Invasion of Privacy

to the words, as though she’d memorized them and trotted out a given phrase when she thought it might fit the occasion. “Has Mr. Hendrix’s company always been the manager here?”
    “No. The developer did the ‘managing’ while he owned the majority of the units. He then stayed on as manager, but once the foreclosures and all started, we were kind of ‘self-managing,’ which is very hard in a complex this size. Fortunately, when that realty trust took over, they brought in Boyce to run things for us.”
    “And what’s the name of this realty trust?”
    “The C.W. Realty Trust.”
    “Which stands for?”
    The small teeth peeked out at me. “Nobody knows.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “You know how these realty trusts work. They’re anonymous—no, that’s not the right word. Confidential. They don’t have to disclose who they are, not even at the Registry of Deeds. I even went there once to look them up. Zero.”
    “So you don’t know who stands behind the C.W. Realty Trust.”
    “No, but I do know one thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Their checks always clear.”
    “For the monthly maintenance on the units the trust still owns.”
    “That’s right.”
    Back to the form. “Do you and your husband have any CHILDREN?”
    “No. Actually, I can’t have any.”
    That same neutral voice. I looked up.
    “But, as a result, we can afford to live here because we don’t have to try to clothe, feed, and educate anybody else. Also, Steven’s on the school committee, and I do the condo work, and I guess that’s how we... compensate.” There was something hollow about that comment too, but I had other things I wanted to cover with her. “NEIGHBORS is next. I promise whatever you say will remain strictly confidential, but it would be a help if you could describe your neighbors for me, to give my clients a sense of how comparable your complex’s situation is to theirs.”
    “Our neighbors. You mean here in our cluster?”
    “Yes.”
    “All right. First, there’s Mr. Dees next door.”
    I sat as far forward in the marshmallow chair as I could. “Spelling?”
    “D-E-E-S.”
    “And where is he from?”
    “From? You mean like ‘hometown’ again?”
    “Yes.”
    “The Midwest somewhere. Chicago ?” She looked away, to the wall her townhouse shared with his. “Yes. I’m pretty sure he said that to Steven once.”
    “EDUCATION?”
    “I don’t know. He certainly seems like he went to college, if that’s what matters to you, but I don’t remember ever talking with him about it.”
    “OCCUPATION?”
    “He owns the photocopy store in town.”
    “Owns or just manages?”
    “Owns, I think.” The cocking of the head. “Why don’t you just ask him?”
    “I plan to, but I saw him leaving just as I was arriving.”
    “Oh. Oh, that would be late for him, but I was on the deck, reading, so I might not have heard him.”
    “Does Mr. Dees have any family?”
    “That lives with him here, you mean?”
    “Or that visits.”
    “Well, he lives alone, and he’s never introduced me to anyone.”
    “To any family, you mean.”
    “Anyone, period. He stays pretty much to himself. I believe he’s kind of dating a...”
    Stepanian stopped.
    “What’s the matter.”
    She looked at me. “I just realized I was starting to sound like a gossip. I don’t think it’s right to invade his privacy.” Olga Evorova had used the same phrase with me, and I realized I’d have to watch how deeply my “condo clients” would be interested in the personal life of Andrew Dees. “I understand, and I certainly don’t mean to pry. It would just help my clients to know this general ‘census’ information.”
    Stepanian nodded, but more in wariness than agreement, I thought.
    To protect my cover story, I said, “How about the other two townhouses here?”
    “Well, next to Mr. Dees is Mrs. Robinette. And her son, Jamey.”
    “Do you know where they’re from?”
    “I’m pretty sure Jamey was born in the states, but she has a little bit of an accent, so maybe from the islands.”
    “The Caribbean , you mean?”
    “Yes, she’s... well, if she’s from there, I’m not sure whether you’d call her African-American or whatever-American, but she and Jamey are black.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Fifteen, sixteen.”
    “What does Mrs. Robinette do?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her going off to work anywhere. Her husband died, so maybe there’s some kind of pension or death benefits, because she