Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  Holt stood and crossed to a file cabinet, yanking one, then another folder out before deciding on a third. He returned to the desk and laid the file on it, but in front of his chair, not mine. Settling into his seat, he opened it, scanned a cover sheet, then looked up at me.

  "Tell you what, Cuddy."

  "What?"

  "I'll feed it to you. Like they do with the little chunks of fish at the Aquarium."

  "The Aquarium."

  "Yeah. I'll toss you a little chunk, and then you make like a seal and catch it in the air and clap for yourself. What do you say?"

  I drew in a long breath, thought again about Mullen's goofy kid with no teeth, and took out a pad and pen. "Fine."

  "First off, the girl, she gets it on the top floor of a three-story in the South End. She's supposed to be going to a party downstairs, then they're going out afterwards somewhere."

  "Who's hosting the party?"

  "Another model, name of Sinead something or other." Holt pronounced the name the Irish way, Shuh-nude. Probably thanks to the rock singer. "Only after this Mau Tim doesn't show on time, they go looking and find her Dee-Oh-Ef."

  "DOF?"

  " 'Dead on floor'. "

  Maybe the humorectomy didn't take. "Who's 'they'?"

  "This Sinead character and two guys. One's a Jap, ad exec over on Newbury, first block and very upscale. The other's a black guy, photographer."

  "Names?"

  Holt seemed to think about that, then said, "Sure." Skipping ahead in the file, he said, "The Jap, Larry Shinkawa."

  "That's S-H-I-N-K-A-W-A?"

  "Right. The colored guy's Oscar Puriefoy."

  "Can you spell that one for me?"

  Holt did.

  I said, "How about Sinead's last name?"

  "She's with the same modeling agency as the dead girl. How many 'Sineads' can they have?"

  Holt was enjoying this. I said, "Go on."

  He read some more of the file. "Like I was saying, they go up to look for this Mau Tim and have to break down her door. They find the body crumped on the floor, nice shade of blue. This Shinkawa checks the fire escape."

  "Fire escape?"

  "Yeah. He figured that's how the perp got out of there."

  "How'd the killer get in?"

  Holt looked at me. "Same way, it's a Break and Entry." He went back into the folder. "Then this Puriefoy tries CPR on the girl, but her throat's crushed from the perp's hands, so that did about as much fucking good as an enema."

  I looked at Holt, but he was still in the jacket. Homicide hardens you after a while, but this wasn't hardness or even gallows humor. This was Holt having fun with me in a way nobody should enjoy.

  "Can you back up a little, Lieutenant?"

  The face rose. "Huh?"

  "Did the guy who checked the fire escape see anything?"

  "No."

  "We know who had keys to the place?"

  "No. How come you ain't clapping, all these little chunks I'm throwing you?"

  I took another breath. "The people downstairs at the party didn't hear any kind of struggle upstairs?"

  "How the hell . . . Oh, I see what you mean. No, Cuddy, the girl was killed on the top floor of the house, and the party was on the first floor."

  "Who lives on the second?"

  "Nobody. Family just keeps it furnished, case somebody wants to stay over."

  "The dead girl's family?"

  Holt smiled. "Yeah."

  "You talk with them?"

  "Not much. Just with the uncle. Dani, Vincent."

  The landlord name in the application for the policy. "How about mother and father?"

  Holt's smile broadened. "I think I'll let you go for that on your own."

  Swell. "When did all this happen?"

  "Week ago Friday."

  "Time of day?"

  "The call to 911 was 7:45."

  "Quarter to eight on a Friday night in April. Kind of an odd time for a B&E.

  "Used to be. Now we get them during Thanksgiving fucking dinner."

  "One of the chunks I'm supposed to catch wouldn't be any leads you've got?"

  "No leads to throw, Cuddy. We got a dead girl and part of a necklace near the body."

  "Necklace."

  "Fancy fucking thing. Purple stones."

  "Amethyst?"

  "No. The uncle called it 'iolite.' "

  "Never heard of it."

