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While Nancy was in the bathroom the next morning, I picked up the phone to check with my answering service. No message from Olga Evorova, but “Mr. Zuppone" had called twice, the service operator telling me she thought somebody was yelling at him in the background and did that sound right? When I tried my telephone tape at the condo, another, or the same, two messages from Primo. Nothing from Evorova. Again. Same when I called her at work (voice-mail) and at home (answering machine). After Nancy and I had a quiet breakfast, talking around the things we'd talked through the night before, she left for work. Killing time until I figured the bank would be functioning, I took the Scottish fiddle album from the cassette player. The music had carried just the right "normality" echo for us on Nancy's couch, and now reading the quaint titles of the pieces somehow seemed doubly reassuring.
At 9:00 A.M., I slipped the cassette into my jacket pocket and tried my client again at the bank. Her very formal secretary said Ms. Evorova was in conference and could not be disturbed. When I asked for a transfer to Claude Loiselle, I drew a very brusque male secretary who said Ms. Loiselle was in conference and could not be disturbed as well. When I asked the second secretary if Ms. Loiselle was in conference with Ms. Evorova, I got a firm "I'm not at liberty to say."
That's when I hung up. Whenever you're waiting for something, including test results, it's a good idea to do something else. Nancy had her trial, I had Evorova. If I could see her.
But first, a visit with someone I didn't have to look for.
* * *
The breeze blowing down her hillside toward the harbor was warm, that Indian Summer tease still in the air. Carrying the dozen tulips wrapped in clear plastic, I walked the rows of stones until I reached hers, the engraving somehow looking less sharp now, the freeze-thaw of winters rounding the letters of ELIZABETH MARY DEVLIN CUDDY to the point they truly seemed only a memory.
John, I wasn't. . . expecting you.
"It's been a while, Beth." I went to one knee, laying the flowers diagonally on the grave. "Mrs. Feeney had only a couple of roses, but these just arrived."
Tulips in October?
"She said they were from France."
Well, it's her business, she ought to know.
Which was Beth's way of giving me an opening to talk about my business, if I was ready. Instead, I looked at the harbor. The low sun slanted off the dark chop, creating a latticework pattern, the barges and fishing boats and sloops appearing to stand still as the water flashed around them.
John—
"Nancy's afraid she might have cancer," the last word not coming out quite right.
A pause. What kind?
"Breast."
Has she had tests?
"Yes. We're waiting to hear from her doctor."
Another pause. And in the meantime?
"I guess I was hoping for some advice."
John, I don't think I learned anything back then that you didn't learn with me.
I nodded.
So maybe you ought to think about what you already know.
"How do you mean?”
Remember the first time with us, when we were waiting for my test results?
"I try not to, actually."
A third pause. You brought me a single rose, still closed up like a bud. It pointed to the future.
I cleared my throat. "It didn't point very far."
That wasn't the rose's fault. And it helped.
I nodded some more.
John?
"What?"
Have you ever brought Nancy flowers?
I couldn't recall an occasion when I had, not one.
Why not?
"It was something I did with you, for you. And nobody else."
John, Nancy is the somebody else now. And she has been, for more than a while.
Nodding one last time, I took in the sun and the water and all the stones around Beth before moving back to the car. Starting the engine, I thought, Mrs. Feeney's going to believe I'm getting senile.
* * *
I left the Prelude, and a rose for Nancy, in an illegal space under the still-elevated Central Artery and walked three blocks to the financial district. The Harborside Bank had its offices in a building the board of directors would like you to think they'd hewn themselves from pink, virgin granite. The floors in the lobby were pink too, but marble, a security/information counter curving like a scimitar in front of three banks of elevators, each serving a different twenty floors of the structure. The security guard pointed toward the last group of them, telling me to get off at fifty-four to see Ms. Evorova.
After an ear-popping ride, the elevator opened on an office suite done in wall-to-wall carpeting the same shade as all the stonework. A woman wearing a pilot's headset sat behind a teak desk so highly polished it reflected like a mirror. The prints hanging above the matching loveseats surprised me, though. Instead of seascapes or foxhunts, they were abstract geometries of yellow, orange, and purple.
The woman in the headset looked up from a computer board in front of her. "May I help you, sir?"
"I'd like to see Olga Evorova, please."
A slight hesitation, then a smoothing over. "I'm fairly certain she's in conference right now, but let me try for you. Please be seated."
I took one of the loveseats. Stiffer than I'd guessed, more a football bench than a piece of furniture.
The woman clacked out a concerto on the keys in front of her, then frowned, as though she were playing to the balcony. "I'm so sorry, but it's as I feared. She's in conference and simply-"
"—cannot be disturbed."
A little frost heaved under the smoothness. "Correct."
"Claude Loiselle, then. Please. And tell her John Cuddy needs to see her."
Another concerto on the board, shorter this time. "No, I'm afraid Ms. Loiselle-"
"Tell me, are there names on the doors here?"
"I beg your pardon?'
"Names. If I walk past you and start down one of the hallways, will I see names that'll help me know which office is whose, or do I just barge in, a door at a time, until I find the people I've asked for?"
