Shallow Graves

by Jeremiah Healy

  “No.”

  “The then attorney general of the state of California. The honorable Earl Warren, future Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Wish I were. I could never understand how that didn’t come out more when they were going after old Borkie.”

  I wanted to get Shinkawa back on track. “So you told Mau Tim about your parents’ situation back then?”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, that and all kinds of other things. The kid was a sponge for it, asking me if I’d ever been to Hawaii or any other areas where Asian-Americans were like a majority.”

  “And?”

  “And I had to tell her, ‘Mau, after the war, my folks moved to the Midwest. I was born and brought up in Madison, Wisconsin, you know? All of this stuff is just history to me.’ ”

  “She have any enemies you know of?”

  “Enemies?” Shinkawa lost his smile altogether for the first time. “Why ask me that?”

  “You were there that night.”

  “At her apartment, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure, but she was killed by some burglar who probably needed money for drugs and panicked.”

  “Even so, you mind going over things for me?”

  “No.” Shinkawa revived part of the smile. “No, I suppose not.”

  “The party was for her birthday?”

  “Right.”

  “You know who was invited?”

  “Well, originally it was just going to be Mau, Sinead, Oz Puriefoy—you know who he is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. And Quinn Cotter.”

  Sinead Fagan had mentioned him. “He’s a model, too?”

  “Right. Pretty popular in the sports lines. You saw him, you’d know him. Here …” Shinkawa opened a file drawer and rummaged around. “This is his comp.”

  Shinkawa handed me a black-and-white composite card of a tall, broad-shouldered blond in his twenties with a cleft chin, plastered hair, and vapid eyes listed as blue on the back. The photos showed him in a martial arts uniform with boards to split, swim trunks with surfboard to ride, and cross-training gear with ten-speed bike to pedal. He looked like the kind of guy who’d enjoy bungee jumping.

  I handed the card back to Shinkawa. “Why didn’t Cotter come to the party?”

  “It’s a little involved. I had an out-of-town meeting, so originally I wasn’t going to be able to make the party. Then the meeting canceled, and Quinn bowed out of the party.”

  “Why did he bow out?”

  “Because I was boffing the girl of his dreams, John.”

  I stopped. “Cotter was interested in Mau Tim?”

  “And how. Tried to wangle a shoot with her through Erica, but his look and hers really clashed, you know?”

  Not in a way I could appreciate. “So Cotter saw you as a rival?”

  Shinkawa started a laugh that turned into a giggle. “No, he saw me as the guy she was more interested in. Mau thought Quinn was kind of a pea-brain, but I think that Sinead felt a little sorry for him.”

  “Because of him losing out on Mau to you.”

  “And also because another model got picked over him to work on a big running-clothes campaign we’re doing this spring.”

  “You have anything to do with that decision?”

  The big grin. “Everything. I think Quinn’s kind of a pea-brain, too.”

  “You know how I could reach him?”

  “Through the agency—wait, I might have …” Shinkawa went back to the drawer. “Here. This is the number and address Quinn gave me a couple of weeks ago.”

  “When he thought he was still in the running for the running-clothes campaign.”

  Just the smile.

  The address was on Fisher Hill in Brookline, reading like a single-family home, not an apartment or condo. “Pretty spiffy.”

  “I think the guy house-sits. Good gig for a model.”

  “Can we get back to that Friday?”

  “That … Oh, right. What else?”

  “You decided you were going to the party when?”

  “Maybe eleven that morning.”

  “You call somebody?”

  “I left a message for Mau with Sinead. I guess that’s how Quinn knew not to show.”

  “Sinead calling him.”

  “Yeah. But I don’t really know that.”

  I said, “You talk with Mau Tim at all that day?”

  “No. She’d usually be on a shoot for the morning into the afternoon.”

  Yulin said otherwise. “You try to call her that day?”

  “No. I was seeing her that night.”

  “When did you get to the apartment house in the South End?”

  “I stopped home to change after work, get casual because Sinead was talking about dancing afterward.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Over on Commonwealth. I’ve got a condo between Dartmouth and Exeter.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “So I got to the building at seven-thirty, give or take a few minutes. I rang Mau’s bell but didn’t get any answer, so I figured she was already downstairs at Sinead’s and tried there.”

  “You didn’t have a key to the front door of the building?”

  “No. Most of the time, Mau came over to my place.”

  “Okay. What happened after you rang Sinead’s bell?”

  “Oz—or Sinead—buzzed me in, and Mau wasn’t there. Sinead was saying she just took a shower.”

  “Where was Puriefoy?”

  “In the kitchen, opening some wine.” Shinkawa looked off. “So, I guess it was Sinead who buzzed me in.” He came back to me, smiling. “Hey, this is kind of cool, you know?”

  “What is?”

  “Reconstructing all this. Getting me to remember things.”

  Christ. “Then what happened?”

  “Let’s see. Oh, yeah. Then we talked about surprising Mau upstairs.”

  “In her birthday suit.”

