Invasion of Privacy

. She lowered her voice. “Fifteen minutes later.”
    “Cleaned out both accounts?”
    “The business one, yes. Still a few thousand in the personal one.”
    “Why would he leave any?”
    “Banking regulations. He goes over ten thousand cash withdrawal, there’d be a paper trail.”
    “But you found a trail anyway.”
    Loiselle looked at me. “Yeah, but only because I’m searching for it, and illegally at that. The over-ten trail would go to the federal government, tip them to . . She hardened the look. “Is that why Dees is running, he’s in trouble with the feds?”
    “I can’t say.”
    “Or with those guys who roughed you up?”
    “Same answer.”
    The harder look got stony. “Is hiring you going to be worse than dealing with the police?”
    “There are all kinds of frustration, Claude.”
    “Yeah, tell me about it.” She turned away from the computer. “Okay now what?”
    “Can you check on Olga’s bank accounts every few hours?”
    Loiselle just snapped her fingers. Then, “ Dees would be tougher.”
    “If he’s running, he’s not going to risk giving away his new location by trying to access a few thousand in a bank account.”
    “Makes sense. So what are you going to do?”
    “Drive out to Logan .”
    “But I thought you said—”
    “That they’d have used phony names. Right. If they’re smart, they even took different airlines to different hubs, planning to match up again in a day or so at another airport.”
    The lowered voice. “Assuming they’re still together.”
    “Yes.”
    Puzzled once more, Loiselle said, “But then why are you going to Logan at all?”
    “Because it’s the closest to where I am now, and they had to get to any airport somehow.”
    She looked inward. “Their car.”
    “His or hers, but maybe at least one of them.”
    “And if you find it?”
    “Then maybe it’ll tell me something. Or maybe somebody will remember seeing them.”
    “Do you need any money now?”
    I told her how much, and how many days of my time it would buy.
    As Loiselle was writing out a check the old-fashioned way, I said, “You wouldn’t happen to know Olga’s license plate, would you?”
    “Of course not, but the computer will.”
    “The computer’s tied into the Registry of Motor Vehicles too?”
    “We make car loans, so it’s a convenience to be able to access their records. Even on a Sunday,” the last a little sarcastic.
    “While you’re at it, get the tag for the brown Toyota Dees drives as well.”
    Handing me the check, Claude Loiselle snapped her fingers again.

    At Logan International Airport, there’s short-term parking closer to the terminals and long-term parking farther away. The short-term is exorbitantly expensive, but I figured that people in a hurry would choose closer, especially if they weren’t expecting to come back for their car. Starting at the first terminal after the airport on-ramp, I pushed the self-service button for a time-logged ticket, the Prelude going under the rising bar and over the tire treadles. Five minutes later, I was out again, paying the exit attendant for an hour’s worth.
    I repeated the sequence twice more before reaching the fourth lot, waving to the slim, Latino attendant as I drove by him. He didn’t wave back.
    Pd gone down only one row before spotting it, tucked into a corner space near the terminal. I checked the plate against the registration Claude Loiselle had printed out for me, but I almost didn’t have to.
    How many orange Porsches have you ever seen?
    I parked behind it and got out. The lock buttons on both doors were down, a decal on the vent window advertising an alarm system. From outside the vehicle, I couldn’t tell if the system was activated.
    “Hey, man?”
    I turned to the attendant walking toward me. He wore a maintenance jumpsuit—something like Paulie Fogerty’s, only brown—the name ELMER stitched on the flap of the left breast pocket.
    He said, “Plenty spaces, two rows over.”
    “I’m more interested in this one, Elmer.”
    “My name is pronounce ‘El- mare.’ ” A confident grin, like he’d been in this situation before and knew how to handle it. “Plenty people is interest in this car, man. Real hot, you know it?”
    “Kind of stands out.”
    “Definitely.”
    I showed him my ID. “Mind telling me who’s been interested in it?”
    “Oh, everybody. Kids, couple middle-aged guys, think they have all the young chicks, they get a hot car like this one.”
    “Sounds