Invasion of Privacy

kidding?”
    “On the level.” Murphy leaned back, lacing his fingers together behind his head like he was in a hammock on a summer’s day. “Can you imagine the union here letting us put information about families and hobbies and shit on a card with the cop’s photo on the front?”
    “Not in this century.”
    Murphy used both hands to move his head left to right, a very limited calisthenic. “Most popular cards are supposed to be the K-9 Unit’s, account of the dogs. Never cared much for dogs myself, but maybe I should have gone with the Mounted back when I had the chance.”
    “You on a horse?”
    “Hey, don’t you remember Hopalong Cassidy and Gene Autry? Besides, it’s a good gig. Friend of mine from the academy works the Mounted, he’s on eight to four every day. Which really means one hour beginning at eight over by the stable in Jamaica Plain, and one hour beginning at three to take the horses back. So it’s actually only a six-hour shift. And this friend says the details you get to work are the best. Events with kids, patrol alongside pedestrians, everybody liking you because of the animal and all. Usually, the only time citizens meet a cop is when they’re getting a traffic ticket.”
    “Yeah, but what about the weather?”
    “I admit, I wouldn’t fancy the duty come January, but every time I draw a case like last night, I still think about my friend, everybody liking him while he—what’s that word, not ‘trot’ or ‘gallop,’ but my friend uses it?”
    “ ‘Canter,’ maybe?”
    “Yeah, ‘canter,’ that’s it. Here I am, trying to break the Townie code, and there’s my friend, cantering his way toward thirty years and out.”
    “Lieutenant?”
    “Yeah?”
    “I was wondering if maybe you could help me with something?”
    “Oh, and here I thought you’d come by just to cheer me up.”
    “Seriously. You know anybody in Witness Protection?”
    “You mean the federal program for cooperating witnesses?”
    “If that’s what they call them, that’s what I mean.” Murphy rocked forward in his chair. “We talking a witness now, or a marshal?”
    “The U.S. Marshals run it?”
    “Last I heard. ‘Office of Enforcement Operations’ sticks in my head some place.”
    “So you do know a marshal in the program.”
    “One.”
    “Any chance I can talk with this person?”
    “No.”
    “How come?”
    “Cuddy, I don’t think they even talk to each other.”
    “Look, Lieutenant. I’m in a real bind here. I have a female client who’s involved with a guy I think’s protected by the program, and I need to find her.”
    “You need to find her?”
    “Yes. I know who the guy in the program is.”
    A confused expression. “Wait a minute. You lost your own client?”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “Well,” leaning back as he drew out the word, “the Witness Protection people aren’t what you’d call forthcoming, like I said.”
    “Any suggestions, then?”
    Murphy ran a hand down his tie, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. “Might be they have a watcher on the one you think’s in the program. Might also be you push on the witness, you get the marshals to come out and greet you.” Good tactic, except Olga Evorova had told me expressly not to approach Andrew Dees directly.
    I stood up. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
    “Just be sure that advice don’t come back here with any shit on it.”
    Turning away, I said, “Do my best.”
    Behind me, Robert Murphy’s voice trailed away. “A palomino. That’s what I’d want.” His chair squeaked rhythmically. “A big, bad-assed blond one, like Roy Rogers used to have, you know?”

16

    I used a pay phone on West Broadway across from the Homicide Unit to dial my answering service. Nothing from Nancy , but then I didn’t expect she’d have heard from her doctor as yet, either. The service operator also said no log entry showed for Olga Evorova, but Claude Loiselle was already on record with “Call me if you’ve learned anything.” Primo Zuppone had left three messages, essentially, “As soon as you get back from out-of-state, I need to introduce you to some friends of mine.” At least he’d come up with a good dodge to hold off his Milwaukee people.
    Hanging up the phone, I went to a coffeeshop for lunch and tried to piece together what I knew so far. On Tuesday, Olga Evorova appears in my office, wanting a confidential investigation of her virtual fiancé, Andrew Dees. His past seems an empty cupboard, and her