Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (38 page)

My telephone rang. "John Cuddy."

"Claude Loiselle."

"Back from the meeting already?"

"No. I told Craig to call me on the cellular if
he heard from you. But I am a little pressed for time right now."

"Understood. Have you been checking on Olga?s
ATM activity?"

"Every few hours. No transactions." Her
voice became hopeful. "Anything from your end?"

Without identifying Primo, I rapidly summarized what
he'd seen at Plymouth Willows, then mentioned Stepanian's school
records.

Now Loiselle sounded disappointed. "None of
that's much help, is it'?"

"No, but these transcript discrepancies are the
only things I've found that I can't explain."

"So what are you going to do about them?"

I told her what I wanted to do.

"You can't just call for that?" she said.

"Remember Olga getting me that check of hers
that Andrew Dees endorsed?"

"Because without written authorization,
universities keep their information pretty close to the vest?"

"Exactly."

A huffing breath. "Well, why do I make money if
not to spend some on a wild-goose chase? You're the investigator. If
you think the trip makes sense, I'm good for it."

"I'll contact you when I get back."

My travel agent was able to arrange the bookings.
Then I tried the DA's office. Nancy was in conference, so I left a
detailed message, saying I'd call her that night if I could. I locked
up the office and headed home to pack.

Both my flight to Denver and the connection to
Spokane were on United Airlines. The Denver leg was long, but Libby,
the woman sitting next to me, turned out to be both pleasant and
talkative. A student at a Baptist college in southern Colorado, she
was returning from a monthlong "mission" in Spain and
shared with me the charm of a foreign country as seen through the
unjaded eyes of a twenty-year-old.

When the flight attendant served us lunch, my
seatmate bent at the waist toward her tray and closed her eyes. A
minute later, Libby opened her eyes again and reached for the plastic
bag of utensils.

"Were you saying grace?"

"Yessir."

I thought, "Usually I
pray after eating airline food," but kept it to myself.

* * *

The leg to Spokane was shorter, but by now I'd been
sitting cramped for longer than anyone could be comfortable. The guy
next to me, "western states sales manager" for an appliance
company, said our destination was pronounced "Spo-ken."

As the plane started its approach to the airport, the
senior llight attendant came on the PA system, speaking in a whisper.
"Today's the captain's birthday, so when we arrive at the gate,
I sure would appreciate it if you all could sing 'Happy Birthday,
Don,' on my count of three."

After the laughter died
down, my seatmate said, "See what happens when employees take
over the company?" But ten minutes later, on the attendant's
signal, he joined in with the rest of us.

* * *

At the Spokane terminal, I stopped in the men's room.
On a wall of the stall, somebody had used a honed point to scratch:

Got no paper,
Got no
towel.
Wipe your ass
With
a Spotted Owl.

which made me remember I might be approaching logging
country.

From the restroom, I headed toward baggage claim.
Killing time waiting for the carousel to start, I stood near a glass
case. Its caption read: EVERYTHING IN THIS CASE WAS TAKEN AT THIS
AIRPORT. The case itself contained revolvers, semiautomatics,
switchblades, boot knives, brass knuckles, even ninja throwing stars
and a hand grenade. The poem on the men's-room wall seemed less out
of place, somehow.

After picking up my suitcase, I found the rent-a-car
booths. A young woman with sunny hair and a "We're No. l"
smile asked if she could help me.

"About how far to Moscow?"

The smile got wider. "If you really mean
'Moss-cow,' about fifteen thousand miles. If you mean 'Moss-co,'
about ninety."

I returned the smile. "Thanks. Any other tips?"

"It's a real pretty drive, but only one lane a
lot of places, so be patient if you get stuck behind a tractor or
stock truck."

"What would you recommend for a vehicle?"

"Business or pleasure?"

"Business."

"Too bad," she said, starting the paperwork
on a four-door sedan. "There's just the most beautiful lake at
Coeur d'Alene. Named after the Indian tribe. The French called them
'Heart of an Awl' because they were tough bargainers in the
fur-trading days. Now there's this big resort with speedboats for
hire and a golf course that even has one hole on an island in the
water."

"In the lake, you mean?"

"Uh-huh. If you like golf, I guess it's a real
kick. If not, there's companies that run Jetboats up the Snake River
south to Hells Canyon."

"South up the river?"

"Yessir. The Snake runs south to north—as the
border between Oregon and Idaho. down there—and those Jet-boats
just fly around and over the rapids. You get to see bighorn sheep,
mule deer, maybe even a cougar if you're lucky."

"I don't think I'll have time. Any place to stay
in 'Moss-co'?"

"Only one I know is the Best Western University
Inn, but that's where everybody seems to stay anyway."

I wasn't sure about the
logic of that sentence, and I decided to pass on any other questions.

* * *

The sedan came with a good map of the area, the best
route appearing to be 195 South. It was fairly wide for five or ten
miles, and I drove past large contemporary homes clinging to the
ridges, more modest trailer parks sprawling in the flats. Pretty soon
the road narrowed, though, and I could appreciate the booth woman's
advice about being patient. But at least the slower speed gave me
time to sightsee.

The views would make you realize why eastern
Washington is part of "Big Sky Country." White, puffy
clouds couldn't quite cover the stretch from horizon to horizon,
letting the sunshine through in gauzy cascades, like a series of
bridal veils. The topography below was hilly but contoured, all
swells and curves, almost feminine. The colors were shades of brown,
green, and gold, the stubbled remnants of last summer's crops, with
dust devils kicking up tan funnels fifty feet high. Farmhouses
painted gray and barns red dotted occasional oases of spindly pines
and broader deciduous trees, curling tracks of driveways bringing
pickup trucks toward access roads.

