Invasion of Privacy

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  "Really? Prove it."

  "Where is he?"

  "Read my lips. I don’t know."

  "Okay," Nina said. "I think I can make a report to the police that’s going to guarantee you get picked up on a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold. Maybe they’ll let you go at that point, maybe they won’t. You familiar with the inside of a mental hospital, Terry? Oh, I see you are."

  Terry’s face had paled. "You can’t do that. I’m your friggin’ client!" she cried.

  "Not anymore."

  "I don’t have your kid. Look around. He’s not here."

  She wouldn’t tell Nina to look if Bobby was there. Her heart sank. "You trashed my room last night, didn’t you?"

  "What if I did?" Terry asked, with genuine curiosity. "You going to get me arrested for reading your love letters?"

  "You hit me on the head," Nina said. "You tried to hurt me."

  "Looks like you’ve survived," Terry said, "so far."

  Nina said, "Don’t bullshit me anymore. And don’t come around trying to bully me or scare my family. I’ve got a gun and I will use it if I have to." She didn’t, but Terry didn’t have to know that. "I won’t be off guard next time."

  As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t mentioned a gun. That could magnify the seriousness of Terry’s vandalism and incite her. There were already too many nuts with guns running around.

  Because she still hoped to find Bobby, she searched the small untidy house thoroughly. Terry didn’t try to stop her. There was no sign of him. In the bedroom Terry took off her coat and tossed it onto the bed, where it lay in a furry heap, like an exotic pet. Under the kitchen sink Nina found her letters, out of order, some of them torn.

  Terry had followed her around, saying nothing. She eyed the box, her expression, for once, blank.

  "You’ve got it back. I just borrowed it. So let’s forget the whole thing," she said.

  "Why do you care about my personal business?"

  "Just checking something."

  "Checking what?"

  "To see if you are who I thought you might be."

  "And who is that?"

  Terry wore a look as cold as the landscape outside the windows, and didn’t answer.

  "What’s this all about?"

  Terry opened the front door, and said, "If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here right now."

  "What did I do?"

  "Only ruined my life."

  "Is this about the case? Maybe I can fix it."

  "It’s too late," Terry said calmly, neatly guiding her out. "You’re not getting out of this." A mountain of hate rose behind her yellow eyes. She shut the door in Nina’s face.

  For the last two years, Paul had worked out of a small office on the third and top floor of a building just off Ocean Avenue in Carmel. Big Sur, to the south, and Monterey, just over the Carmel Hill, added to his client base.

  The office had one thing to recommend it. The main window overlooked the neighboring courtyard of the Hog’s Breath Inn, a restaurant and bar where he spent much of his free time.

  Paul kept the shade up at the window above his desk while he punched numbers and letters onto his keyboard and skimmed the information on his video monitor, even though it made it a little harder to read. He didn’t like desk work much, but this project had to be done on the computer.

  His client, a biotechnology firm in San Jose, needed to find someone, a reported computer nerd who had recently set up a home page of his own on the World Wide Web. The nerd called himself der Fliegel, the Fly, and had loads of info to share on a certain proprietary formula. Paul went searching for tiny bug-tracks in cyberspace.

  While he searched, Paul looked down at the Hog’s Breath courtyard, where tourists in shorts mixed with local business types. He checked his watch and dreamed of lunch, a thick steak with home fries, coleslaw maybe—no, how about a Caesar salad, crunchy and tart.... There were some attractive women down there. One dark-haired girl with pale white skin, wearing a halter thing that showed off her magnificent breasts, sat cross-legged, disconsolate, alone. Should he quit now and go down early?

  A guy in a white T-shirt with tattoos up to his armpits sat down next to her and put his hand on her delicate white knee. A shame, but now he gazed upon a tall, golden Californian who had just walked in, swinging her purse, her narrow ass swinging along in rhythm.... The Hog’s Breath was a great place to unwind after work and meet women, and, of course, it was owned by his favorite steely-eyed movie actor.

