Invasion of Privacy

At maybe five-five and one-ten, her body looked trim but not athletic. The hair was a lustrous brown, curling upward and inward just above the shoulders. High cheekbones slanted slightly toward her nose while pale blue eyes slanted slightly toward her temples. Everything about the woman suggested sophisticated but foreign, and I wasn’t surprised when she spoke English with a faint, precise accent.
    “I am sorry to come here without an appointment, Mr. Cuddy.”
    I pushed a legal pad and pen to the side of my desk. “That’s all right,” I said, placing the accent as Eastern European or—
    “My name is Olga Evorova.” She pronounced it “Ee- vor- oh-va.”
    “I obtained your name from a computer search of recent newspaper articles.”
    There are worse ways. “Which ones?”
    Evorova told me, then glanced away toward one of the windows behind me, the chair she’d taken giving her a view of the Boston Common as it sweeps up to the golden dome of the Massachusetts Statehouse. The trees were barely turning, the early October air on that Tuesday afternoon as mild as Labor Day weekend. When I’d come in, tourists were mobbing the guy who sold tickets to a sightseeing trolley from his Carny stand across the street.
    Without looking back toward me, Evorova said, “I have never before needed the help of a private investigator.” My office door has pebbled glass in the upper half, and I noticed that the reverse stenciling of “JOHN FRANCIS CUDDY, CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS” bowed over her head like the arch of a medieval church. “Why do you feel you need one now?”
    The pale blue eyes returned to me. “This June past, I met a man. I soon grew to care for him very much, and our relationship has... progressed to the point that I would very much like to marry him if he should ask.”
    I nodded and waited.
    She moved her tongue around inside her mouth, as though trying to dissipate a bad taste. “I am, however, concerned about his background.”
    “In what way?”
    More hesitation. “What we discuss, it remains confidential, yes?”
    “Unless a court orders me to talk, and maybe even then, depending.”
    “Depending upon what?”
    “On how much I like you as a client.”
    That brought a shy smile. “You are very easy to talk with, Mr. Cuddy.”
    “It’s a useful quality.”
    “Useful?”
    “People who come to see me often have difficult things to talk about.”
    A dip of the chin as she seemed to reach a decision. “Originally, I am from Moscow . It was nearly impossible, but I was able to immigrate to the United States for my master’s degree in finance. After graduation, I obtained a job with Harborside Bank. When the Soviet Union began to break apart, I was promoted several times rapidly as someone who might bring to the bank a certain advantage in business dealings with the ‘new’ country of Russia . Even though the dealings have not come so far so fast, I am very well compensated for my work.” Another hesitation. “I am talking too much?”
    “No. Go on, please.”
    Evorova looked down at my desk. “You will not take notes?”
    “Not right away. I’d rather hear you describe things first.”
    The chin dip. “In Moscow , my family is all gone, just one uncle here I am able to help. Many died from the Nazis in the Great Patriotic War. So, except for my Uncle Vanya—Ivan—I am alone.”
    “And you’re concerned that...?”
    The pale eyes glanced toward her lap, then fixed me with an executive stare. “I am concerned that I seem a ‘fat cat,’ a potential target.”
    “For someone like this man you’ve grown to care for?”
    “Exactly, yes. His name is Andrew Dees. He is a wonderful person, Mr. Cuddy. Andrew owns his own business and a condominium in the town of Plymouth Mills on the South Shore . He is romantic and intelligent and…“ Evorova blushed. “Soon I will be blushing.”
    “Then what worries you about Mr. Dees?”
    “As I said, his background. Or that he has no ‘background.’ I ask Andrew where he is from, and he says Chicago , but does not talk about it. I ask him about his family, and he says they are all dead, but does not talk of them. I ask him about his schooling, and he says he graduated from the University of Central Vermont , but does not talk about his time there or... anything.”
    Evorova seemed to run down a little, like a wind-up toy after a long spurt. I gave her a moment, then said, “Have you done any investigating on your own?”
    She