Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "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."

  "Cuddy, just what is your stake in this?"

  "Let me finish. After I knock on some doors at the complex, one Andrew Dees, who I hadn't yet seen, seems to know about me."

  Hendrix looked confused. "Dees? Yeah, I think that's one of the names there. So what?"

  I shook my head. "The cat's out of the bag, Boycie. Your Dees is a figment of the federal imagination. The real Dees died two days after graduating from college, up where," I thumbed toward Coarse behind me, "one of your loyal troops has a relative on the force."

  Now Hendrix sat stock-still, no expression on his face. I tried to phrase things as though I didn't know about the Milwaukee connection. "I'm guessing Chief Braverman gave you guys the idea of using a real—or 'formerly real'—identity for whoever your 'cooperating witness' was in his prior life, when he must have helped you or the FBI or somebody on a major case."

  Hendrix worked his mouth, much like Fine had. "No comment."

  "Terrific. Just listen, then. When I saw the guy you have as Dees, he knew I was reaching for a questionnaire before I ever showed it to him. So somebody must have put a call in to him. Maybe you, except I didn't show or even refer to my form when I was here. That tells me you've got somebody in the complex with Dees, somebody who tipped you or him about the questionnaire I'd been using with the neighbors."

  Hendrix was looking a little green around the gills. Thinking back to Robert Murphy at Boston Homicide, I said, "A watcher, maybe?"

  Greener still. I could hear Coarse breathing behind me. "Make a phone call, Boycie. We start up again when the watcher joins us."

  Hendrix really didn't like the turn things had taken, but I didn't see a way out for him, and apparently he didn't, either.

  His next comment was aimed above my shoulder. "Keep him here."

  After Hendrix closed the inner door, Coarse rested a beefy hand on either side of my neck. I tensed, but all he did was say, "The chief's my uncle," then let go of me.

  * * *

  When the inner door opened again, Fine came through first, apparently to make sure Coarse was still holding the fort. Then Hendrix followed him in. Tangela Robinette appearing behind Hendrix made us a quintet.

  "Ms. Robinette," I said.

  "Mr. Cuddy," watching me like Coco Cocozzo had. No smile, no frown, just concentration.

  I looked over at Fine. "Just so I can speak politely about everybody, what's your name'?"

  Fine looked to Robinette, not Hendrix, which confirmed something I'd already suspected. The woman glanced briefly to the side and then came back to me, nodding once.

  Fine said, "Kourmanos."

  "A pleasure. And the gentleman behind me?"

  Coarse said, "Braverman."

  "Thanks." Back to Robinette. “Let me catch you up on the conversation so far. After I saw Hendrix here on—"

>   "Boyce already filled me in, Mr. Cuddy. Who are you working for and why?"

  "I'm getting to that."

  "Get to it now."

  "No."

  We looked at each other for a while. I had the feeling that Robinette wouldn't blink first.

  I said, "All right. A client came to see me. Said she was a little concerned about her boyfriend-cum-fiancé not seeming to have a background. She asked me to check into——"

  "Jesus fucking Christ," said Hendrix. "His girl-friend is your client?"

  Without looking away from me, Robinette said, "Boyce? Please?"

  Hendrix shut up.

  I said, "I come to see Boycie—"

  "You say that one more time, fucker, and—"

  Robinette said, "Boyce," again, this time with that steel core in her voice.

  Hendrix folded his arms across his chest.

  I looked at Robinette. "I come here, I visit you all at Plymouth Willows, then Dees at the photocopy shop, where he's already upset about me. I head back to Boston, and you guys check me out. Not too thoroughly, I'm thinking, just enough to make sure I'm who and what I say I am, a licensed investigator. Then Kourmanos and Braverman try to convince me as unconstitutionally as possible that Hendrix Management is mob-connected, emphasizing how I can save my butt by butting out. Whose idea was that, by the way?"

  Robinette's nostrils flared a little, as they had when I'd riled her back in the condo unit. "Let us just say it was not a unanimous decision."

  "Well, it might have worked, I suppose. But it didn't, because other than you all obviously being made nervous that anybody was asking any questions, you couldn't have known I was after Dees in particular. That's why I let my client know I'd been warned off, but I told her the rotten apple still might be the management company or the condo complex, not Dees himself. So I go up to the university yesterday and try to get a copy of the guy's college records with a nicely worded letter of authorization."

  "Which the college notices is forged," said Hendrix.

  "Because a lifer in the registrar's office knows the real Dees wouldn't be signing current correspondence. And that gets me an introduction to Deputy Marshal Braverman's—what is he, your father?"

  I hoped Braverman would like the way I covered for him. Robinette's eyes went up behind me briefly, and Braverman said, "Close enough."

  I returned to Robinette. "Only problem is, there had to be some failure of communication between Vermont and Marshfield yesterday too, because you guys didn't know I was interested in Dees himself after I saw the chief."

  Hendrix said, "What makes you think we didn't?"

  I spoke to him. "Because if you did, either you tell Dees his cover is blown, which seems to me the right thing to do, or you don't tell him squat and watch his movements, waiting to see what happens next."

  Hendrix said, "Or we just have you put under surveillance."

  "I don't think so. I might not have noticed right away, but I left Chief Braverman yesterday afternoon, and I've been taking precautions ever since Kourmanos and Braverman here paid me their first visit the day before. Nobody from your end's been watching me. So what happened when the chief finally got you the word that I was after Dees personally? Did you tell Dees or stay on the sidelines?"

  Robinette said, "Why do you want to know'?"

  She seemed genuinely curious. In a very even voice, I said, "Because my client has disappeared."

