Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (27 page)

"The glass one."

"Or a window. Whatever I was hearing them
through. But it sounded to me in my bedroom like they were on the
first floor of his place."

"You didn't happen to see an orange Porsche
parked outside here, did you?"

"What, last night?"

"Yes."

"No, no, I didn't. But to be honest, I wasn't
downstairs at all yesterday." Then Elmendorf squinted at me
again.

"What the hell does an orange Porsche have to do
with anything?"

"Just a thought."

* * *

When the door to the Robinette unit opened, I could
hear the soft strains of an R&B ballad in the background, a male
vocalist whose voice I recognized but whose name I couldn't recall.
James Robinette wore just baggy basketball shorts, no socks, shoes,
or even a shirt. His upper body had that drawn and quartered look of
the undeveloped athlete. Frowning, he said, "What do you want?"

Cooler than the greeting I'd gotten my first time. "I
wonder if we could talk a minute?"

"Mom's not here."

"That's okay. Maybe you can help me."

"Can't." Robinette inclined his head toward
the living room behind him. "Busy."

"Won't take long."

"It's taken long enough, man."

He started to close the door on me. I put my foot
against it, which stopped both the door and him.

Robinette said, "Yo, man, why you hassling with
me?"

Less of the preppy, more of the street. "I'm
not. I just need the answers to a few questions about last night."

"Last night?"

"Yes. Were you here?"

"No way. Had a band thing. 'Fall Concert,' over
at Tabor."

"What time did you leave Plymouth Willows for
the school?”

"I don't know. Had to be there by eight, so
maybe a little after seven."

"And when did you get home?"

"Why you want to know all this, man?"

"What harm can it do to tell me?"

Robinette held up his hands. "Oh, who cares?
Maybe eleven, eleven-thirty?"

"Kind of late for a band concert."

A roll of the eyes. "Yo, man, we went out with
some of the other kids and their folks afterwards, all right?"

"We?"

"My mom and me. What difference does it make?"

"You happen to see an orange Porsche parked
outside?"

Robinette stopped, grew determined. "No."

"You know who it belongs to?"

"I didn't see the car, man, how am I supposed to
know who owns it?"

"Thought maybe you might have seen it before."

"Well, you thought wrong. You want to leave
now?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah.
I think I have someplace else to go."

* * *

In the gathering dark, I went back to the Prelude and
drove toward the tennis courts. No Paulie Fogerty, but then I noticed
that the door to his little prefab house seemed to be open.

Getting out of my car, I was almost to the doorway
when Fogerty came through it. He blinked, trembling a bit, first from
surprise, then maybe from trying to place me.

"Hi, Pau1ie."

"Hi." The hang-jaw smile. "Did you see
Mr. Eh-men-dor?"

“
Yes."

"He show you how to use your camera right?"

"We talked about it. Can I talk to you?"

A blink. “We are talking."

"Right. Can we go inside?"

Another blink with the nod. Then he turned and I
followed him into the small living room.

There was a La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the
television set, a TV tray to the side of the recliner. Animal
crackers were scattered on the tray, which also held a glass of milk.
Videos of some Disney animated features lay jumbled next to the VCR,
a cable box on top of the television itself.

From hooks on the wall hung gardening equipment, like
his rake, hedge clippers, and so on. Next to the gardening gear was a
snow shovel, an ice scraper, and a few more inter-weather tools.

No pictures or photos, though, and no other furniture
in the room, either. "Looks comfortable, Paulie."

"Yeah." Fogerty went toward the recliner,
then stopped.

"Wait." He bustled into another room, I
assumed the bedroom. I could see a second door, probably for a bath.
The galley kitchen was spotless.

Fogerty came back with a gray, metal folding chair,
opening it for me. I thanked him and sat down as he took the recliner
and leaned it back to the halfway position. Then he seemed to notice
the glass on his tray and started to get up. "You want some
milk?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure'? I got more, and it's good milk."

"No, really." I leaned forward in the
chair, my elbows on my knees. "Paulie, I was wondering if you
were around here last night."

"I'm around every night."

“
What time did you go to bed?"

"I don't know. After dinner, I think about the
tools for a while, so I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow. Then I watch
TV till I get sleepy."

"But you worked on the grounds before that."

A blink. "The grounds?"

"Around the complex here?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm the super. I work for Mr.
Hend'ix."

"When you were working, did you see Mr. Dees?"

A blink and a nod. "I see him all the time."

"Did you see him last night?"

Just the blink. "I don't know."

"Did you see him loading anything into a car?"

"He has a lot of papers. I help him sometimes.”

I recalled Dees as I'd first seen him, carrying a box
and paperwork while coming down the path of his unit. "How about
suitcases?"

"No. I help him with his papers. Boxes,
sometimes? "Paulie, I mean, did you see Mr. Dees putting any
suitcases in a car?"

"No. I help him with his papers in boxes."

"How about an orange car?"

The hang-jaw smile. "The nice lady."

I made myself slow down. "Yes, the nice lady.
Did she come to visit Mr. Dees?"

"She comes to see him a lot."

"How about last night, Paulie?"

"Last night'?"

"Yes. Did you see her last night?"

The blink. "I don't know, but she's nice. I
helped her too."

"Helped her how?"

"She had a lot of bags one time, from the store.
She couldn't carry them all, so I helped her."

"And she drove an orange car."

A blink and a nod. "The only orange car I ever
saw."

