Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (35 page)

"Thanks."

"Hot as blazes for October, isn't it?"

"Global warming," I said.

"What?"

"Never mind."

A middle-aged woman in a hound's-tooth suit came
through the door to the right of the guard and introduced herself as
Betty without giving a last name. She asked me to follow her.

On the other side of the door, the city room wasn't
exactly bedlam because it wasn't exactly populated. Three
college-aged kids huddled around a single computer monitor, the
cables twisting and lifting up through the ceiling like Jack's
beanstalk. One woman Betty's age played hunt-and-peck at another
terminal, muttering under her breath. A dozen more computer stations
were empty, four of them apparently cleaned out.

At the back of the city room, Betty knocked once
under a brown plastic plaque that said MANAGING EDITOR, then opened
the door for me without getting an answer from inside. I went
through, she closing behind me. The man at the desk swung around from
another computer screen, some henscratched notes in a small spiral
notebook next to the keyboard. "And you'd be?"

"John Cuddy." As he stood, I extended my
right hand to shake.

Taking it, he said, "Mike Yoder. Sit."

Yoder was about five-eight and shaped like a pear,
the sloping shoulders under a V-neck sweater a good foot narrower
than the middle of him. His thinning hair was gray and his hands were
heavily veined, but he had a twinkle in the eye that made him seem
younger than the sixty or so I'd have estimated.

Dipping into the portfolio, I took out the PERSONNEL
RECORD REQUEST—also thanks to my wizard from the copy center—with
a version of Norman Elmendorf's signature at the bottom. "I'm
looking into the work background of a former employee here."

I passed the request to Yoder. He glanced at the
signature area before reading the rest of it. Then he reached over to
the telephone next to him and pressed a button. The door opened
almost immediately, and Yoder said, "Betty, get me Norm
Elmendorf's personnel file, will you?"

A hesitation, then, "Right away,” and the door
closed again.

Yoder said, "Mind if I ask what this is all
about?"

"Mr. Elmendorf's applied for a job with a client
of mine."

"I got that much from security via Betty."

"Not quite. I didn't give the guard or Betty Mr.
Elmendorf's name."

"No," said Yoder. "No, you didn't.
Who's your client?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

Yoder was taking that equably as Betty knocked and
entered. She gave him a red manila folder and left without looking at
me.

As the door closed, Yoder began fussing around in the
file, scouting for something, then held my form close to a document,
glancing back and forth. Putting my request at the front of the
folder, he left it open on his desk. "I'm no expert, of course,
but that looks like Nor1n's signature. Can you tell me what sort of
job he's applying for?"

"Photography work, on assignment?

Yoder seemed to gauge something. "He's getting
around better, then?"

"The braces help, he told us."

"Us."

"My client."

Like a perplexed kid, Yoder tugged on his earlobe.
"Mr. Cuddy, I know damned well Norm isn't applying for a
newspaper job, because if he were, you wouldn't be sitting in front
of me."

"Really?"

"Rea1ly. Some old hand like me would be on my
phone there, getting what was needed without wasting gas and tires."

"My client's a little more formal. Plus, this
way they have me to sue if I screw up."

Yoder seemed to gauge something again. "What is
it you want to know?"

"Anything you can tell me about how he was as an
employee."

"How he,was'?"

"You were his boss, right?"

Yoder didn't nod or shake his head.

I said, "He's been upfront with us about the
drinking."

"He has."

"Yes. In a program for some time, now."

"I'm glad."

I leaned forward, lathering my hands with invisible
soap.

"Look, Mr. Yoder, it's like this. You can tell
me about Mr. Elmendorf, and I can go back to my client with a report
that says it's okay to hire the guy. Or, you can not tell me about
him, in which case I give my client that instead, and I'm guessing
Elmendorf loses out on a job he could really use." I leaned
back. "Your call."

Yoder watched me some. "You've met Norm, then."

"I have."

"And his daughter?"

"Kira."

A little softening. "That girl's had to put up
with more than most."

"Mr. Elmendorf told me his wife went south just
as he got back from overseas."

The softening stopped, like a seized movie reel. "And
you've checked on that?"

"On his wife leaving him?"

"No. The military stuff."

"Not yet. This kind of thing, I generally start
with previous civilian employers."

The managing editor fussed some more with the file in
front of him. "I could show you this, but I can tell you
straight out that Norm was never overseas."

I felt my eyes closing for longer than a blink. "No
Persian Gulf."

"Not for us, not for the Army." Then a
different tone of voice, almost nostalgic. "Norm was a damned
good photographer, Mr. Cuddy. Lots of people can work the equipment,
learn the technical side. Norm, though, he had the eye. Could pull up
to a fire or accident scene, and before he was out of the car, he'd
be framing a shot in his head. And damned if his first photo didn't
turn out better than anybody else's three rolls. Then the troubles
started at home."

"What kind of troubles?"

Yoder stopped, and I was afraid I'd pushed him too
far. After a moment, though, he said, "Norm's wife got tired of
the crazy hours he kept. You have to understand, Norm wanted to be
the first one on the scene every time out, so he didn't mind us
calling him, day or night. Eventually it got to his marriage, and
when she started packing, Norm started drinking?

"And all this was . . . ?"

"About the time of Desert Storm in late ninety,
early ninety-one. It was half my fault, I suppose. Publisher wanted
us to cover the hell out of the homefront, kind of a miniature
W-W-Two—clear enemy, real heroes—a 'good war,' to paraphrase
Studs Terkel."

"How was it your fault, though?"