  Now and then Clint did show up at his restaurant, soft-spoken and mellow, shaking hands with the locals, asking how the steak was tonight, if there was anything they needed. Once, about a year before, when Paul was working late in his office, Clint came in with a few friends and opened up the place just for them, lit the fireplace in the middle, and they all settled down to talk and laugh.

  Paul had met him once, while Clint was still the mayor of Carmel, at a chamber of commerce reception. Clint had an inch or two on him, but he slouched a lot, and he was getting downright elderly. He had the dignity of a senior statesman, the big hands of a wrestler. He said, "How are ya, Paul?" in that soft, almost sinister voice of his, and Paul said, "I really liked that scene in The Dead Pool where you—" but Clint was being pushed gently forward to meet his next wellwisher.

  Paul didn’t really envy Clint. He liked his freedom, and Clint didn’t seem to have much of that—but he would have liked to sit down with him some night over a couple of bourbons and talk with him about the Dirty Harry movies, how much he loved them but how full of crap they were, the police procedures a joke.

  At one time Paul had worked in San Francisco as a homicide detective, and he’d always wanted to tell Clint that Inspector Callahan would have been out on his ass in about twelve seconds with that attitude, like Paul had been.

  The computer beeped, pulling Paul back into the present. "You have been idle too long," the screen said. He took one more longing look out the real window before he turned back to his virtual window to redial the on-line service.

  A kid that looked just like Nina’s kid came strolling through the courtyard, down there in the crowd. Paul got up, looking hard.

  About eleven, shaggy black hair, tall for his age, carrying his No Fear hat, a backpack on his back, looking around from under Nina’s exact eyebrows—yes, Nina’s kid.

  The kid walked up to a waiter and asked him something. The waiter shrugged his shoulders, moving on.

  Where was Nina? Paul jogged down the hall, down the stairs, opened the back door of the building, and crashed right into the boy, and the kid staggered back. Paul held out his hand to steady him, saying, "Whoa! Take it easy!"

  Upstairs again, the boy set down his bags and plopped down on Paul’s black Italian leather couch. Paul gave him a soda, which he guzzled, eyeing him warily.

  "I was coming up here anyway," said the kid.

  "Why don’t you start by telling me where your mother is," Paul said. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the kid’s name, even though he’d seen him with Nina many times.

  "She didn’t call you?"

  "Nobody called me to say you’d be dropping by two hundred and eighty miles from Tahoe, no. What’s going on?"

  "Not much," the kid said jauntily, dirty face smiling above muddy pants. "I’m visiting my grandpa. He lives in Monterey."

  "Is he here in town with you? Or are you alone?"

  "I took the bus. I wanted to have an appointment with you."

  "Sorry. But your name escapes me," Paul said.

  "Bob."

  "Right. Your grandpa forgot to wash your face this morning, Bob."

  The boy’s hand almost made it to his cheek before he checked himself, and lowered it. "So, you got a minute for an appointment?"

  "I guess so," Paul said. He sat down opposite the couch, put his hands on his knees, said, "What can I do for you?"

  "I need to hire you to look for someone for me."

  "I see."

&nbs
p; "This would be me hiring you, not my mom. She says you’re good."

  "I’m very good at some things. Who are you looking for?"

  "My father."

  Uh-oh. "Your mother know what you’re doing, Bob?"

  "Not exactly." He bunched up his grungy sweatshirt, producing some bills. "I can pay you thirty dollars today, and I’ll give you three dollars a week for as long as it takes." He put the bills on the table, giving Paul a challenging look.

  Paul didn’t pick them up. "I think I’d like to hear some more about the case first," he said. "I’m picky."

  "My mother won’t tell me anything about my father, so I’m going to find him without her help."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing," the kid said. "She won’t talk about him. But," he said, riffling through pockets on the outside of his backpack, "I have my birth certificate with his name on it." Triumphantly he produced a folded-up sheet of paper, which Paul examined carefully.

  "How about your grandpa?" Paul had met Harlan Reilly several years before. He still remembered him, a golfer with a wide, ruddy face, and a new wife named Angie-baby. "Doesn’t he know anything?"

  "He’s no use. My mom won’t let him tell me anything."

