Invasion of Privacy

you haven’t learned anything either?”
    “Not that helps us find Olga.”
    “Well, I feel small and weak just sitting here while my friend may be in trouble.”
    “Believe me, I know what you mean.”
    “Can’t we file a missing-persons report or something?”
    “Olga hasn’t been missing very long by police standards. Also, there’s no indication she didn’t go off on her own.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake! You have to believe Andrew Dees has something to do with this.”
    “He probably does, Claude. But my client told me not to horn in on him directly.”
    “An observation?”
    Loiselle was using the command voice. I said, “Go ahead.”
    “Maybe it’s about time you stopped worrying about your client’s wishes and started worrying about your client’s welfare.”
    The phone went dead in my hand.
    Setting the receiver back in its cradle, I thought about what Claude Loiselle had just said. Then I thought about Primo trying to stall the Milwaukee boys. Finally I thought about what Robert Murphy had suggested.
    Ghent’s wishes, client’s welfare. Maybe Loiselle was right.
    Calling the DA’s office, I drew the secretary who liked to tell me Nancy was still on trial. I left a message that I’d see her in South Boston that night.
    Then I locked up and went down to the Prelude.

    Driving south along Route 3, the moonroof was open to the warm October air, the rose in its plastic wrapper now wedged between the passenger-side seat and door. I left the highway several exits short of Plymouth Mills, just to see if a Lincoln Continental or other car followed me. None did.
    Reaching Main Street in the town center, I cruised slowly past the photocopy shop. No sign of the brown Toyota Corolla I’d seen Dees using, and inside there was only Filomena, talking to a customer.
    Continuing on, I parked near The Tides. From the pub’s front door, the rear bar seemed nearly filled with late-afternoon, TGIFing business people. As I moved up to it, two fiftyish guys in sports jackets holding what looked like scotch/rocks were lamenting the legislature’s decision to ban happy hours as a way of protecting lives on the roads. The ban had gone into effect three years earlier.
    Then one of them brought up baseball. “Hey, you get to Camden Yards last summer before the strike?”
    “No. The company had me in Wichita till a couple of weeks ago.”
    “Man, you missed something. Baltimore really done itself proud there.”
    “That’s what I heard.”
    “And not just the ballpark, either. The food you can get, Boog Powell’s Barbecue, Tom Matte’s Ribs—”
    “Matte?” said the second guy. “He played for the old Colts, not the Orioles.”
    “Right, right. Remember the season both Unitas and Morrall went down, and Matte had to switch from halfback to quarterback, and they still won?”
    “Like it was yesterday. But Matte played foot- ball, not base- ball. What’s his food doing at Camden Yards?”
    “Baltimore’s a good city,” said the first guy, taking a bite of the scotch. “They don’t discriminate.”
    Just then, a younger man shifted toward a woman holding a beer bottle with a lime section in it, and I could see Edie, wearing that same frilly white blouse, her lower Up curled under as she concentrated on drawing somebody a Harpoon from the tap. I moved in past the new couple and said hello to her.
    She glanced up once from the frosted mug in her hand, but without smiling. “You want a drink, it’ll be a while. I’m kind of backed up.”
    “I’ll pass for now. Thanks again for your directions to Plymouth Willows.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    No expression on the face or inflection in the voice. “I talked with Andrew Dees, by the way.”
    Edie topped off the draft. Without looking at me, “Was he any help to you?”
    “Some. You seen him around today?”
    “No. Try the photocopy shop.”
    I said, “You know, if I did something last time to—” Edie paused with the draft long enough to fix me with hard-set eyes. “Wasn’t you. Just a bad memory that got stirred up.” Two different patrons called out to her by name. “Look, it’s busy, and I have to go.”
    I watched her carry the mug down the bar, sloshing a little onto her shaking hand.

    Filomena was behind the counter, her back to me when I came in the door. As she turned, the “May I help you?” smile seemed to die on her face.
    I said, “I’m still looking for Mr. Dees. John Cuddy?” The Asian features stayed somber. “I