David Duffy - In for a Ruble

Still feeling like a heel, I found a parking place on First Avenue, a block from Jenny Leitz’s coffee shop. I was a few minutes early. I’d taken my time, driving slowly along East Meadow Road until I approached the county highway that would take me to I-684. I pulled over and put my cell phone to my ear. A minute later, the gray Camry appeared in the rearview mirror. I tried again to get a look at the driver but he gave me the back of his balding head a second time. The car went right toward the interstate. I let him get a good head start.

Leitz was on my message machine, shouting orders. “Call me immediately! This harassment of my family has gone far enough!”

I saw no point in engaging his temper, and I had a hunch Jenny hadn’t told him we were meeting. Two good reasons not to call him back. By the time I reached the highway, there were no gray Camrys in sight. I didn’t see any on the drive back to Manhattan.

The coffee shop was long and narrow. A counter with stools down one side, booths along the opposite wall. The woman I made as Jenny sat in a booth facing the door, halfway down the aisle. She made me too, and stood as I approached. The antithesis of her sister-in-law Marianna—in appearance and feeling. No more than five feet tall, with narrow shoulders, tucked waist, and trim hips. If Leitz rolled over in bed, he’d smother her. Her black hair was cut short, which showed off her big eyes and smooth Oriental features. She wore red-framed glasses, a purple top, rose-pink silk pants, and two rings—a big shiny rock and a gold band—on her left hand.

“You must be Turbo,” she said. “I’m Jenny. Nice to meet you.”

Something was wrong. The way she moved. She’d been tentative climbing out of the booth, and she was careful to balance herself as she stood, her hand on the table top. Now, she slid deliberately back into her seat. When she got settled, I saw the sadness and worry behind the glasses. Jenny Leitz was making the most of it, but she was not a well woman.

She had a bowl of soup and a glass of water in front of her. I ordered coffee and an English muffin. She waited until the waitress moved away and said, “You’ve been with Marianna.”

News traveled fast in the Leitz family. Not necessarily good, for my purposes.

“That’s right. She call you?”

Jenny shook her head. “Sebastian told me, when I said I was meeting you. He wants you to call him.”

So much for my hunch. No secrets in the Leitz family. At least, not unimportant ones.

“How is she?” Jenny asked with a concern that was far from perfunctory.

“Not good. Unhappy, depressed, drinking too much. For openers.”

Jenny nodded. “Her husband. She told me all about it. It’s killing her. She won’t let anyone help.”

I must have looked perplexed.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “She told me, not Sebastian. He thinks everything’s fine. It’s our secret.”

“But…”

“Sebastian can be difficult, as you know. He told me what happened at the office. The conference table…”

I nodded.

“His intentions are good—he wants to make things better. He doesn’t understand that’s not always possible—or even desirable. It may not be what the other person wants. Then there’s his temper. It’s hard for Marianna, or others, to confide in him.”

I took a shot. The odds were comparable to holding a four-card straight and hoping to draw the fifth, at either end—not short, not too long either.

“That apply to you as well?”

The straight filled. The black-brown eyes behind the red frames withdrew, just for a moment.

“We have our problems, like any married couple. Tell me what you want you want to know.”

“There are people asking about your husband. People who want to do him harm. They went to see Marianna. She didn’t help them, at least I don’t think she did. But if they went to her, I assume they’ve been making the rounds of the family.”

“Not me,” she said.

I nodded. I didn’t think they’d be brazen enough to brace the wife. “I’m sorry to ask it this way. But… your husband is difficult, as you say, which for me means uncommunicative. I’m trying to determine if anyone in the family might be willing to help these people.”

She shook her head. “No one. It’s a family, like any other. Well, maybe not exactly like any other, but a family with all the usual jealousies, peeves, and resentments. But I don’t believe for a minute anyone wants to do real harm to anyone else, including Sebastian.”

“Marianna said your husband can be very controlling…”

“That’s true, but I still don’t believe anyone means him harm.”

“Thomas? Marianna says he and Sebastian don’t always see eye to eye.”

“That’s true too, but no, I don’t think so.”

“Even if he had financial problems?”

“He’s had those in the past. He went to Sebastian for help.”

“Recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Would you be?”

She paused a beat, for emphasis, her eyes holding mine, before she said, “Yes.”

“What about Julia, or her husband?”

“Julia and Sebastian depend on each other in their own unique way. Walter… I can’t say for sure. I hardly know him, to tell the truth.”

“You don’t get along?”

“No, not that. He’s… He’s just never around. I’ve only met him a few times. Of course, we don’t see much of Julia either. She’s always working on something. Neither of them were at our wedding, now that I think about it. But I still don’t think he’d do anything to hurt Sebastian.”

She made each statement calmly and good-naturedly. But Walter Coryell bore looking into.

“I’m sure you’re right about no one wanting to hurt your husband. But do you think anyone could be compelled—bribed, blackmailed, pressured—into helping bug your husband’s computers?”

“I think if anyone tried to get them to do that, Sebastian would be the first to know.” She smiled. “He said you’d ask me to spill the family beans.”

“I suppose I am, but I’m only looking for points of exposure.”

“That’s another way of saying secrets, isn’t it?” She smiled again.

“If you say so.”

“I’m a relatively recent arrival. Not much help, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me this. Anyone in the family really good with computers?”

She smiled once more. “That would be Andras, Sebastian’s son. He’s a whiz.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Surely you don’t think he’s the culprit!”

“No.” Though I was tempted to mention eleven million reasons why he could be. “Just trying to get as complete a picture as I can. Marianna says he’s moody.”

She thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t put it that way. Quiet, certainly. Introspective. He keeps to himself. And he spends too much time online, in my opinion.”

“Your husband doesn’t agree?”

“He eggs him on. He’s thrilled Andras has an interest, something he’s good at.”

She didn’t know the half of it. Neither did he.

“So many children today, they just drift,” she said. “Andras has focus. He’s looking forward to college—computer science, of course. His first two choices are Stanford and Cal Tech. I don’t know who will be more thrilled if he gets in—him or his father. I try not to get too involved. I’m very fond of Andras, but I’m not his mother. She’s still very much on the scene, even from Minnesota, in a good way. That’s her role, not mine.”

“Have you met his girlfriend?”

“The Russian girl? What’s her name?”

“Irina. Irina Lishina.”

“Once. Last summer. She struck me… She struck me as much older than he is, much more experienced. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad. He’s quite taken with her, that much was clear. I hope he’s not headed for a hard landing.”