Her left hand moved almost imperceptibly on the board, and I figured she'd pushed, quite reasonably, a panic button connected to a monitored security panel somewhere.
I said, "H0w long do I have before the cavalry arrives'?"
No answer.
"The reason I ask is, those women, if they're here, would really rather see me than have you and the rent-a-cops throw me on the sidewalk."
To her credit, the receptionist showed teeth that bespoke more snarl than smile, but hit some different buttons and said into her mouthpiece, "Ms. Loiselle? I'm terribly sorry, but . . ."
* * *
It was a green tweed suit with reddish nubs today, a pattern that highlighted her eyes and her hair, both of which could use some highlighting, as she wore no makeup and had the hair pulled back in a severe bun. There was a pie-wedge of harbor and airport runway visible through the window, if you craned your neck a little. Loiselle gave the impression that it wasn't worth the effort. Sitting behind her desk, a utilitarian metal job that would have looked just right on the movie set of 1984, she gestured at her computer in a way that made me feel stupid for not understanding exactly what I'd interrupted.
"This had better be good, Mr. Detective."
"Private investigator."
"What's the difference?"
"Detectives are confused police officers. I'm just confused."
A studiously blank stare. "About what?"
"About why all of a sudden I can't reach my client and your friend, either at home or at work."
Loiselle dropped the stare. "To be frank with you, John, I can't either."
Leaning forward in my chair, I said, "When's the last time you saw or heard from her?"
"Yesterday afternoon?
"What time?"
“Around three."
About when I'd phoned Evorova from Vermont, tellin
g her what I'd discovered at the university and newspaper.
"She say anything to you?"
"I didn't talk with her directly. She just left a message with Craig."
"Your secretary?"
"Yes. The message was that she had to go out, think something through toward making a decision."
"About what?"
"She didn't say."
I shook my head.
Loiselle said, "But you have some idea, don't you?"
I looked at her. "You a mind reader, Claude?"
She gave me one of the lopsided smiles. "You know what my nickname is around here?"
"No."
"It's a play on Helen of Troy."
" 'The face that launched a thousand ships.' "
"Very good. Only mine's 'the face that launched a thousand shits.' "
"Intimidation."
"It works, John."
"Not on me."
Loiselle stopped. Then, her voice quieter, "What's happened to Olga?"
"I honestly don't know. Can you think of anything else?"
"Only what I've told you, and the fact that her secretary said she had two things on for this morning and she's blown off both of them."
I processed that. "Anybody seen her?"
"Today'? No. I called Olga—at home, I mean—and got just her tape. Left a message."
"Behind the ones on there from me."
Loiselle closed her eyes.
I said, "Can you try her at Dees' place for me?"
"Already did. No answer at his condo, and some woman at his shop said he was out and she didn't know when he'd be back."
"Can you try Olga at home one more time?"
Loiselle opened her eyes. "Now?"
"Now."
She dialed. After a moment, “Olga, this is Claude again. If you're there, please pick up." Another moment. "Olga, please!" A shorter wait before Loiselle slammed the receiver back into its console. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she said, "Goddammit. What's going on?"
"I can't tell you without Olga's permission, but it could be bad. Can you get me into her office?"
Loiselle looked left-right-left in quick succession.
"Why?"
"I'd like to see whether there's anything there that could help us."
Loiselle seemed to consider that. Then she stood up and walked past me in a way I remembered from the Army, a way that said I was supposed to follow.
* * *
"Have you heard from Olga?"
The secretary looked up at Claude Loiselle. When the seated woman spoke, I recognized the formal voice from my earlier calls. "No, not since the last time you asked me."
The secretary sounded more frightened than insubordinate, and Loiselle blew by her and through an inner door that showed a nicer view of the harbor than Loiselle's own. The furniture was exotic, reminding me of the stuff in Evorova's apartment and making me appreciate that bankers of her rank probably bought—or at least got to pick out—their own office decor.
Loiselle closed the door. "All right, how many rules do you want me to break?"
"You know her routine better than I do. Where would we look for where she might be?"
Loiselle moved past me to the desk and sat near the computer, adjusting the monitor on a kind of ball-bearing stand for her own eye level. "Olga probably didn't come in early this morning and leave early."
"Because?"
"She'd have logged on, then used a screen-saver to avoid burning an image."
Loiselle flicked a switch on the side of the machine. After some humming and bleeping from inside it, her fingers began to hammer the keyboard. "Calendar for this morning shows just the two things her secretary mentioned. One was supposed to be a face-to-face, the other a conference call from . . . huh?"
"What's the matter?”
"The conference call. Given the time zone for one of the participants, she wouldn't have been able to match everybody up again easily till tomorrow."
"Meaning it's not likely she would have blown it off today?"
"Not likely."
"Oould Olga have just forgotten about the call altogether?"
"Not possible, John. Her PDA would have it."
"Her 'Pee-Dee-Ay?' "
"Stands for 'personal digital assistant! The PDA is a mobile modem, kind of a traveling appointments calendar and address book."
