Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy (8 page)

"SPOUSE?"

She glanced down at the form. "Steven, as I
said. With a V, not a P-H."

"And his HOMETOWN?"

A pause, as though these details seemed increasingly
strange to her. "Idaho, somewhere?

A little vague, but I didn't want to push my luck.

"EDUCATION?"

"University of Idaho."

Smiling as warmly as I could, I looked up at her.
"How did you two meet?"

"A party, when I was at BU." A cocking of
the head, as though she thought that was the strangest question yet.

"Mr. Cuddy, why do you—"

Move to firmer ground. "Now, you said you've
lived here for six years?"

"Almost six, yes."

"Did you PURCHASE outright OR RENT?"

"Purchased, from the first developer."

"The first?"

"Yes.” Stepanian seemed to redirect herself.
"Well, I guess the only developer, technically. We were buying
at a bad time, when it looked as though everything was going up and
up and what we had in the bank was shrinking from about ten percent
of a purchase price to more like five. Steven and I had almost given
up hope on a normal life."

"Normal?"

"Owning our own home." The neutral voice
again. "Then we saw Plymouth Willows, and really liked it, and
so we offered the asking price on this unit and just beat two other
couples to it. Or so we thought."

"I don't get you."

"Well, the project was in trouble. The developer
had kind of squirreled away some of the bills, getting people to buy
in the hope that he could pay them off. But in the end, he had to
sell at a discount to a lot of investor-owners, not owner-occupants."

"So the absentee owners began to rent out to
tenants."

"And the developer did too, Which wouldn't have
been so bad, except it got to be more than fifty percent of the
units."

"At which point . . . ?"

"The banks didn't want to lend to new buyers if
the current owners weren't occupying, so the banks made the new
buyers come up with twenty, even twenty-live percent down payments?

"Which was tough."

“
And got worse. Once the real estate market went
into a spin, the prices started tumbling, and the investor-owners
couldn't rent the places for what they were paying to carry them. We
had trouble getting those owners to send in their monthly maintenance
fees for the grounds and all, and once the foreclosures started, we
had even more trouble getting our money."

"The banks that foreclosed wouldn't contribute
the monthly maintenance?"

Stepanian wagged her head. "It was the developer
who did most of the foreclosing, because he'd taken back mortgages
from a lot of the original purchasers who were perhaps a bit . . .
shaky on their financial statements? Then the owner-occupants we did
have started losing their jobs to the recession, and that meant more
foreclosures, and oh, it was terrible."

I looked around. "You and your husband came
through it well."

"Oh, yes," she said in the neutral voice.
"The unit may never be worth what we paid for it, which kind of
ties us to Plymouth Willows. And I do just temporary work, because I
like to be in charge of my own schedule. But Steven is a research
chemist, and fortunately, his job is quite secure. We get along
nicely."

A "normal" life, as she'd said before. I
went back to the form. "Have you ever had any FAMILY MEMBERS
come visit you here?"

The cocking of the head. "What difference would
that make?”

"My clients want to know how the complex seems
to outsiders so they can judge how potential purchasers would see
their places toward resale."

A pause as she considered something. "I wouldn't
be able to help you there.”

"No?"

"Steven's parents are dead And when we got
married, him being Armenian-American, and me Mexican, as I said . . .
well, let's just say my folks back home didn't approve."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

Stepanian again said it in her neutral way, without
sarcasm or even irony.

I put my pen on the next question. "We've
already covered OCCUPATION, SPOUSE. How about your DEALINGS WITH THE
HENDRIX COMPANY ?"

"Well, when the developer finally went broke,
the units he still owned—either because he hadn't sold them or he'd
had to foreclose on them—got auctioned somehow. I'm not quite sure
how all that worked in the technical, legal sense—I wasn't on the
board then—but I had the impression that the FDIC or some other
federal bank agency had them and then auctioned them off, with a
realty trust buying most of them."

Olga Evorova had mentioned that, and I thought I
ought be solidify my cover story with Stepanian toward asking her
about Andrew Dees. "Which realty trust?"

"I just know the name on the checks they send in
for their monthly maintenance."

"Don't those go to Hendrix?"

"Yes, but we on the board kind of . . .
informally audit the financial statements Boyce prepares for us."

"You have any reason to think those statements
need to be audited?"

"Oh. Oh, no, not in that sense. I think every
condominium association that's big enough to need a management
company kind of keeps an eye on that company. Doesn't yours?"

"I rent."

"I mean, doesn't the complex you're working for
do that with their current manager?"

"Well, yes. In fact . . ." I shrugged.

"Oh. Oh, I see. Is that one of the reasons
they're thinking of changing companies?"

"You're very astute, Mrs. Stepanian."

The small teeth. "Thank you, Mr. Cuddy."

"How have you found working with Mr. Hendrix?"

"Oh, very pleasant. He's always available by
telephone, and visits the complex regularly."

"How does he treat you when you visit him?"

"Visit him?" The clouded look. "I
don't think I ever have. Why would I, when Boyce is always happy to
come here?"

So a trustee has never seen Hendrix's office. "Does
he produce or process the documentation on time?"

"There's really just the annual meeting notices,
and the monthly maintenance bills, but he also does a good job of
analyzing things like 'reserve for replacement' and advising us on
insurance rates and so forth."

