Invasion of Privacy

door, coming back twenty seconds later. “Mr. Hendrix will see you now.”
    I moved past her and through the doorway.
    The inner office was bigger than the reception area, but that was the most you could say about it, the only window giving a panoramic view of the strip mail’s Dempster Dumpster. There was another door to the left, and a desk with relatively little on it tucked into the right corner. A credenza matched the desk, sort of, holding an IBM clone, fax machine, and multi-buttoned phone.
    A man of about forty with sandy hair and tortoiseshell, round-lensed glasses rose from a swivel desk chair to greet me. “Boyce Hendrix, Mr. Cuddy.” A mellow voice.
    Apparently Hendrix believed in “Dress-down Every -day .” From the soles up, he wore old Adidas tennis shoes with no socks, stone-washed blue jeans, and a buff-colored safari shirt with flap pockets. His handshake was firm and decisive, though.
    He gestured toward another black leatherette sling chair that seemed to be pining for its twins outside. I took it.
    Easing himself back down, Hendrix said, “Mrs. Jelks tells me you’re interested in our help?”
    Only slightly confused. “Perhaps. I’m representing a condominium complex that’s considering a change in its management company.”
    “Representing?” A judicious look. “You’re an attorney, then?”
    “No.” I handed him a business card.
    After reading it, Hendrix snapped it down on his desktop as though he were dealing blackjack. “Private investigator.” He looked at the card a while longer, then to me, more judiciously. A careful one, Mr. Hendrix. “Go on.”
    “The board of trustees has asked me to inquire for them, since they obviously wouldn’t want their current company to be... offended.”
    “Obviously. Which complex is it?”
    I just smiled.
    His smile was judicious, too. “And naturally the complex involved therefore wishes to remain anonymous.”
    “Naturally.”
    “I’m not sure where that leaves us, Mr. Cuddy.”
    “Maybe if I could have some brochures for my clients to review?”
    A measured nod, then a very methodical search through a desk drawer, more as though Hendrix were buying time than hunting for something. Which made me realize something else: I hadn’t seen any brochures in the reception area, not even a holder for business cards. If you were a management company, and potential clients were waiting to see you, wouldn’t you at least want them to have— “Here we go,” passing a glossy piece of paper over to me. A grainy, black-and-white photo showed a couple standing in front of a six-paneled door, beaming at the lens. Their hair styles and clothes looked out-of-date, and given the cropping at the borders, the picture could have been taken anywhere. Just skimming the brochure’s widely spaced paragraphs of text, I found two obvious typos. “How long have you been in business?” I said.
    “At this location, only five years.”
    The photo looked older. “And how long have you been in the profession, yourself?”
    “Around ten.”
    “That should be about right for my clients.”
    Hendrix frowned. “Can you tell me how big their complex is?”
    “Let’s just say over fifty units.”
    “And how far from Marshfield ?”
    “Oh, within fifteen miles.”
    I was intentionally dangling the bait, and Hendrix seemed intentionally not to take it, making no effort to sell me on his company.
    “Well,” he said finally, the tone still mellow, “that certainly sounds like it’s in our ballpark. Unfortunately, though, we’re pretty heavily booked at the moment.”
    “You are.”
    “Yes. A lot of our clients prefer a more hands-on but low-key approach to property management, especially in this economy. We’re not expensive, and that matters, so we tend to hold the complexes we attract.”
    I wanted to keep this going, find out why he was now trying to gently discourage new business. “That’s good.”
    Hendrix just watched me.
    I said, “You see, that’s why the complex hired a private investigator instead of a lawyer. I’m cheaper, and a lot more ‘hands-on.’ ”
    Another measured nod.
    “Well, I guess that brings us to references.” I gestured toward the brochure drawer. “And maybe a sample contract?”
    Hendrix used his feet to rock just a little in the swivel chair. “We don’t really have a ‘sample contract,’ Mr. Cuddy.”
    “Not even a form you use as a model?”
    “I kind of negotiate each one individually.”
    “On