"A computerized thing?"
"Yes." Loiselle hammered some more on the keyboard. "And both items for today were entered into it. Or from it."
I glanced quickly around the office. "Do you see this PDA?"
Without looking up, she said, "No. Olga would have it with her. You never leave anywhere without . . . Shit!"
"What?"
"I'm into her voice-mail now, but I'm getting blocked. Hold on a second." She picked up a phone, smashed three buttons, then drummed her fingers. "Hello, this is Claude Loiselle. Who's this . . . Well, 'Feckinger,' I need Olga T Evorova's voice-mail override .... Stop. Drop that and find the override .... No, not now, Feckinger. Twenty seconds ago, when I first asked you .... Good, go."
I saw what Loiselle meant about "the face that launched . . ."
Into the phone, she said, "Finally .... Right, bye." Then to me, "That birdbrain doesn't know the difference between CD—ROM and k.d. lang." Returning to the computer, Loiselle began hammering away again. "Here we go." She hit another button with a flourish, and from a speaker at the side of the machine flowed clear but incomprehensible messages, about faxes, accounts payable, stock quotes, etc., followed by a heavily accented voice, saying something like "Oh-litch-ka," then "It is Vanya, why do you not call me?"
I didn't recognize any of the voices. "That last one, her uncle?"
Loiselle nodded. "O-L-E-C-H-K-A is a familiar form of 'Olga' in Russian. A term of endearment."
My recorded voice came out next, sounding tinny, thanks to the airport arrival lounge behind it, from the night before. Then my voice again, this time quieter, from Nancy's apartment that morning. Finally, an electronic voice enunciating each syllable independently, saying, "End of messages."
Loiselle looked up at me.
I said, "Can you tell if Olga picked up any of those?"
"Yes. She didn't."
"When was the first?"
"I was watching the screen log them off." Loiselle rotated the monitor toward me and said, "Wiz-ee-wig."
"Sorry?"
“ 'What you see is what you get.' You never heard that acronym?"
"I'm kind of an anachronism, myself."
A shake of the head.
I said, "So, when was the first message received?"
"Just after Olga left that message with Craig yesterday."
"About coming to a decision."
"Yes."
I couldn't see what else her office would tell us. Loiselle said, "You have any more questions, John?"
"Just one."
"What?"
"Can you get me into Olga's condo too?"
* * *
After Claude Loiselle keyed the upstairs lock, I put my index finger to my lips and motioned for her to step aside so I could open the door. I only cracked it first, sniffing the air. No trace of that high, sickly smell a closed room holds when something dead is inside.
I nodded to Loiselle, and we entered Olga Evorova's apartment.
At the end of her entrance hall, the living room seemed normal, no indication of a struggle or search. I said, "Anything strike you as wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"Anything out of place. Or missing?"
She glanced around without moving, then walked a little farther into the room. "No. It's like Olga would have left it."
"Let's look in the back."
The bathroom was clean, tub curtain closed. Opening it, I checked the liner. No beads of water. Soap stuck to its dish, towels like they'd been blown dry.
I said, "She might have used this room today, but I doubt it."
There were more of the ela
borate draperies over the bedroom window, more of the exotic dolls on a mantelpiece over its fireplace. The bed was made, the closet closed. I opened the louvered door. All in order, including a matched set of luggage stacked on the floor.
"What are you looking for?" The tone Loiselle had used with her people at the bank.
"I don't know. Is this Olga's only luggage'?"
Loiselle came over and stood beside me. "That's what she carried any time I had her down to my house on the Cape."
"Where's her answering machine?"
"In the den."
Loiselle led me to another room, with more of the bric-a-brac from halfway around the world. The machine, on one corner of a black, lacquered desk, was blinking.
I said, "Do you know how to work this?"
"How hard can it be?" She moved toward it, scanning the buttons for a moment before pressing one. " 'MESSAGES,' " she said.
I heard Andrew Dees' voice, a romantic murmur. "Just letting you know I love you."
Loiselle made a retching sound. "Usually takes two people to fuck up a relationship, unless one of them happens to be the Horse's Ass."
Through a couple of hang-ups, she continued. "Remember when I met you here and you asked me about him?"
"Yes."
"Well, that message sums it all up. The man's not so much transparent as translucent. The bad light shines through, even if you can't quite see where it's coming from."
Then out of the machine came another voice I'd heard before, from Olga's computer at the bank. "Olechka" again, plus something rapid fire in what I assumed to be Russian.
Loiselle said, "Did you notice?"
"What?"
"Uncle Ivan used English at work, Russian at home."
"And therefore?"
"He has nothing to hide, John. Otherwise they'd both be in Russian."
I watched her as my voice came next, first from the arrival lounge and the front door the night before, then alternating with Loiselle's own, the last message her "Olga, please!" from the bank half an hour earlier.
When the machine clicked off, I went to the window and looked down. "Can you come here a minute?"
Loiselle joined me.
I said, "Is that empty space where Olga would park her car?"
Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy Page 15