  The laugh into giggle again. “Right, right. A nice turn of phrase then too, I thought. But Oz wasn’t up for it, so while he did the wine and Sinead was playing with her stereo, I went upstairs.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, I knocked on Mau’s door—No, no, I tried her door first, but it was locked.”

  “Was it usually unlocked?”

  “No. No, usually she kept the bolt on but not the chain.”

  “Not the chain?”

  “Uh-unh. She broke a nail on it twice and thought it was a pain.”

  “You have a key to that door?”

  “No.”

  I stopped again. “Then how did you think you were going to surprise her?”

  Shinkawa shrugged. “Just thought I might. Party mood, you know? You don’t always think things through.”

  I said, “So then you knocked.”

  “Right. I knocked and called out to her, but I didn’t hear anything back.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No. No stereo, no footsteps, nothing. Then I started yelling, and I guess I must have gotten a little scared for her.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? She wasn’t answering me, and Sinead said Mau had just been in the shower. I thought maybe she slipped and hit her head or something.”

  “So you did what?”

  “I ran downstairs and got Oz and Sinead. The three of us went back up and broke down the door.”

  “Was the chain on?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s why we had to break it down. Sinead had a key for Mau’s door, but the chain was on from the inside and Oz and I had to break it down. Or off, I guess. The door was still on its hinges.”

  Pretty consistent with Puriefoy’s account. “Before you broke through, could you see or hear anything in the apartment through the chain space?”

  “I didn’t hear anything, the stereo and TV were off. But Shinkawa finally showed something beyond cheeriness. “I could see like her head and a s
houlder, on the floor by the futon. She had a big futon for her couch. When we broke in, we tried to save her, but it was … too late, I guess.”

  “Once you were in the apartment, did you see or hear anything?”

  “Yeah. I was the first one to her, and I could hear the fire escape.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know how a fire escape kind of, I don’t know, ‘clangs’ when somebody’s on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I heard that, so I went into the bedroom and over to the window. But by the time I got there, the guy was gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Well, I looked down at the ground, and up and down the alley, and I couldn’t see anybody.”

  “Do you remember seeing anything around the bottom of the fire escape?”

  “The bottom?”

  “Yes. Below where the last flight would come down.”

  Shinkawa closed his eyes. “It was dark, but … No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe trash cans?”

  “No. Definitely not. I would have seen those.”

  “Rake, broom?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Anything to pull down that last flight?”

  Shinkawa shook his head. “Man, the guy was going down already. Just his weight would carry that last flight to the ground.”

  “Okay. You’re at the window. Then what?”

  “Then I went back, and everybody was yelling at once around Mau, and she looked awful, John, her face all … contorted, discolored. So Sinead was calling for the EMTs, and I tried to help Oz work on Mau, but I could see it wasn’t going to do any good. Then I noticed the jewelry.”

  “The jewelry.”

  “Yeah. This necklace, I think, or part of one. Under the couch, kind of by Oz’s feet when he kneeled down by Mau.”

  “But you didn’t see Puriefoy do anything with it.”

  “No. No, like I said, the thing was just under the futon a little by his shoes, which were just about up against it.”

  “Anything else?”

  Shinkawa stopped and adjusted his horn-rims. “I don’t think so. We just waited for the ambulance, which got there just before the police, who kind of pushed us downstairs, then brought us back up after they rushed Mau off.”

  “You recovering all right yourself?”

  Shinkawa looked at me, like he didn’t quite know how I’d intended the question. “I take things easy, John, remember? Besides, I figured Mau and I were about at the end of the line.”

  “Why?”

  “She was going to New York.”

  “To live?”

  “Yes. The party was both birthday and bon voyage.”

  “Mau Tim told you that?”

  “Not in so many words, but I could tell she’d been making up her mind the last few weeks.”

  “How?”

  “She was talking about neighborhoods in Manhattan, asking my advice on modeling agencies down there, did I know anybody in them.”

  “And that didn’t bother you?”

  “Hey, it doesn’t matter which agency handles a girl. I can still have her in my campaigns.”

  “Professionally. How about personally?”

  “Mau was fun, John. A little deeper than most. But we weren’t in love or anything. Life goes on, you know?”

  “You share Mau Tim’s decision on New York with anyone else?”

  “No.” The smile. “I figured that was her business, right?”

  “Right.” I handed him my card. “You think of anything else, let me know.”

  “Sure, sure.” He stood up. “Can I see you out?”

  “That’s okay.” We shook. “I’ll find my way.”

  At the door, I turned back to him. He was watching me leave rather than lifting a phone or turning to a file.

  I said, “One other thing?”

  “What is it?”

  “You ever had a visit from a guy in a leather coat, toothpick in his mouth?”

  From the look Larry Shinkawa gave me, I was pretty sure he hadn’t.

  Sixteen

  WALKING BACK TO THE condo from Shinkawa’s office, I thought about calling Quinn Cotter. Since I was having dinner that night with Nancy, I figured it was just as easy to drive a few miles out of my way and find Cotter’s place even if he wasn’t home.

