Invasion of Privacy

switch on the side of the machine. After some humming and bleeping from inside it, her fingers began to hammer the keyboard. “Calendar for this morning shows just the two things her secretary mentioned. One was supposed to be a face-to-face, the other a conference call from... huh?”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “The conference call. Given the time zone for one of the participants, she wouldn’t have been able to match everybody up again easily till tomorrow.”
    “Meaning it’s not likely she would have blown it off today?”
    “Not likely.”
    “Could Olga have just forgotten about the call altogether?”
    “Not possible, John. Her PDA would have it.”
    “Her ‘Pee-Dee-Ay?’ ”
    “Stands for ‘personal digital assistant.’ The PDA is a mobile modem, kind of a traveling appointments calendar and address book.”
    “A computerized thing?”
    “Yes.” Loiselle hammered some more on the keyboard. “And both items for today were entered into it. Or from it.”
    I glanced quickly around the office. “Do you see this PDA?”
    Without looking up, she said, “No. Olga would have it with her. You never leave anywhere without... Shit!”
    “What?”
    “I’m into her voice-mail now, but I’m getting blocked. Hold on a second.” She picked up a phone, smashed three buttons, then drummed her fingers. “Hello, this is Claude Loiselle. Who’s this... Well, ‘Feckinger,’ I need Olga Evorova’s voice-mail override.... Stop. Drop that and find the override.... No, not now, Feckinger. Twenty seconds ago, when I first asked you.... Good, go.”
    I saw what Loiselle meant about “the face that launched...”
    Into the phone, she said, “Finally.... Right, bye.” Then to me, “That birdbrain doesn’t know the difference between CD-ROM and k.d. lang.” Returning to the computer, Loiselle began hammering away again. “Here we go.” She hit another button with a flourish, and from a speaker at the side of the machine flowed clear but incomprehensible messages, about faxes, accounts payable, stock quotes, etc., followed by a heavily accented voice, saying something like “ Oh -litch-ka,” then “It is Vanya, why do you not call me?”
    I didn’t recognize any of the voices. “That last one, her uncle?”
    Loiselle nodded. “O-L-E-C-H-K-A is a familiar form of ‘Olga’ in Russian. A term of endearment.”
    My recorded voice came out next, sounding tinny, thanks to the airport arrival lounge behind it, from the night before. Then my voice again, this time quieter, from Nancy’s apartment that morning. Finally, an electronic voice enunciating each syllable independently, saying, “End of messages.”
    Loiselle looked up at me.
    I said, “Can you tell if Olga picked up any of those?”
    “Yes. She didn’t.”
    “When was the first?”
    “I was watching the screen log them off.” Loiselle rotated the monitor toward me and said, “Wiz-ee-wig.”
    “Sorry?”
    “ ‘What you see is what you get.’ You never heard that acronym?”
    “I’m kind of an anachronism, myself.”
    A shake of the head.
    I said, “So, when was the first message received?”
    “Just after Olga left that message with Craig yesterday.”
    “About coming to a decision.”
    “Yes.”
    I couldn’t see what else her office would tell us. Loiselle said, “You have any more questions, John?”
    “Just one.”
    “What?”
    “Can you get me into Olga’s condo too?”

    After Claude Loiselle keyed the upstairs lock, I put my index finger to my lips and motioned for her to step aside so I could open the door. I only cracked it first, sniffing the air. No trace of that high, sickly smell a closed room holds when something dead is inside.
    I nodded to Loiselle, and we entered Olga Evorova’s apartment.
    At the end of her entrance hall, the living room seemed normal, no indication of a struggle or search. I said, “Anything strike you as wrong?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Anything out of place. Or missing?”
    She glanced around without moving, then walked a little farther into the room. “No. It’s like Olga would have left it.”
    “Let’s look in the back.”
    The bathroom was clean, tub curtain closed. Opening it, I checked the liner. No beads of water. Soap stuck to its dish, towels like they’d been blown dry.
    I said, “She might have used this room today, but I doubt it.”
    There were more of the elaborate draperies over the bedroom window, more of the exotic dolls on a mantelpiece over its