  "I’ll have to think this over for a few minutes, Bob," Paul said. "Meanwhile, let’s walk back over to the Hog’s Breath and have some lunch, okay? If you don’t have to be getting right back. Then I’ll drop you off at your grandpa’s."

  "I could use a sandwich," the kid said. "But you don’t have to drop me off, I’m meeting a friend here."

  "Right," Paul said. "You go on down to the bathroom at the end of the hall and wash your face and hands. I’ll get my wallet, then we’ll go." The kid nodded and went out the door, leaving his backpack and sleeping bag on the rug.

  Paul shut the door behind him and called Nina’s office.

  Sandy put him through to Nina right away and he heard her voice, clear and close as if she was in the next room.

  "I thought you might like to know your son is down the hall washing up for lunch," he told her.

  "Bobby?"

  "Only son you’ve got I know about." He gave her a minute to collect herself. Her voice had been shaky. She must have put the phone down for a second. When he heard her breathing on the line again he said, "How long has he been gone?"

  "Since Wednesday night. We’ve got the police up here combing the town, looking all over. I never dreamed he’d go so far." A distant nose blew. "Is he all right?"

  "Fine. Not upset, no sign of any physical trauma. He ran away?"

  "In the middle of the night. He didn’t leave a note, but he took some food and his sleeping bag. Oh God, Paul, I’ve been so worried. Is he back? Let me talk to him."

  "Wait a minute," Paul said. "Your son disappears and you don’t call me?"

  "I tried once. But ... we’ve been concentrating up here, Paul. Nobody saw him at the bus station or the train station. Who would ever dream an eleven-year-old boy would go so far on his own? Hang on." He could hear her call out, "Sandy, Paul’s got him! Call Matt and Andrea." She got back on the line and said, "Is he there?"

  "No, he was pretty dirty. Don’t worry. He’ll be back. We are discussing some business. And he doesn’t know I called you yet.’’

  "Promise you won’t let him go."

  "Don’t worry."

  Neither of them spoke for a minute. Then Nina said, "Paul, why did he come to you?"

  "He offered me a job."

  "What?"

  "Seems he’s looking for someone. Smart kid. Hires the best."

  "He’s hunting for his father," said Nina flatly.

  "That’s right. Kurt Geoffrey Scott."

  If Nina was surprised he knew the name, he couldn’t tell from her voice.

  "Tell him whatever you want, but keep him with you. Take him to my father’s. I’m coming down right away, but it’s going to be five hours—"

  "Can’t you fly?"

  "It’s snowing again, poor visibility, the airport’s closed...."

  "I’ll take care of him."

  "Thanks. Thanks so much! I was so scared!"

  "And you wonder I don’t want kids," Paul said. He kicked himself for saying it after she hung up the phone.

  Paul explained to the boy that he was still thinking about whether he could take the case, but that Bob had taken it as far as he could, and his mother needed him. Then he fed him a big lunch, which the boy paid for with an abbreviated story of his past couple of days.

  As they drove, Paul sneaked looks at the kid. Only eleven years old, and he had traveled across the state, done some investigating, slept out one full night and part of another, sauntered into restaurants and ordered meals, traveled around the Monterey Peninsula on the bus.

  He didn’t want to think what the kid would be like at fifteen.

  He’d never talked to an obsessed eleven-year-old before. What would Nina do with him? Whup him good? No, that went out in the fifties. You didn’t hit kids anymore. Counseling, that’s what she would do, keeping her toes on the politically correct line. He thought about what he would have done if Bob had been his kid.

  Whup him good, tell him all about his father, and dispel the cloud Nina had put over the guy’s name.

  He could sympathize with Bob on at least one point: Nina kept too much to herself, things she had no business hiding.

  Dropping the boy at his grandfather Harlan Reilly’s house, he stood in the doorway attempting to pick the man’s brain about Nina’s former lover.

  Harlan insisted he come in for a little coffee. Round as his beloved golf balls, with powerful arms and a perfect tan, Nina’s father led Paul out to a backyard patio that overlooked hills dotted with gnarled Monterey pines.

