Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremiah Healy

Author:Jeremiah Healy
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-05-24T21:16:00.996064+00:00

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, telling 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."

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