Free Invasion of Privacy by Jeremiah Healy Page A

I “should” want to know that. “You said almost six years for you and your husband, right?”
    “Right. Well, Mrs. Robinette and Jamey moved in just, oh, two 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 Pauiie’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—well, 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

    L eaving 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 ROBINETTE 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 corners. 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