  "Me neither. Looks like the girl maybe surprised the perp as he's going through the jewelry box. They fight over the necklace, and it breaks, him getting away with most of it and a couple of other things the uncle knew she used to have."

  "How do I get the uncle?"

  "Lawyer, downtown firm."

  "Number?"

  "Let your fingers do the walking."

  Okay. "Anything from forensics?"

  "The party animals, they pretty well wrecked the body position and all trying to bring the girl back to life." Holt skipped ahead again to a photo envelope. "Here's a couple of pictures you might like to see."

  He spun them to me like a man dealing poker. Both were eight-by-tens. The first showed part of a necklace against a hardwood floor background, peeking out from under the edge of a print futon couch. A large purple pendant and some purple stones above it, all set in what looked like gold. The gold appeared to lead to a more elaborate, but missing, neckpiece. The second photo was of an Amerasian woman, taken from her feet back up toward the face. The hair on her head seemed stringy, maybe from being wet. The robe she was wearing was open, no panties or bra. Her skin tone was golden and perfectly consistent, no tan lines or blemishes. The only problem was the abrasions down toward the throat, where a smudgy blue spoiled the skin. Her eyes were only half-closed, the irises glazed in the giving over of vision from life to death.

  Holt said, "Notice anything?"

  "The medical examiner say whether these were cuts on the throat?"

  "Yeah. M.E. thinks the perp had the necklace in his hand when he choked her. Notice anything else?"

  "No sexual abuse."

  "No."

  Holt sounded impatient, like I was getting colder rather than warmer. It was hard to tell from the photos, but the application had listed her eye color.

  I said, "They're the same."

  Holt sat back again and smiled. "Spooky, isn't it? Her eyes and the necklace there, the same color."

  The telephone company keeps track of all calls, even local ones, made from any address. "You have her phone records yet?"

  "They're being sent."

  "Ten days, you don't have them?"

  Holt came forward, reaching across the desk to reclaim the photos. "What do you think, our boy stopped to call his momma, see if she needed anything from the store on the way home? We got no eyewitnesses on the perp and no hope of turning one. We find somebody dirty with the necklace, he's a done guy. Or, somebody pops a name at us, gives up the killer, we can lock it in with maybe a little pressure and a couple of statements. But otherwise, this one's a dream you can't remember once you wake up."

  "I'd think you'd be showing a little more enthusiasm for a glamour killing like this."

  "Cuddy, we've logged over fifty homicides in the city since January one, and we're not into May yet. Used to be, we'd have maybe a hundred in the whole Commonwealth the whole year. Enthusiasm's kind of tough to come by, these days."

  Holt tipped back in his chair again. "Besides, now that you're on this, we can relax and watch you bring it home for us."

  I thanked him and got up. He told me to be sure and have a nice day, now.

  * * *

  I went up the hall and around the corner to another office. Inside, I could see Robert Murphy wading through a file that had two inches on the Manhattan Yellow Pages. Black, burly, and blunt, he'd been promoted to lieutenant and assigned to Homicide some years ago when a biased city councillor mistook an Irish name for an Irish cop.

  Murphy wore a long-sleeved blue shirt with a collar stay under a blue silk tie.
Two fingers held his place at two different points in the file. "Gotcha."

  "Lieutenant?"

  Murphy looked up and down again. "Cuddy. Take a seat."

  I closed the door and angled a chair toward him. "Am I interrupting anything?"

  "Minor victory. One of maybe ten suspects in a drive-by tells the uniforms he was with a homeboy named Jomo when the shooting started. Only problem is, Jomo was enjoying the county's hospitality on Nassau Street at the time."

  The new jail near the Registry of Motor Vehicles. "I haven't been there yet."

  "You saw it, you wouldn't believe it. They got something like 450 cells with computerized doors. The cells're in color-coded units for different kinds of offenders, with different-colored jump suits to match."

  "Alice Through the Looking Glass."

  "Compared to Charles Street, anyway. New facility's got twenty beds for women, no more 'Susan-Saxe' cells in the bowels of the courthouse. Windows, recreation decks . . . Jacuzzis."

  "Next budget."

