Read Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy for Free Online Page A

find out why he was now
trying to gently discourage new business. "That's good."
    Hendrix just watched me.
    I said, "You see, that's why the complex hired a
private investigator instead of a lawyer. I'm cheaper, and a lot more
'hands-on.' "
    Another measured nod.
    "Wel1, I guess that brings us to references? I
gestured toward the brochure drawer. "And maybe a sample
contract?"
    Hendrix used his feet to rock just a little in the
swivel chair. "We don't really have a 'sample contract,' Mr.
Cuddy."
    "Not even a form you use as a model?"
    "I kind of negotiate each one individually."
    "On behalf of the corporation."
    "Corporation?"
    "Your management company here."
    The rocking stopped. I was setting off a lot of bells
for him, and I couldn't see why.
    He said, “I'm a sole proprietorship."
    "Ah. 'Boyce Hendrix, doing business as' . . . ?”
    "Hendrix Property Management Company."
    I gave it a beat. "In addition to you and Mrs.
Jelks, how many employees do you have?"
    "Some resident supers."
    "Superintendents?"
    "That's right."
    Hoping to hear "Plymouth Willows," I went
back to an earlier request. "Maybe just the references, then."
    "The references?
    "Yes. Other complexes you currently manage, so
my clients can get a sense of how they might be treated."
    "Tell you what," said Hendrix, coming
forward in the chair, his voice steady but his feet planted for
standing.
    "Why don't you take our brochure there with you
back to your clients? They like what they see, we can go on to those
other things."
    I held the brochure in my palm, making a weighing
motion with my hand. "Kind of skimpy, compared to the
competition?
    Hendrix rose, flexing his shoulders back. "Each
management company has its own personality, Mr. Cuddy." The
mellow tone still. "I think you've gotten a pretty good sense of
ours. Let your clients decide, huh?"
    As I went out through the reception area, Mrs. Jelks
nodded pleasantly to me over the romance novel.
 

    =4=
    Back in the Prelude, I drove east, almost to the
ocean. I couldn't see why Boyce Hendrix hadn't really pitched for
"my" complex's business. Also, a little enthusiasm on his
part would have been nice toward greasing the skids for my cover
story at Plymouth Willows itself.
    Nice, but not essential, I hoped.
    Turning south, I followed the narrow, twisting roads
that used to be the only routes between Boston and the summer
communities. I passed a forlorn shopping mall and at least a dozen
condominium developments, mostly weathered shingle, trying hard for
the quaint island look of Nantucket but coming up just a bit cramped
and sad. After about twenty minutes, I reached the outskirts of
Plymouth Mills.
    At first glance, the town center seemed picturesque,
its buildings extending five or six blocks in each direction from a
four-way intersection. The architectural style alternated between
clapboard and red brick, the clapboard mostly white with black or
green shutters, the brick sandblasted at some point after the dingy
mills it covered had closed down. The retail stores were more likely
to be called "shoppes" than the places in the strip mall
back in Marshfield, with some specializing entirely in woven baskets
or stuffed animals or wine and cheese. Look a little closer, though,
and you could see the peeling paint and missing bricks, the cracked
sidewalks and unfixed potholes. Since the demise of the
"Massachusetts Miracle," most of the state had gone from
recession to depression, despite the optimism in the newspapers, and
Plymouth Mills, like the towns to the north, seemed not to have been
spared. Even the Porsche dealership struck me as dreary.
    The police station came up just after the dealership,
which I'm sure made the Porsche people sleep better at night. The
department occupied one of the brick buildings, and ordinarily I'd
have stopped in, letting the desk officers know I'd be working the
town they were paid to serve and protect. However, I didn't want to
risk my license by extending the cover story about