?"

"Sounds good. Let me
just brush my hair."

* * *

To the downstairs security guard at the scimitar
counter I said, ".Tohn Cuddy. Ms. Loiselle's expecting me."

A nod, and he hit some buttons on his telephone.
After whispering into the receiver, he nodded again before hanging
up. "She'll be waiting at fifty-four. You know which elevators
to use?"

"Yes. Thanks."

* * *

"You came quickly. Good."

I followed Loiselle through the eerily empty
reception area and corridors. It was as though some foreign power had
dropped a neutron bomb that eliminated all the people but left the
workstations standing. In her office. Loiselle went behind the
utilitarian desk. Everything looked the same as when I'd been there
on Friday, two mornings before.

She said, "Have a seat."

I took one of the chairs. "All right, what am I
supposed to 'see for myself?' "

Loiselle said, "Me."

I stared at her. "Claude—"

"I called the police about Olga. I even went
over there, to the Missing Persons Unit."

"And they told you . . . ?"

"What you said they would. She's an adult,
there's no sign of 'misadventure'—is that a real word?"

"It is to them."

"They also told me she wasn't missing long
enough, and no indication that she'd crossed a state line. It was all
very frustrating?

I could picture Loiselle showing some poor
report-taker just how frustrating she thought it was. "L0ok,
Claude, why didn't you just tell me this over the phone?"

"Because I want to hire you."

"Hire me."

"To find Olga."

I stopped. "Olga's already my client."

"So, now I will be too."

"Claude, I'm basically out of ideas for finding
her."

"That's what I mean." Loiselle squared her
shoulders, fixing me with an almost pleasant smile. "You've been
trying to help her, both before and after she disappeared. I
understand that. But there's only so much you can do without serious
money to do it with. And I'm prepared to help."

"Bankroll me to look for Olga."

"Exactly. Given what the police said they
weren't going to do, I have to hire somebody. And you're already up
to speed on everything." The smile got conspiratorial. "In
fact, I'm sure you know things I don't know."

"That might be the problem, Claude."

A puzzled expression. "I don't understand?

"Conflict of interest. There are things I
learned working for Olga that maybe I shouldn't share with you."