"How does he handle complaints?”

"Well, there are very few, actually. The
developer here might have gotten into trouble financially, but he
made sure the buildings and systems were done right structurally. And
our superintendent does a wonderful job of maintaining the grounds
and pool."

"I might have seen him on my way in. Baseball
cap, rake?"

The small smile, but with a tinge of sadness to it.
"Yes. Paulie Fogerty. When Boyce first hired him for us, I was a
little . . . well, I suppose it's 'politically incorrect' but I was a
little concerned about Paulie being up to the task. However, I have
to say, he's really turned out well, and even does the extra things."

"Extra things?"

"Yes, like helping you in with groceries if he
sees you struggling at all, or accepting packages when you're not
home. He can sign his name and everything."

I wasn't quite sure how Stepanian meant that, but,
again, she spoke without sarcasm, just that hollow sound to the
words, as though she'd memorized them and trotted out a given phrase
when she thought it might fit the occasion.

"Has Mr. Hendrix's company always been the
manager here?"

"No. The developer did the 'managing' while he
owned the majority of the units. He then stayed on as manager, but
once the foreclosures and all started, we were kind of
'self-managing' which is very hard in a complex this size.
Fortunately, when that realty trust took over, they brought in Boyce
to run things for us."

"And what's the name of this realty trust?"

"The C.W. Realty Trust."

"Which stands for?"

The small teeth peeked out at me. "Nobody
knows."

"I'm sorry?"

"You know how these realty trusts work. They're
anonymous—no, that's not the right word. Confidential. They don't
have to disclose who they are, not even at the Registry of Deeds. I
even went there once to look them up. Zero."

"So you don't know who stands behind the C.W.
Realty Trust."

"No, but I do know one thing."

"What's that?”

"Their checks always clear."

"For the monthly maintenance on the units the
trust still owns."

"That's right."

Back to the form. "Do you and your husband have
any CHILDREN?"

"No. Actually, I can't have any."

That same neutral voice. I looked up.

"But, as a result, we can afford to live here
because we don't have to try to clothe, feed, and educate anybody
else. Also, Steven's on the school committee, and I do the condo
work, and I guess that's how we . . . compensate."

There was something hollow about that comment too,
but I had other things I wanted to cover with her.

"NEIGHBORS is next. I promise whatever you say
will remain strictly confidential, but it would be a help if you
could describe your neighbors for me, to give my clients a sense of
how comparable your complex's situation is to theirs."

"Our neighbors. You mean here in our cluster?"

"Yes."

"All right. First, there's Mr. Dees next door."

I sat as far forward in the marshmallow chair as I
could. "Spelling?"

"D-E-E-S."

"And where is he from?"

"From? You mean like 'hometown' again?"

"Yes."

"The Midwest somewhere. Chicago?" She
looked away, to the wall her townhouse shared with his. "Yes.
I'm pretty sure he said that to Steven once."

"EDUCATION?"

"I don't know. He certainly seems like he went
to college, if that's what matters to you, but I don't remember ever
talking with him about it."

"OCCUPATION?"

"He owns the photocopy store in town."

"Owns or just manages?"

"Owns, I think." The cocking of the head.
"Why don't you just ask him?"

"I plan to, but I saw him leaving just as I was
arriving."

"Oh. Oh, that would be late for him, but I was
on the deck, reading, so I might not have heard him."

"Does Mr. Dees have any family?"

"That lives with him here, you mean?"

"Or that visits."

"Well, he lives alone, and he's never introduced
me to anyone."

"To any family, you mean."

"Anyone, period. He stays pretty much to
himself. I believe he's kind of dating a . . ."

Stepanian stopped.

"What's the matter."

She looked at me. "I just realized I was
starting to sound like a gossip. I don't think it's right to invade
his privacy."

Olga Evorova had used the same phrase with me, and I
realized I'd have to watch how deeply my "condo clients"
would be interested in the personal life of Andrew Dees. "I
understand, and I certainly don't mean to pry. It would just help my
clients to know this general 'census' information?

Stepanian nodded, but more in wariness than
agreement, I thought.

To protect my cover story, I said, "How about
the other two townhouses here?"

"Well, next to Mr. Dees is Mrs. Robinette. And
her son, Jamey."

"Do you know where they're from?"

"I'm pretty sure Jamey was born in the states,
but she has a little bit of an accent, so maybe from the islands."

"The Caribbean, you mean?"

"Yes, she's . . . well, if she's from there, I'm
not sure whether you'd call her African-Arnerican or
whatever-American, but she and Jamey are black."

"How old is he?"

"Fifteen, sixteen."

"What does Mrs. Robinette do?"

"l don't know. I've never seen her going off to
work anywhere. Her husband died, so maybe there's some kind of
pension or death benefits, because she can afford a car and those
baggy clothes for Jamey that you see all the kids wearing now."

"Do you socialize with them much?"

"No." A pensive pause. "I'm not sure
how to put this, but everybody here at the Willows pretty much stays
to themselves except around the pool in the summer, and the
Robinettes aren't 'pool people.' " She gave me the cocked head
look. "Don't you want to know how long they've lived here?"

I hadn't thought of it, but Stepanian was right, I
"should" want to know that. "You said almost six years
for you and your husband, right'?"