  All around the yard, yellow and red flowers were sprouting in the early spring. There was a late afternoon sparkle in the air, and the day’s weather had settled into a temperate seventy degrees. Paul couldn’t help picturing Nina braving the storms, coming over the pass from the mountains. Didn’t she get tired of living up there, with all those months of cold weather? Tahoe was one of those amenities for Californians who craved winter snow, a place to visit and then have the pleasure of leaving for sunnier climes. She would love living back down here again, if he could only convince her....

  Pouring a lot of whiskey into the cups and a little coffee, they each drank one cup and most of a second before Harlan had satisfied himself that he trusted Paul enough to tell him anything.

  "Naturally, she never told me a thing about Bob’s father. Once the bum took off, she had too much pride to go after him."

  "You don’t know anything?" Paul asked, disappointed.

  "I know plenty," he said. "I’m her father, aren’t I?"

  7

  NINA ARRIVED AT HARLAN’S HOUSE AT SEVEN. SHE had driven up the mountains, down the mountains, and through the Central Valley at a speed completely incompatible with snow, rain, narrow roads, and poor visibility. By the time she reached Monterey Bay, she had decided to make Bobby stay in his room after school for the rest of the school year. Without TV or video games.

  But when she saw him at the door, looking shamefaced and shabby, she drew him to her and held him. He said, "I’m sorry, Mom."

  "We’ll talk about all this, honey, until I really understand what happened."

  "I had to go."

  "Shhh. Lots of time to talk on the way back home. Are you really all right? Nothing bad happened?"

  "Of course not. I had my knife. I wasn’t scared."

  "But ... where did you sleep?"

  "Down at the wharf. It was pretty cold."

  "Supper!" Harlan called.

  They all rushed through dinner. Paul sat next to her, joining cheerfully into conversation with Harlan and his wife Angie, quizzing Nina’s dad on his par. Bobby ate three servings of the chicken, but Nina could hardly eat. Food choked her. She sat next to her son, touching him frequently.

  As soon as she had carried the dishes back to the kitchen, she
said, "We have to get back."

  "You could stay over," Paul said. "It’s too far to drive back now."

  "No," Nina said. "I had two cups of coffee. I want this boy home in his own bed."

  Paul walked them out. While Bobby settled himself in the passenger seat, Nina took Paul aside and said, "I’m so grateful."

  "I didn’t do anything."

  "Did you tell him you aren’t going to help him?"

  "Not yet. I’ll call him tomorrow after school. I thought you should talk with him first. And maybe you should tell me what’s going on."

  "There’s nothing to tell. I haven’t seen Bob’s father for twelve years." She looked into Paul’s inquisitive eyes.

  "Bob’s not going to let you coast too much farther on this one," he said.

  "We’ll see. Thanks for everything, Paul."

  "My timing is rotten, but every time I see you, my mind tends to run in the same tracks."

  She smiled.

  "When can I spend time with you? Let’s ski, soak in the spa at Caesars, maybe more.... I like you, Nina. I’m getting attached."

  "Don’t get attached. I’m—"

  "Involved with someone else?"

  "No."

  "Love can’t always wait," Paul said. He put his arms around her. She could feel his desire as he stroked her back, pressing against her. "And as you know, in both our lines of work, control’s a luxury. Chaos is the norm".

  "I’ve got to go," she said, pulling gently away from him and climbing up into the driver’s seat of the Bronco. "I promise, I’ll call you soon."

  She reversed herself driving back, over the valley, up the mountains and down the mountains, never exceeding the speed limit, while Bob lay in the backseat, the seatbelt fastened firmly around his sleeping form. They didn’t get back until two in the morning. Dragging him to his bed, she left the car packed with his dirty bags and jumped into her own bed, trying hard to sleep, images of Bob and Paul and Terry popping like balloons in and out of the courtroom of her mind.

  Paul called Bob the next afternoon, telling him as kindly as he could that he would see what he could do. For one thing, that would keep the kid from running off again. For another, he didn’t want to refuse outright and get on Bob’s bad side. He was Nina’s kid, after all. Of course, Paul couldn’t do much. Poking his nose into Nina’s business might net him a black eye.