  Hendrix looked around at everybody. Kourmanos looked back at him, Robinette didn't, and Braverman I couldn't see.

  Robinette said, "Since when?"

  "Yesterday afternoon, when she left her bank."

  "To do what?"

  "She didn't say."

  Robinette's eyes went down toward the table top, trying to work the problem through.

  I said, "You didn't tell Dees anything, did you?"

  No answer.

  "You just let him twist in the wind after he saw me at his photocopy place on Wednesday, let the man wonder who I was and what I was doing."

  Hendrix said, "And if we did? How's that any different from the scam you and your client—his girl-friend—were running on our witness?"

  I looked at Hendrix. "We didn't know Dees wasn't who he claimed to be. You did."

  Robinette raised her head. "I will tell you some things, Cuddy. I am not sure you need to know them, but it seems to me you have been ahead of us on this." She paused. "My husband was in DEA, where we met, but I took a leave of absence after getting pregnant with Jamey. My husband was killed a few years later, and they let me transfer agencies, be a watcher for the Marshals' Enforcement Operations. Specifically, witnesses cooperating with the FBI on Italian-American mob operations."

  Hendrix said, a little theatrically, "Tange, this isn't a good idea."

  Robinette never looked away from me. "And sending two of our people as Mafia muscle after this citizen was?"

  She paused again, but Hendrix didn't reply. Then, "As a woman born in Haiti, I was a good risk. Not likely that anybody from the mob searching for a cooperating witness would see me connected to him."

  I said, "And Dees, whoever he really is, cooperated with the government in an organized-crime case."

  "In exchange for immunity from prosecution himself. So we did a relocation, gave him a new identity. Usually we use small towns, even rural areas, anywhere the hunters—what we call the other side, 'hunters'—are not likely to search because there are just too many such places to search."

  "With you so far."

  "A witness gets accepted into the program, he buys an all-or-nothing approach. He must give up any contact with the old 'danger zone' of hometown and people he came from, assuming his new ID completely. We give him a package of documents—birth certificate, social security card—"

  "College diploma, so long as nobody looks too closely."

  Robinette said, "Even letters of recommendation, though those are trickier, and we did not use any here."

  "How about seed money?"

  "Dees had his own."

  "And you didn't wonder just a bit about the source of his stash?"

  "Not our concern. That is up to the Bureau and the U.S. Attorney in the prosecuting jurisdiction."

  "Al1 right," I said. "Dees is at Plymouth Willows and in the program. Why does he leave?"

  "I do not know." Robinette counted on her fingers.

  "You get kicked out for committing crimes, using drugs . . ."

  "Not a problem here."

  "No, and since we were not about to kick him out, we would have relocated him should his new ID be compromised."

  "Wait a minute. Given that I—and you—might have contributed to blowing the 'Andrew Dees' cover, you'd have relocated him?"

  "Yes."

  "With a new identity?"

  "Completely."

  "And he would have known that?"

  Robinette looked to Hendrix, who said, “Absolutely. Explained it to him myself."

  "When?"

  "When he first got relocated here."

  "But he didn't turn to you for that after I spoke with him at the photocopy shop."

  No response.

  Robinette said, "Boyce'?"

  Hendrix shook his head. "No. Tangela called me about you, and I called Dees, but when he phoned me back after throwing you out of his shop, he didn't say anything about wanting to be relocated somewhere else. Dees was nervous, but that's all."

  I thought about it. "You monitor a cooperating witness's bank accounts?"

  Hendrix said, "Not as a regular practice."

  "Why not?"

  "It could alert somebody at the bank that the customer was in our program."

  "But have you checked since you noticed Dees is gone?"

  Hendrix said, "We don't know for sure that he is gone."

  I looked back to Robinette. "Have you checked with his bank?"

  “Yes," she said. "He spent most of yesterday afternoon cleaning out his money."

  Which meant Dees had waited
a day after I'd spoken with him. "And how about last night?"

  Robinette said, "I was at a band recital, watching Jamey at his school."

  "Instead of watching Dees at the complex."

  A slight flare of the nostrils. "Yes."

  “So, what do you think? Did Dees just turn rabbit and run?"

  "We think it is possible."

  "With my client?"

  "Also possible."

  "Have you followed up at all?"

  Hendrix said, "Followed up?"

  "Yes, Boyce. Airlines, charge-card companies, that kind of thing."

  His face told me he didn't like my tone, but all he said was, "No, we didn't."

  I thought about it some more.

  Robinette said, "So, Mr. Cuddy, if you find out anything you think can help us, I would—"

  "You don't care what happened to Andrew Dees, do you?"

  She stopped. "What are you talking about?"

  Again I tried to speak blind of the Milwaukee connection. "Dees was relocated from somewhere. You're not going to relocate a cooperating witness before he or she comes through with testimony for you, am I right?"

  No answer from anybody.

  I said, "You don't know whether Dees just panicked and ran, with or without my client, and you don't really care. Oh, you'd like to believe it, because then you don't have to investigate anything, follow up on whether a 'hunter' got to one of your protected people. That kind of investigation might get noticed by some criminal defense lawyers, send a little tremor through the program and maybe the hearts of other folks you'd like to see cooperate in the future."

  Robinette said, "Mr. Cuddy—"

  "You'd rather have Dees be gone than have it get out that somebody under your protection was discovered and killed, because potential witnesses might be less than confident about your program in the future."

  Hendrix smirked, which bothered me, but Robinette couldn't see him as she spoke. "Mr. Cuddy, the cooperating witness program is just an option that witness has. If he or she decides to leave the program, there is not much we can do about it."

  "In other words, it's a free country."

  Hendrix said, "Exactly."

  I looked over to him. "Wrong note, Boycie."