"I kind of gave Norm his head, let him shoot to
his heart's content. He had a pager, so we could always reach him
wherever he was, and I guess the worse hours made the marriage break
up a little sooner than it would have otherwise."

"But only a little sooner."

"Yeah, probably." Yoder tugged on the
earlobe again. "But her finally leaving sent Norm well over the
edge and deep into the bottle. The man got the notion that he'd
served in the Gulf. Norm had covered enough of the guys—and
women—going over there, had seen the letters and videos to the
families. Point is, he knew enough about the war to talk a good game,
so long as the people buying him drinks didn't require too many
details."

"And that cost him the job?"

"Pretty directly. Almost crashed the newspaper's
car into a school bus rushing off somewhere half-crocked. I had to
fire him, Norm sitting right in that chair where you are when I told
him."

"What brought on the physical disability?"

"A fall. Kira contacted us about it, but his
health benefits here had long since expired, and he hadn't used
COBRA."

"COBRA?"

"Acronym, as in the snake. It's a way you can
extend your health coverage from your most recent employer, but it's
expensive as hell."

"Have you seen Elmendorf himself lately?"

"Heard from him on and off since . . . since he
was sitting in that chair. Always by telephone, usually more than
half-crocked." Yoder stared at me. "I'm glad to hear Norm's
on the wagon now, but it doesn't sound like he's aware the Desert
Storm stuff wasn't reality for him."

"From what I know, you're right."

A final tug on the earlobe. "Mr. Cuddy, I
probably haven't sounded like much of a recommendation for Norm, but
he really was great with the camera, one of the best I've ever seen.
If you can see your way clear to make your client understand that,
then I won't feel as though I've wasted my breath on you."

"Mr. Yoder, believe
me. You've been a big help."

* * *

At the forlorn mall north of Plymouth Mills, I
cruised the haphazard rows of parking until I heard someone tap a car
horn twice. Then I took the next available space, got out of the
Prelude, and looked around me.

It was a different vehicle all right, but another
Lincoln Continental. Yellow, with Florida plates.

I went to the passenger side and slid in, the
upholstery as supple as Primo's own model. "What's the matter,
you don't believe in experimentation?"

The toothpick rolled from one corner of his mouth to
the other. "You told me, rent a car. I'm used to the way these
here handle."

"It sticks out like a sore thumb."

"That's where you're wrong, Cuddy. You were
right about not taking mine, though. No place to sit at that fucking
condo complex except inside what you're driving, and no place to park
it except on one of those little—what did you call them?"

"Leaf roads?"

"Yeah, leaves." He looked down at his suit,
bits and pieces of dead foliage sticking to the pants and sleeves.
"Let me tell you about leaves."

"Before you do, did anybody spot you?"

"Spot me'? Hell, no. That's what I mean about
this Lincoln here. After I phoned you yesterday, I saw this friend of
ours, has a rent-a-car agency. I tell him, 'I want a Continental.' He
hits his computer thing and says, 'Only one I got has Florida plates
on it.' I think, great, anybody notices the car on the street,
they'll think it belongs to somebody's parents, up to visit the
grandkids, you know? So I tell him,

'
Fill out the paperwork.' Then this morning, I drive
it down to Plymouth whatever-the-fuck and park and watch for nobody
to be around before I walk up that hill you told me about. Where I
sit down in the trees for about eight hours with all kinds of animal
shit around me and leaves that stick to you like fucking Velcro."

I looked at his sleeves and cuffs. "Nettles,
probably."

"Nettles? Is that where that word comes from,
like somebody pisses you off?"

"I think so."

"Well, anyway, it's gonna take a fucking forest
tire to clean this suit, so I hope I got what you need." Zuppone
reached into an inside pocket and came out with a small pad. "You
want to read this or have me read it to you?"

"You can read it."

Primo squared around. "All right, I'm in the
trees at seven-oh-three—no, seven-thirty.” I remembered Zuppone
once telling me about his dyslexia. "I take out the binoculars,
sight them in. It already feels like fucking July at seven-forty,
when this colored kid comes out the third unit—third from the left,
number 43—then walks the way I drove in till I can't see him
anymore."

Jamey Robinette. "Catching a bus for school."

"Where the fuck does he go to?"

"Tabor Academy."

Zuppone looked at me in disbelief. "That's like
a college-prep place, right'?"

"Right."

"Can't be. This kid was done up like a
gang-banger."

"Probably has a locker there, put on the blazer
and old school tie before classes."

"No wonder we're losing ground to the Germans
and the Japs."

"Primo . . ."

"What?"

"Skip it. Go on with what happened."

"All right, let me see . . . Seven-forty-five,
the door to the first unit—number 41—opens up, and this couple
comes out onto the stoop there. He's kind of tall, and she's kind of
short, both dark-haired. He kisses her, she hands him his lunch bag,
Ozzie and fucking Harriet for the nineties."

The Stepanians. "Then what?"

"Ozzie drives off, and I notice this short guy
in a gardener's uniform, who's raking the lawn like he was maybe
gonna have surgery performed in the grass there."

Paulie Fogerty. "He see you?"

"Of course not. After the grass, it was the
bushes. I swear, I thought the kid would shake some trees, make more
work for himself, he seemed to like it so much. He turned my way
once, I put the binoculars on his face. Hard to say for sure—he was
wearing this baseball cap—but I think he's retarded."

"He is."

Primo shook his head. "Except for Rake-boy, it's
pretty quiet till noon, when a girl comes by in a car. She goes up
and knocks on the fourth unit—number 44. This other girl with hair
like Madonna answers the door. From the clothes and all, both of them
look like punk rockers."