  Brookline lies west of Boston’s student ghetto. It’s a classy town that boasts turn-of-the-century brownstones, skyscraper condominiums, and some of the most impressive mini-estates in the metropolitan area.

  I left Route 9 and did some winding up Fisher Hill itself before finding the address Shinkawa had given me. The street number was etched into a stone monument, just above an orange and black sign that said NO TRESPASSING. I let out a low whistle as I parked the Prelude in the empty semicircular drive of a magnificent Tudor mansion. A fieldstone first floor and four gingerbread gables faced me. Professional landscaping, subtle use of fencing, and what from the second-floor rear windows would have to be a postcard view of the Chestnut Hill Reservoir a quarter mile below and across the road.

  I climbed a carefully laid flagstone path to the broad double doors at the front entrance. I couldn’t find a doorbell, then discovered that a burnished tab halfway up one door made a primitive ringing noise when twisted to the right. I waited thirty seconds, then twisted again. No response.

  There was a spur off the main drive that led to a separate three-car garage. I walked down the spur and used my hand to shadow the glass compartments in the garage doors. No vehicles inside except one of those swooping Suzuki motorcycles that look as though they were melded in a wind tunnel.

  I went around to the back of the house. I had just passed the overhang of a blue spruce when a foot flashed out from behind it and kicked me in the stomach.

  The wind jumped out of me as I doubled over but didn’t go down. He’d hit me in the right place, but not terrifically hard. The foot, in a Reebok Pump basketball shoe, now came in an arc at my chin. I turned enough to dodge the force but not the impact, deciding to drop before I drew any more attention.

  From the ground I practiced my breathing and looked up at a live version of the composite card from Shinkawa’s office. Quinn Cotter loomed over me, his feet planted apart, one hand high and another low. The martial arts stance seemed a trifle staged, as though he’d learned it in a studio but not used it much on the street. He wore a crushed cotton rugby shirt that screamed Banana Republic and a pair of prewashed jeans that made me think of a cryptic commercial. I was disappointed to see that he hadn’t even mussed his dishwater-blond hair.

  Cotter said, “You ever heard of ‘No Trespassing,’ asshole?”

  I put a hand to my jaw, wiggling it a little to be sure the numbness wasn’t masking a real injury. “I have some ID in my left jacket pocket.”

  Cotter maintained his stance. “That better be all you come out with.”

  I reached in and tossed the leather holder to him. He fumbled catching it. An athletic-looking guy with poor hand-to-eye coordination, the muscles probably came from lifting weights, not playing sports.

  Cotter looked at my identification, seemed confused, and tried to regain the moment by backhanding it to me. “You want to know something about the house, you have to call the management company.”

  “I’m here to see you, Cotter.”

  My knowing his name confused him more. “Me? What about?”

  Putting away the holder, I said, “Look, can I get up?”

  He relaxed from his stance. “Uh, sure.”

  I took a deep breath as I got halfway to my feet, then rose completely, brushing the spruce needles off my pants and sleeves. “How about we go inside?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  Cotter turned completely around, giving me his back. Whoever trained him left out the instincts.

  I followed the rugby shirt to a patio with blue and white all-weather pipe furniture that cost more than my car. French doors led to a solarium room with more fur
niture, only nicer. We then entered what I guessed was a playroom, decked out like an elaborate sports bar. A large television screen was embedded in the facing wall. The screen was in freeze-frame, one man in an odd helmet swinging on a Tarzan vine toward another, muscle-bound guy standing on a pedestal and holding a padded riot shield.

  Cotter caught me staring at the screen. “American Gladiators.”

  I said, “What?”

  “American Gladiators. It’s a TV show. Here.”

  Cotter picked up a remote device from an easy chair. The screen came back to live action. Cheers from what sounded like a studio audience for one swinger who knocked his targeted shield-bearer off the pedestal, groans for another who didn’t.

  I said, “This is on the level?”

  “Sure. I taped it last Saturday. I’m studying to be on it.”

  “Studying.”

  “Right. I want to make the transition—from print to TV? I need to show the ad agencies what I can do. This would be a great showcase, even though I couldn’t really use the karate.”

  Cotter pronounced the word “kuh-rah-tay,” with the same inflection some people use to make tomato “tuh-mah-toe.”

  I looked back at the screen. The odd helmets of the contestants apparently held cameras. In slow-motion replay, we got to see each shield-bearer prepare for collision as the camera swung with the contestant at him. On the ground, two guys I vaguely remembered from NFL broadcasting booths interviewed the successful contestant with much shoulder slapping and manly grinning.

  I said, “This is what they do? Swing at each other?”

  “That’s just the Human Cannonball segment. There’s also Breakthrough and Conquer, The Eliminator—”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Hold on. The chicks’ll be up next.”

  Two female contestants, the football announcer referring to them as “contenders,” were on screen. Two stolid female gladiators, named I think “Diamond” and “Lace,” readied themselves for repelling boarders. I turned away from the immediate future of American culture.