Invasion of Privacy

else found out about that?”
    “You already did.”
    “I mean somebody from the complex. What if Andrew Dees found out your father’s stories about being in the war were just that, stories?”
    Kira ran a hand randomly through her platinum hair. “I don’t get you.”
    “What if Dees confronted your father with that, threatened to expose him for—”
    This time Kira did laugh, clamping a hand over her mouth to stop the sound from carrying up to the loft. Past her fingers, she said, “Mr. Cuddy, everybody, like, knows about my dad not being in the Gulf.”
    “They do?”
    “Sure.” She dropped her hand into her lap. “Oh, Mrs. Stepanian, she goes along with him on it, and Jamey’s mom does too, the little she ever sees him. But they all know it’s just so much bullshit.” A look to the second floor that could break your heart. “No, the only one my dad’s fooling is himself.”

    After leaving Kira, I walked down to the Stepanians’ end unit and pressed the button at the jamb. It would be professional to actually hear Lana Stepanian confirm what I’d just been told about Norman Elmendorf, but I wasn’t really sorry when no one answered the bonging sound inside the condo. Kira’s version of “everybody-knows-about-my-dad” had convinced me.
    I left Plymouth Willows in the fading daylight, feeling more frustrated than ever. At the “scenic overlook,” I pulled into the empty parking lot and got out of the car. Moving to the edge, I stared down at the rocks where Yale Quentin’s Cadillac must have landed. Plunging nose first, the bumper would’ve smashed through the grille, the engine and steering column violating the front seat, crushing anybody...
    Shaking my head, I said quietly, “Olga, Olga. Where are you?”
    Then I shook my head some more.

    “Does this mean we have something to celebrate?”
    Nancy didn’t answer as we moved through the entrance to Skipjack’s, a great seafood place in the huge New England Life building. The restaurant’s only a few years old, the decor aggressively Art Deco. But somehow it’s welcoming too, and if I could figure out why, I’d be in a different business.
    At the reception podium, Nancy shifted her briefcase from shoulder to hand and asked the hostess if they were serving outside. After a nod, the hostess asked us to follow her through the indoor dining area to the patio at the corner of Clarendon and St. James Street . The tables here were black iron and the chairs white resin, set off from the rest of the sidewalk by a black curlicue fence.
    A young waiter with what they used to call a Madison Avenue haircut materialized immediately, introducing himself and asking if we’d like to start with a drink. Nancy set her briefcase on the cement next to her chair and ordered a bottle of Murphy Goode fume blanc.
    “Would you folks like to hear tonight’s specials?”
    “After you bring the wine,” said Nancy, and he was off and running.
    I reached across the table for her hand, having to go only halfway to find it. “Same question?”
    “Something to celebrate? In a manner of speaking. The attempted murder trial pleaded out this morning.”
    “Based on your side of the case alone?”
    “Plus the defendant’s attorney persuading him that his version of the incident was just not going to the top of the flagpole.”
    “The trial the only good news?”
    The waiter appeared with our wine. He opened the bottle and poured Nancy a taste. She approved it and he gave each of us a half-glass before reciting the specials in duly elaborate fashion. We decided to split a Caesar salad, anchovies on the side for me. Nancy chose the Swordfish “Skipjack’s Style” and a baked potato, while I ordered the Hawaiian Moonfish special with barbecued french fries.”
    As he left us, Nancy raised her glass. “To a great waiter.”
    “I can ask around, see if he’s unattached.”
    The Loni Anderson smile. “I’ll bet you don’t even remember his name.”
    “You’re right, and they always put so much effort into saying that at the beginning.”
    Nancy touched her glass against mine. “To Jason.”
    “You remembered.”
    She managed to nod and sip, all in one fluid motion. Jason brought us a bread basket, the contents wrapped in a napkin. The napkin was still warm, and the contents turned out to be rolls, spiced up something like focaccia.
    After Jason moved away, I said, “So, do I finally get a real answer to my question?”
    Nancy dipped into her