Invasion of Privacy

edifying himself with the day’s well-recounted news.”
    “A lovely image, Mo. ”
    “I think so. In fact, it’s kind of lifted my spirits some too. Now, what brings you here?”
    “I’d like to run a few names through your computer, see if anything useful pops up.”
    “Sure thing.” Mo reached for his telephone. “I’ll get one of the ASNs to help you out—keep their fingers on the keyboard and away from other people’s harmless vices.” The young man who appeared at the door a few minutes later led me back through a rabbit warren of cubicles to his own, more a library study carrel than an office like Mo’s. I gave him “Olga Evorova” first, and he typed her name after some sort of search command. The screen showed two articles that referred to her participation in deals underwritten by Harborside Bank as well as a couple of “Executives in the News” blurbs, one with photo, announcing her promotions within the bank. My client appeared to be who she claimed to be, a nice reassurance.
    The young guy did another search, for “Andrew Dees.” I was disappointed but not surprised when the computer came up empty.

    I got back to my office in time to gather the afternoon mail from the floor under the horizontal, flap-covered slot in my door and open most of the envelopes before the phone rang.
    Cradling the receiver against my ear, I said, “John Cuddy.”
    “Mr. Cuddy, this is Olga Evorova.”
    “Yes, Ms. Evorova.”
    “I have for you the name of the company which manages the Plymouth Willows condominiums.”
    “That was fast.”
    “I told my friend, Claude, about hiring you. She thinks it was a good idea. Claude then telephoned a banker she knows on the South Shore , and he obtained the name and address of the company for me.”
    “So Mr. Dees wouldn’t be tipped off.”
    “Exactly, yes. The name of the company is Hendrix Property Management.” Evorova gave me an address in Marshfield , a few towns north of Plymouth Mills. “Is there anything more you need?”
    “Not just now. I’ll contact you if I’ve made any progress.”
    “Thank you so much.”

    Nancy Meagher had suggested I meet her that night for dinner and “something different,” as she described it, which was her way of saying she’d be driving and taking care of the tab. After locking my office and going downstairs, I crossed Tremont Street and walked north, politely dodging hordes of office workers. The gainfully employed formed a high tide swelling toward the Park Street subway stop, washing away clutches of bewildered people in vacation clothes, cameras around their necks and folded maps in their hands, trying in vain to find that trolley ticket stand. I passed the Old Granary burial ground on the left and King’s Chapel on the right, turning at One Center Plaza for an escalator to the Pemberton Square level.
    The still-called “New Courthouse” was attached to the Old Courthouse” in the thirties, surviving a terrorist bombing of the probation department in the seventies and the failure of most major internal systems like electricity and plumbing through the eighties and nineties. The scaffolding now rising up the exterior walls had something to do with waterproofing, the building creaking and therefore leaking at every joint and seam. They’re about to break ground on a new site, the budgetary crunch on the old structure so severe the judges have been reduced to bringing their own light bulbs and toilet paper from home.
    I cleared the sheriffs metal detectors inside the revolving door on the first floor and took the elevator to six for the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office. I was making small talk with the two blazered security men at the half-moon desk out front when Nancy emerged from the labyrinth in back.
    She wore full battle gear: pale gray suit, white blouse with a small ruffle and faint blue piping, no tie, and only sensible heels. The crow-black hair just brushed her shoulders, framing the bright Irish face with widely spaced eyes and batwings of freckles crossing the nose. Then she smiled, and I felt my heart do the same little jig it had the first time I’d seen her, arguing in an arraignment session a year and a half before.
    Nancy said, “Not carrying?”
    I smiled back at her, tapping the hollow over my right hip. “They’re very conscientious downstairs.” I gestured toward her arms, themselves empty except for a compact leather handbag. “And you?”
    “Meaning the conspicuous