Every twenty miles or so I passed big, silvery silos
like the Tin Man's head from The Wizard of Oz, the superstructures
over them probably grain elevators. There were a few herds of beef
cattle too, and when the highway veered near or through the towns,
you could see men in straw cowboy hats and tooled leather boots, a
motel marquee advertising an "Ice Cream Social." The
rolling wheat can sure smell sweet.

Closer to Moscow, I went by a big, bare mountain to
the east with signs saying "Steptoe Butte State Park."

After the downtown of Colfax, I hit Pullman, then
turned east onto Route 270 and crossed into Idaho.

There seemed to be more trees, and bigger ones.
Ponderosa pines, long-needled and almost bulbous. Douglas firs with
that disheveled, "Bill the Cat" look to them. Tamaracks
sprouting golden needles that I remembered somebody once telling me
fell off the "evergreen" come winter. Even gaining three
hours by flying west, it was nearly 5:00 P.M. when I found the
University of Idaho on a hillside in Moscow, the campus dominated by
what looked like an airplane hangar in gray, brown, and gold
mosaics—the "Kibbee Dome." The rest of the buildings were
mostly Gothic stonework, though, which surprised me, I guess because
I suffer from the easterner's prejudice that only we have "older"
architecture. Leaving the car in a visitors' lot, I started up one of
the tree-lined, crisscrossing walkways, little markers identifying
this spruce or that cedar as being planted by President Howard Taft
or Eleanor Roosevelt.

After asking directions from a strolling
undergraduate wearing a "Lady Vandals" sweatshirt, I
finally located the registrar's office in a red-brick annex to the
main Administration Building. There were peach-colored tiles climbing
halfway up the walls from yellow granite floors, a set of interior
windows showing one woman still toiling away at her computer. A sign
read: TRANSCRIPT REQUEST TAKES 3 TO 4 DAYS.

As I reached into my jacket pocket, the woman looked
up from her keyboard. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Actually, I'm just glad to find you still
open."

A warm smile as she stood and came to the window.

"My husband doesn't get off his job till
five-thirty, so I kind of flex-time it here."

"I need to see a former student's file."

"You mean transcript?" she said, glancing
toward the sign.

"No, I already have that." I handed her my
stock letter with the forged "Lana Stepanian" at the
bottom. "I'd like the file itself."

The woman went through the letter quickly, then
slowly.

"Well, we don't have our own form for that, but
this seems more than fine." She appeared a little pained. "Of
course, the photocopying would be awfully expensive, and I'd have to
mail the package to you after we received your check."

"Actually, I'm in kind of a bind, timewise. I
really have to see the file today, though I shouldn't need any
copies."

The woman looked at me differently. "Where're
you from?"

"You don't get many Boston accents out here?"

“
No, but I thought that's what I heard. My husband
and I had a great vacation there—oh, it must be three years ago
now. Paul Revere's House, Faneuil Hall, the wonderful churches along
the Freedom Trail."

"Plus you get to walk it instead of driving two
hours south from Spokane."

"Oh my, you didn't come all the way to Moscow
just for this, did you?"

I nodded.

The woman's face broke into the warm smile again.

"Well, we can't turn you away 'hungry,' so to
speak. One minute."

I didn't hold her to the minute, and in fact it was
five before she came back to me. "Oh, I'm afraid this student
transferred?

"To Boston University?"

"Yes. But we still have her application to us.
State resident back then."

I read through the pages. "Lana Stepanian"
gave as an address "121 Nez Perce Street, Cedar Bend, Idaho,"
the same as on the transcript I'd already seen. Listed as next of kin
were "Nibur and Ellen Stepanian." Her personal statement
was an essay about how she wanted "to study Spanish and become a
teacher in a big city like Boise."

None of it made any sense.

"Something else I can do for you'?"

I looked up. "Yes. Where's Cedar Bend'?"

"Down by Lusston."

"Lusston?

"L-E-W-I-S-T-O-N. Lusston. It's across the Snake
from Clarkston. Get it?"

"Lewis and Clark?"

The warm smile.

* * *

Her directions took me south of Moscow on Route 95
and eventually to the crest of an incredibly steep grade with a big
sign saying LEWISTON HILL: THE FIRST CAPITOL. On the downslope,
smaller signs indicated spurs functioning as RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMPs. At
the bottom of the grade was a broad, slow river that might have been
the Snake.

Turning here and there, I saw the CEDAR BEND arrow
the registrar woman said I would. The town itself was small and
dusty, middle-aged men appearing to be Native American standing next
to dinged and rusting pickup trucks, talking and laughing quietly.
They were tall, with husky upper bodies running flabby at the belt,
their legs both skinny and bowed in blue jeans.

I pulled up to a man with a wispy moustache under a
broad, sun-scarred nose and a cowboy hat tilted back on his head, the
shaggy black hair tumbling onto his shoulders. He was talking to a
kid of sixteen or so who looked enough like him to be a cousin.
Despite the chill in the evening air, the younger one was dressed in
baggy jeans and a basketball singlet, his hair shorter and pulled
back into a ponytail.

"I wonder if you can help me."

The older man said, "Might be."

"I'm looking for 'Nez Perce Street.' "

The younger one said, "We're called 'Ness Purz.'
"

My day for being corrected. "Sorry."

The older man pointed with a tattooed index finger.

"Southeast."

"How far?"

A shrug. "Guesstimation, mile or so."

"There a sign?"

Deadpan. "I can't remember, right offhand."

The kid grinned, but said, "You'll see an old
filling station, just a pump sitting all by itself. Another fifty
yards, on your left."