"Did you see the car last night?"

Blink. "I don't know."

Dead end. "Paulie, how did the nice lady get
into Mr. Dees' house?"

"Unit."

"I'm sorry?"

"Unit. Mr. Dees has a unit, just like Mr.
Eh-men-dor and everybody. I have the house." He looked around
proudly.

"Unit, right. How did the nice lady get in?"

A blink and a nod. It was hypnotic after a while.
"She had a key."

I smiled. "Do you have a key too?"

"No. I'm the super. I don't need a key for the
trees and the grass and the tennis courts and the—"

"Right, Paulie. Do you know if anybody else has
a key to the unit Mr. Dees lives in?"

"Mr. Hend'ix. I work for him." The hang-jaw
smile. "I'm the super."

I nodded this time, Paulie
Fogerty gazing at me happily, molded to his chair like a seal on a
rock in the sunshine.

* * *

Leaving the prefab house, I drove to the front of the
complex, hoping the brown Toyota or the orange Porsche would
magically appear by the yellow-trimmed cluster. Neither did.

Parking farther along the leaf-shaped access road in
front of another quartet of townhouses, I walked back toward the
Stepanians' door. Looking around quickly and seeing nobody, I went
behind their unit. At the rear deck, I lifted a long, stiff-tined
fork from their barbecue, hoping the committee meeting would keep
them away for an hour or so more.

At the next deck, I climbed over the low railing
belonging to Andrew Dees—or Alfonso DiRienzi, take your pick. A set
of drapes was drawn across the inside of the glass door, only
darkness on the floor beneath the hems. Using the fork as a jimmy, I
worked on the latch for a good three minutes, breaking a sweat during
the last thirty seconds. Finally a combination of jab, shimmy, and
yank did the job. I eased the door only a foot or so along its track,
just enough to get me in and past the drapes.

That's when something hit me from the side, behind
the left ear, and I went down like snow sliding off a pitched roof.
 

=18=

They didn't bother with a blindfold, but then again,
I didn't wake up until they were lifting me by the shoulders from the
floor of a car's backseat. It was full dark now, and all I saw except
for the rear fender and black-walled tire was a panel of
light-colored bricks rising off the macadam. Just before I was part
carried, part dragged through a metal door, I did catch the sugary
scent of baking ovens, a smell that made me want to gag.

"Come on, asshole,” said a gruff voice to my
left. I recognized the voice as the man behind it grunted, him and
his partner to my right hauling me up the first of many steps. We
were under a weak yellowish light, the kind used on fire stairs.
After they pushed and pulled me the half-flight to a landing, I
raised my throbbing head enough to see the faces of the two burly
guys who'd worked me over behind my office building, the one
fine-featured, the other coarse. Neither had his hair slicked back
anymore, and they were wearing dark pants and crewneck sweaters now.
The peculiar lighting probably helped, aging Coarse twenty or so
years and bringing back why Chief Pete Braverman up in Vermont had
seemed so familiar.

After a second half-flight, Fine supported me while
Coarse unlocked a door that led to a small, windowless room with
another door on the opposite wall. There were three wooden chairs
around a rectangular table big enough for a fourth. I was dumped into
one of the chairs, Fine sitting catercorner from me, Coarse standing
over and behind me. Rubbing my skull only made the throbbing worse,
so I leaned back, my empty holster collapsing against my right hip.

Fine said, "You didn't take our advice so good,
asshole."

From above, Coarse's voice. "Bad fucking idea
not to."

Fine started to say, "You know what
happens"—when I interrupted him with, "Get Hendrix up
here."

Fine stopped and shot a look over me, toward Coarse.

I said, "When we were outside, I smelled the
ovens from the bakery. We're on the second floor of the mall building
in Marshfield, just above Hendrix Management. Now bring him up here."

Coarse slapped the back of my head with the palm of
his hand. "You're in no position to—"

"You guys are deputy U.S. Marshals, and,
speaking as a taxpayer, I'm getting pretty sick of my federal
employees playing rope-a-dope with me."

Fine worked his mouth, nothing coming out.

I stared at him. "Capisce?"

Over my shoulder, Fine said, "Keep him here,"
and then went out through the door we hadn't used.

After it closed behind him, I said conversationally,
"So, is Chief Braverman your father, your uncle, or what?"

No response from Coarse.
 
Twenty
seconds later, the door Fine went through opened, and Hendrix came in
alone, eyes blazing, voice no longer mellow. "Just who the hell
do you think you are?"

I said, "That was going to be my question. I'd
like to see some identification?

Hendrix glared up behind me, then got madder when
Coarse or Braverman or whatever his name was did nothing. "Look,
Cuddy, we've got you for breaking and ent-"

"Oh, please. You civil servants have fucked the
duck on this from square one. And right now the only question is how
badly you're going to suffer for it."

Hendrix glared some more, but without the fire he'd
had coming through the door. Sitting in Fine's chair, he said, "What
are you talking about'?”

"I'm talking about what you or your boss decided
to do here. On Wednesday, I came around to the office downstairs,
asking about your operation on behalf of another condo complex."

"Which was total bullshit."

"Doesn't matter, Boyce. What matters is that you
didn't even try to close the sale when you should have. If anything,
the message was, 'Hey, we sell lemons, so try another car lot.' "

"What difference does that make?"

"It made me go down to Plymouth Willows with
more questions than I'd have had already."