Invasion of Privacy

looked out my window again. “Some. I ran a D&B on Andrew. You know what this is?”
    “A Dun & Bradstreet credit report?”
    “Exactly, yes.” A small sigh. “Nothing.”
    “Nothing?”
    Evorova came back to me. “Oh, Andrew has a personal checking account, and a business checking account, and a business credit card, which he never uses. But there is no personal credit card, no prior loan history, not even a current line of credit for the business.”
    “What business is it?”
    “A photocopy shop in the town center near his condominium.”
    “That would mean some capital investment to get started, right?”
    “Exactly, yes. But he paid cash for everything that is not leased.”
    Cash. “And the condo?”
    “It is in a complex called Plymouth Willows.”
    “But how did Mr. Dees pay for it?”
    “Oh. By cash also. Well, certified check, actually. Andrew purchased from a realty trust—do you wish the details in a banking sense?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Then just assume that he paid the deposit for his unit by certified check and the balance the same. Andrew also filed a homestead exemption. You know what this is, too?”
    “A protection of so much equity in his condo from any future creditors?”
    “Exactly, yes.”
    “Did Mr. Dees have an attorney represent him?”
    “In the purchase, do you mean?”
    I nodded.
    “No,” said Evorova. “Andrew told me he did not.”
    I’d had a year of evening law school, and the homestead exemption in Massachusetts was a pretty advanced device for a layman from Chicago to know about. “Mr. Dees is willing to talk about that transaction, then?”
    “But only a little. And when we were reading in bed... One Sunday morning, casually I pointed to him a newspaper article in the Globe about ante-nuptial agreements. Andrew laughed and said he did not believe in those things and very quickly changed the subject to something else.”
    “Do you know his Social Security number?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you also know there are other sources you can check by running that number through some computers?”
    “Yes. And I have done that.” The executive stare again. “Nothing.”
    “No prior employment?”
    “No.”
    “Military service?”
    “No.”
    “Divorce?”
    “No, no, and no.”
    I stopped. A bit of what it must feel like to sit across a negotiating table from Evorova came through to me.
    She waved her hand in a way I found both alien and expressive. “I am sorry, but this is quite... upsetting, even just to discuss.”
    Understandable. “Where did you meet Mr. Dees?”
    “In a bar, but not as you would think.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “I was driving back from Cape Cod —my best friend at the bank, she has a summer house there. My car is a Porsche, the 911 Carrera six-speed. Do you know it?”
    “Only by price tag.”
    The blushing again. “One of my few indulgences, Mr. Cuddy. I even had the car custom-painted my favorite shade of orange, and I permit no one else to drive it.”
    “Not even Mr. Dees?”
    “No. But I have digressed. That day, when I am coming back from the Cape , I hear a noise in the engine which I do not like. So, I exit Route 3 at Plymouth Mills, where the Porsche manual says there is a dealership, and while my car is being examined, I cross the street and go into a bar, to wait.”
    “And?”
    “I am sitting at the bar, reading Forbes —the business magazine?—when this man on a stool nearby says to me, ‘He died on a motorcycle, like James Dean.’ At first I would not have talked to him, but Andrew’s voice is wonderful. I do not have a perfect sense for American accents, but I have developed some ear for them, and he sounded from the Midwest . So I did.”
    “Talk to him.”
    Evorova dipped her chin once more. “For an hour, two. Andrew has very dark hair, and a very strong face. I almost forgot about my car. But when he asked me for my telephone number, I said, ‘No, give to me yours, and I will call you.’ ”
    “And then you started going out?”
    “Yes. Andrew does not like to come to Boston much because of his business—to leave it alone?—but he enjoys the ballet, and the symphony, especially chamber music. And we go to restaurants. Andrew does not like Italian or Indian food, but he very much enjoys the Chinese and...” Another blush. “Again, I am sorry.”
    It wasn’t hard to see why Evorova was so troubled. She suspected the guy was a little off, but she was nuts about him too.
    I said,