  "Save me the trip to Florida for Spring Break."

  Murphy stuck a couple of yellow Post-Its into the file as bookmarks. "You still looking a mite sickly."

  "Thought I might try to hold the weight."

  "You really run the marathon with that bullet wound?"

  "Wasn't much of a wound."

  "Isn't much of a brain, you ask me. The shit about that law professor all cleaned up?"

  "As much as ever will be."

  Murphy rocked back, slitting his eyes. "Doesn't seem like you and me have much to talk about, then."

  "Less than that. I'm just here as a courtesy."

  "Courtesy."

  "Right."

  "About exactly what are you being so polite?"

  "I drew a case from my old employer."

  "You had a real job once?"

  "Insurance company. I worked there before you knew me."

  "So?"

  "It's a death claim."

  "Homicide?"

  "Right."

  Murphy passed a hand over a stack of six or seven thinner files near the corner of his desk. "One of mine."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "One of Holt's."

  Murphy closed his eyes all the way. "The door's right behind you."

  "There's something funny — "

  "That little round thing, they call that a knob. It opens the door."

  "Lieutenant — "

  "Cuddy, maybe you're forgetting the last time I helped you out on one of Holt's cases. Ever see True Grit?"

  "You a Glen Campbell fan, too?"

  "I was thinking of the scene, the Duke warns the rat to get the hell out of the grain bag, but that rat, he just don't listen so good. You remember what caliber it was the Duke used to chastise him?"

  "Like I said, just paying you the courtesy of letting you know."

  "And I appreciate that, Cuddy, I really do. This job, you treasure every little courtesy comes your way."

  I left before Murphy could wish me a nice day, too.

  -3-

  AFTER LEAVING POLICE HEADQUARTERS, I WALKED BACK TO MY OFFICE on Tremont Street. The few documents from Harry Mullen and my notes from Holt went into a case folder. I did two more hours of paperwork on other files, looking forward to seeing Nancy Meagher for her birthday dinner.

  By the time I got to the entrance of the New Courthouse building, she was already down from the District Attorney's office and talking with a female Sheriff's Deputy at the metal detector. Nancy's suit was a nubby gray tweed with black and green specks over a ruffled white blouse. The deputy wore blue. Seeing me, Nancy brought the strap of her briefcase onto her shoulder. "Thought I'd save you a trip up the elevator."

  I said, "Mustn't seem too anxious for a date, counselor." Nancy and the deputy rolled their eyes in unison. The deputy said, "When do you suppose men'll stop being such jerks?"

  Nancy said, "The day genetic engineering becomes available for household use."

  I stood a little straighter. "Could be that day has arrived. You're looking at the body of a twenty-year-old paratrooper."

  The deputy said, "What're you gonna do, he asks for it back?"

  Nancy was still howling as we went through the revolving door

  I said, "It wasn't that funny."

  "Oh, John, it was priceless."

  "It was a cheap shot. She can't be more than twenty-two herself."

  "She's almost thirty, and you've been so cock-proud ever since you ran the marathon that I was beginning to wonder how to bring you back to earth."

  "A few weeks of feeling like a young warrior doesn't seem so long."

  "It does if you're ‘dating' the warrior."

  I decided to change the subject. "So, how was your day?"

  Nancy shook her head. "The usual. I'm on a bank robbery. Pretrial, our boy moved to suppress an eyewitness ID from a photo array."

  "Denied?"

  "Yes. At trial, defendant renewed his motion, but the judge, bless her, refused to review her denial. At that point, our boy conceded identification and tried to make like he was the new Patty Hearst."

  "I thought the Symbionese Liberation Army abolished their draft."

  "Not to hear this guy. He actually took the stand, tried to persuade us he was kidnapped and forced to cooperate at gunpoint."

  "Let me guess. His credibility was not without stain."

  "Twelve priors, three for armed robbery, seven all told admissible under the prior conviction statute."

  "You had that kind of ammunition and he still took the stand?"

  "It was his only shot, John. If he's convicted of this one, he's going away forever."

  "Jury get the case yet?"

