Read Online Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremiah Healy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeremiah Healy
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years ago, maybe. And Mr. Dees about a year after that,
so only the Elmendorfs have been here as long as Steven and me.”
Guessing "Elmendorf" was Paulie's
"Eh-men-dor,” I tried to stay on track. "Did Mr.
Robinette die before they moved here, then?"
"Oh, yes. Sometime before that. I'm not sure
when, though."
"And now, how about the Elmendorfs?"
"That's Norman, and his daughter, Kira.
K-I-R-A."
"Wife?"
Stepanian looked away, a pained expression on her
face this time. "Norman's wife left him. After he got sick."
"Sick?"
"Yes, he . . . it has to do with the war."
"Which one?"
"The Persian Gulf." Stepanian came back to
me. "I mean, can you imagine, just abandoning your husband, and
child, and . . . taking off?"
"Any idea why she did that'?”
"None. It's so . . . abnormal to me,"
looking to the framed photo on the shelf. "But I'm starting to
sound like a gossip again."
Okay. "How old is his daughter?"
"Kira? About the same as Jamey Robinette, only .
. . I don't know, I guess I have this feeling that she's a year older
than he is? I'm not sure why."
Lana Stepanian had given me more than I thought she
would, but I didn't want to overdo the questionnaire on its maiden
voyage. I also had the feeling that Stepanian was running out of
information on her neighbors. "Last point, then. Where are the
Elmendorfs from?"
"His wife was from the South, somewhere. I never
knew her well." A bitter laugh. "I guess that's obvious,
isn't it? Anyway, Norman's originally from Massachusetts. He did
photography for the Brockton newspaper until—wel1, you can ask him
yourself."
Brockton was a small city, also in Plymouth County,
and a number of reserve units from the South Shore had been mobilized
for Desert Storm. "I wonder if you could just review and sign
this form I've filled out."
Stepanian looked at it, then to me. "Is this
really necessary?"
"It just shows I spoke with you and have a basis
for my eventual recommendation on the Hendrix Company."
More hesitation, but she finally picked up the pen.
When Stepanian gave the form back to me, "Lana Stepanian"
was scripted in a precise hand at the bottom.
I said, "Do you think Mrs. Robinette would be
home now?"
"I wouldn't know."
"How about Norman Elmendorf?"
Lana Stepanian smiled sadly, without showing any of
the tiny teeth. "Mr. Cuddy, Norman's always home."
=6=
Leaving the Stepanians' townhouse, I felt pretty good
about the cover story I'd given Hendrix and the way the questionnaire
had "tested" with the first neighbor, especially how Lana
Stepanian's reactions tipped me to some of the more "questionable"
parts of it. However, I really hadn't learned anything about Andrew
Dees beyond what Olga Evorova already had told me.
I walked down the Stepanians' path to the sidewalk
and past the Dees unit At the next path I went up to the door with
number 43 on it and ROB1NETTE under the button. When I pushed,
another bong sounded inside, but nobody answered. After trying the
button twice more without success, I tracked back down their path and
over to the Elmendorfs at number 44.
Their bong was answered by Kira's muffled voice
saying "Just a second,” and then she herself at the door. Up
close, the eyes under the platinum hair were brown, some silver
glitterdust sparkling at the comers. A stainless steel ring pierced
her left nostril, its triplets through her left ear but an inch above
the lobe. She carried a Sony Walkman in her right hand, the headpiece
to it down around her throat like a necklace.
Kira looked at me oddly, as though aware that she
ought to know me. "Can I help with something?"
I introduced myself and gave her my ID. There's no
photo on the license, but she still compared what was written on it
with my face, saying, "You were in The Tides today, right?"
"Right."
Kira handed my holder back to me, with a little
flourish I took to be her idea of coy. "So how come you're
following me?"
"I'm not. I represent another condominium
association that's thinking of
so only the Elmendorfs have been here as long as Steven and me.”
Guessing "Elmendorf" was Paulie's
"Eh-men-dor,” I tried to stay on track. "Did Mr.
Robinette die before they moved here, then?"
"Oh, yes. Sometime before that. I'm not sure
when, though."
"And now, how about the Elmendorfs?"
"That's Norman, and his daughter, Kira.
K-I-R-A."
"Wife?"
Stepanian looked away, a pained expression on her
face this time. "Norman's wife left him. After he got sick."
"Sick?"
"Yes, he . . . it has to do with the war."
"Which one?"
"The Persian Gulf." Stepanian came back to
me. "I mean, can you imagine, just abandoning your husband, and
child, and . . . taking off?"
"Any idea why she did that'?”
"None. It's so . . . abnormal to me,"
looking to the framed photo on the shelf. "But I'm starting to
sound like a gossip again."
Okay. "How old is his daughter?"
"Kira? About the same as Jamey Robinette, only .
. . I don't know, I guess I have this feeling that she's a year older
than he is? I'm not sure why."
Lana Stepanian had given me more than I thought she
would, but I didn't want to overdo the questionnaire on its maiden
voyage. I also had the feeling that Stepanian was running out of
information on her neighbors. "Last point, then. Where are the
Elmendorfs from?"
"His wife was from the South, somewhere. I never
knew her well." A bitter laugh. "I guess that's obvious,
isn't it? Anyway, Norman's originally from Massachusetts. He did
photography for the Brockton newspaper until—wel1, you can ask him
yourself."
Brockton was a small city, also in Plymouth County,
and a number of reserve units from the South Shore had been mobilized
for Desert Storm. "I wonder if you could just review and sign
this form I've filled out."
Stepanian looked at it, then to me. "Is this
really necessary?"
"It just shows I spoke with you and have a basis
for my eventual recommendation on the Hendrix Company."
More hesitation, but she finally picked up the pen.
When Stepanian gave the form back to me, "Lana Stepanian"
was scripted in a precise hand at the bottom.
I said, "Do you think Mrs. Robinette would be
home now?"
"I wouldn't know."
"How about Norman Elmendorf?"
Lana Stepanian smiled sadly, without showing any of
the tiny teeth. "Mr. Cuddy, Norman's always home."
=6=
Leaving the Stepanians' townhouse, I felt pretty good
about the cover story I'd given Hendrix and the way the questionnaire
had "tested" with the first neighbor, especially how Lana
Stepanian's reactions tipped me to some of the more "questionable"
parts of it. However, I really hadn't learned anything about Andrew
Dees beyond what Olga Evorova already had told me.
I walked down the Stepanians' path to the sidewalk
and past the Dees unit At the next path I went up to the door with
number 43 on it and ROB1NETTE under the button. When I pushed,
another bong sounded inside, but nobody answered. After trying the
button twice more without success, I tracked back down their path and
over to the Elmendorfs at number 44.
Their bong was answered by Kira's muffled voice
saying "Just a second,” and then she herself at the door. Up
close, the eyes under the platinum hair were brown, some silver
glitterdust sparkling at the comers. A stainless steel ring pierced
her left nostril, its triplets through her left ear but an inch above
the lobe. She carried a Sony Walkman in her right hand, the headpiece
to it down around her throat like a necklace.
Kira looked at me oddly, as though aware that she
ought to know me. "Can I help with something?"
I introduced myself and gave her my ID. There's no
photo on the license, but she still compared what was written on it
with my face, saying, "You were in The Tides today, right?"
"Right."
Kira handed my holder back to me, with a little
flourish I took to be her idea of coy. "So how come you're
following me?"
"I'm not. I represent another condominium
association that's thinking of
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