Invasion of Privacy

Quentin had asked about him at the Brockton paper. “And?”
    “And I guess Yale wasn’t getting what he needed. Cooperation, I mean, or enough people with the juice to convince his lenders. So, instead of weathering the storm in our safe little house, the man who dreamed big got behind the wheel of his Coupe de Ville and drove it off that scenic overlook south of town.”
    Elmendorf had told me that too. “Suicide.”
    A slight change in the tenor of Edie’s voice. “That’s the way it looked.”
    I stopped. “Meaning you weren’t persuaded?”
    “Meaning the lenders weren’t about to kill Yale when they or the FDIC could just foreclose on him, the way they ended up doing anyway. And he sure didn’t accidentally go over the cliff and down onto the rocks.”
    I pictured the bluff in my head; Edie sounded right about that part. “And so the incident was written off as a suicide?”
    “Hey, look, what was I supposed to do, huh? Tell me, please. Yale owed over a million dollars, and if I tried to contest what the cops thought happened, who would it help?” Again the bitterness faded. “Besides, Yale was all up-and-down those last few days.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Like manic depressive. He’d be down in the dumps, then figure he had something that might help him, then take another nosedive when the something didn’t pan out. The cops told me it sure sounded suicidal in their book.” And you couldn’t really blame them. Enough people who lost everything when their own “Massachusetts Miracle” burst certainly took that way out of the problem.
    I hadn’t touched the Harpoon, and I didn’t want to. “What do I owe you?”
    The almost-laugh. “On the house. I always like to comp a guy comes in, makes me feel like shit all over again.” Yanking the towel off the bar top, Edie Quentin strode back into the kitchen.

    Driving to Plymouth Willows, I tried to see a connection between Yale Quentin’s “suicide” four years earlier and what Primo had told me about Kira Elmendorf and Jamey Robinette. But while the Elmendorfs had lived there before Quentin’s death, the Robinettes hadn’t moved into the complex until just two years ago.
    Going up the front driveway, I parked near the tennis courts and walked to Paulie Fogerty’s door. He opened it soon after my knock.
    “Where’s your camera?”
    “Didn’t bring it today, Paulie.”
    Fogerty stood in his doorway.
    “Can I come in a minute?” I said.
    A blink and a nod. “Oh, sure.”
    He left and bustled toward the bedroom again, coming back with what looked like the same chair for me. I sat down while Paulie aimed the remote at his VCR, the screen showing Bugs Bunny about to get the best of Yosemite Sam before dissolving to royal blue. Then Fogerty went to his recliner and flopped into it.
    I said, “I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Paulie.” Blink and nod. “Sure.”
    “You work around the complex pretty much every day, right?”
    “Right. I’m the super. I work for Mr. Hend’ix.”
    “Have you seen Mr. Dees?”
    “Sure. He lives in unit... uh, 42.”
    “I mean, have you seen him lately?”
    “Lately?”
    A test. “Today, for example.”
    Fogerty just blinked. “No.”
    “Yesterday, maybe?”
    Blink. “I don’t know. He has a store too. In town.”
    “Right. I’ve been there, Paulie. How about the day before yesterday?”
    “Before yesterday?”
    “Yes, Saturday.”
    Blink. “I don’t know.”
    Okay. “Have you seen anybody else around his unit?”
    “Just his friends.”
    “His friends?”
    “Yes. Two men.”
    “Can you describe them?”
    Blink and nod. “Like you.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They were big, like you.”
    “When was this?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Probably Kourmanos and Braverman on Friday, when they were going in to babysit Dees’ place. “Paulie, have you seen anything unusual around there?”
    “Where?”
    “Mr. Dees’ unit.”
    “No. Summer’s over, so the grass isn’t so good. And the leaves, they blow everywhere, no matter what I do.” Fogerty pointed toward the rake hanging from a wall hook. “But it’s okay.”
    “What’s okay?”
    “The leaves. I’ll get them tomorrow. I work for Mr. Hend’ix.” Paulie Fogerty beamed the hang-jaw smile at me. “I’m the super.”

    Leaving the Prelude by the tennis courts, I walked to the cluster Primo Zuppone had been watching for me that day. I put my ear against the door of the Elmendorfs’ unit. Hearing