  "I finished my cross this afternoon. My guess is some wrangling over requests for jury instructions tomorrow, then closing arguments and charge by lunchtime. Speaking of eating, where are you taking me tonight?"

  We'd reached the Park Street corner of the Boston Common. I pointed diagonally across it, though even in bright daylight you couldn't have seen the building I meant.

  Nancy said, "The Ritz?"

  "You got it."

  "John, it'll cost a fortune"

  "You're each age only once."

  She linked her arm in mine and looked up at me. Irish, freckled face. Wide-spaced blue eyes. High forehead with black, fine hair, parted on the right side, long enough to fall just so onto her shoulders. And a smile that took its time pushing up the corners of her mouth and dimpling her cheeks and finally flashing straight teeth under a nose that she'd punch you for calling perky.

  Nancy said, "There are certain advantages to 'dating' successful, 'older' men."

  "I'm not that old."

  She balled her free hand into a fist, threw it straight into the air and said, "Airborne!"

  Nancy was still laughing so hard, I thought they might not let us into the second-floor dining room.

  At the table, the maitre d' discreetly pulled out the birthday girl's chair and seated her. I tipped him a five for putting us at a window overlooking the Public Garden. The trees were a little too high to appreciate the flowers, but then it was early enough in the season that the beds weren't spectacular yet.

  The waiter stepped over immediately for our drink orders, and Nancy said she'd rather have wine. The sommelier appeared with the wine list, which should have come in three volumes and an audiotape. I picked a price range in the red Bordeaux, and he made a suggestion that I accepted.

  As the sommelier retreated, I said, "You know, I really don't mind the cracks about my physical condition/'

  "I know. Otherwise I wouldn't make them."

  Nancy covered my right hand with both of hers, running the edge of a fingernail along the back of my knuckles. "I read somewhere that holding hands is pleasurable because of the nerve endings."

  "Nerve endings."

  "Right. For example, it feels good for me to do this."

  "It does."

  She turned my hand over.
"But if I try your palm, it feels better, doesn't it?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "That's because there are more nerve endings there." The nail went to the pad of my middle finger. "It should feel even better now. Know why?"

  "Still more nerve endings."

  A nod before moving to the thumb pad. "And there are just bundles of the little devils here."

  I cleared my throat. "Any more . . . bundles?"

  "Yes, but unfortunately they're not yet accessible."

  At which point, our wine arrived.

  Halfway through the meal, a terrific rack of lamb for two, a pianist started playing, the kind of theme and variations that you recognize but have trouble placing.

  Nancy stopped the wineglass halfway to her lips. " 'Phantom of the Opera'?"

  "I think so."

  She took a sip. "Growing up in Southie, did you ever think you'd eat here?"

  "Same as you, Nance. I thought I'd work hard and do well and yeah, eventually eat somewhere outside of South Boston."

  Nancy said, "Do you enjoy it?"

  As the pianist segued into "Out of Africa' I looked around the room. Lofty ceiling, delicate molding, crystal chandeliers. Wall-tall windows with drapes that had to be gathered like the robes of an emperor. Enough tuxedos and evening gowns to prove that fifty-year-olds still held proms.

  I came back to Nancy. "Yes, I enjoy it."

  "As much as eating at a fish joint in Southie?"

  "The same, I think. In Southie, the guy who brings the wine bottles twists off the tops. I'm not sure the enjoyment goes up just because the guy here pours a little into a silver spoon around his neck."

  "I was impressed with how you handled that, by the way."

  "The man knows his job. I should let him do it if it helps me."

  "Speaking of jobs, what did you do today?"

  That was the tough part of being with an assistant D.A. There were some things I couldn't talk about because of client confidentiality and other things I couldn't talk about because I might put Nancy in a conflict of interest. She wore the mark of one of those conflicts on her right shoulder, a little pleat of scar tissue over the hole a thirty-eight slug made when we first got involved.

  The good part was that I could be vague without seeming rude. "I'm doing a death case for Empire."

  "Empire? I thought they hated you."

  "They do. It's a long, boring story/'