Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "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.

  -16-

  WALKING BACK TO MY 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 tum-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 furniture, 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.

  "You suppose we could talk without the competition?"

  "Uh, sure."

  Using the remote to stop the tape and blacken the screen, Cotter dropped into a chair. One leg slung over the armrest, the other stretched out on the floor, his own arms lazing along the back and down one side of the chair. A little too perfect to be anything but a pose.

  "You have any idea why I'm here?"

  Cotter seemed confused again, the vapid look from his comp card. "Uh, no. Why, should I?"

  It might be an act, or he might just be dense as a post. "I'm investigating the death of Mau Tim Dani."

  That broke the pose. I thought I was going to have to deal with the "Kuh-rah-tay" Kid again.

  He said, "You find the guy yet?"

  "The guy who killed her?"

  "Yeah, the guy who killed her. That's what you do, right? Find the killer when the cops are too stupid."

  Too much time in front of the tube. "Not always. She have any enemies you know of ?"

  "Enemies? Mau Tim?" He seemed to try to think for a minute. "She got killed by some druggie breaking in, right?"

  "We don't know that."

  The idea seemed to dawn on him all at once. "You mean, like she was really murdered?"

  As opposed to sort of murdered. "It's a possibility."

  "Oh, man. This is too much."

  The head shook, but the hair stayed put. I waited him out. Cotter looked up at me, suddenly red-eyed. "Man, she was so beaut
iful, who'd want her dead?"

  "Maybe somebody who was jealous of her. Or jealous of her boyfriends."

  The eyes cleared. "You son of a bitch."

  Cotter came out of the chair, but this time I was up at the same count. He whipped the right foot at me in a backhand motion, but not the way you should, not as a feint for another move. Stepping toward him, I parried with my right forearm, catching the leg at the calf and wrapping it tight under my right armpit.

  Cotter had just enough sense of balance to stay up on his left leg. He was frustrated, pogo-sticking to maintain equilibrium against the edge of pain at his right knee.

  I said, "You know, Quinn, it takes only about twenty pounds of pressure to dislocate a joint."

  "I can hit you . . . ten times . . . fuckhead!"

  "Yeah, but I don't see you hopping your way onto TV."

  It finally sank in. "Okay. Okay, let me go."

  I released his leg and stepped away. He did too, posturing until he was ten feet from me. I sat back down, and after flexing, he did too.

  I tried to be conversational. "The police talked to you, right?"

  "Some cop called me, asked if I saw her that day. I told him no. Then he asked where I was that day. I told him here, watching videos. He said, 'All day and all night?' and I said, 'Yeah, I like videos.' Then he said, 'Okay, thanks,' and hung up."

  "That's it?"

  "Huh?"

  "That was it, no personal visit?"

  "Uh, no. No, just the call."

  I thought about Holt, sitting behind his desk, diverting his people to other cases once he found out Mau Tim Dani was Tina Danucci.

  I said, "You ever go to Mau Tim's apartment building?"

  "Sure."

  "How often?"

  Cotter looked uncomfortable. "Couple times."

  "You ever in her apartment itself?"

  "Uh, no."

  "You were at her — "

  "I was over seeing Sinead, okay? I like brought her the spare keys once, but we were just friends."

  I thought about that last flight of the fire escape again. "What spare keys?"

  "Lots of us leave a set at the agency, in case something comes up when we're doing a location shoot somewheres."

  "And the agency had a set of Mau Tim's keys?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "I mean, I don't know. I'm talking about Sinead's keys."

  "Sinead's."

  "Yeah, like to the front door of the house and her apartment. Sinead forgot her keys one day, okay? And she called the agency from a shoot down by the waterfront, and I was at the agency, so George gave me her keys and I met her at her place to let her in."

  "George Yulin gave you Sinead's keys."

  An exasperated look. "Right."

  "You didn't make a copy of the front door key?"

  "Hell, no. Why'd I do that?"

  "And you were never in Mau Tim's apartment?"

  "No."

  "How come?"

  Cotter tensed a bit, then tried to look casual. "She didn't ask me up, okay?"

  "You ever ask her out?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I asked her out. I ask a lot of the girls out. They ask me, too. Women's lib, okay?"

  "But Mau Tim — — "

  "Look, man! Let me save you some time. Mau was a great looking chick, okay? But she just didn't dig me. I wasn't exotic enough for her."

  "Exotic?"

  "Right. She went for different people, not the All-American halfback."

  I wondered if other models thought of themselves as being what their business typed them. "But Sinead invited you to the party she was having for Mau Tim's birthday."

  "She invited me before she found out another guy was coming. Sinead didn't want to embarrass me, okay, so she called me and said maybe it wouldn't be such a great idea for me to show up Friday night."

  "And so you stayed home."

  "Right."

  "Watching videos."

  "Right."

  "Alone."

  "Most of the night."

  "Who was with you?"

  "None of your business."

  It seemed an odd place to turn turtle. I was about to try a different angle when I heard a heavy door open and close and a familiar voice call out, "Quinn? Quinn, you home?"

  A little color drained from Cotter's face. "In the TV room."

  As footsteps approached down what seemed a long hallway, the voice said, "Whose car is that in the drive?"

  Before Cotter could answer, George Yulin appeared in the doorway, a briefcase with shoulder strap like Nancy's riding on the saddle of a tweed sports jacket today.

  "His," said Cotter.

  Yulin didn't say anything.

  I said, "Join us."

  Yulin came into the room slowly. He let the briefcase slide off his shoulder and onto the floor, watching me as he rested his rump and palms against the back of a chair. "What are you doing here?"

  "My job."

  "Which is?"

  "Still the same. I'd appreciate your explaining to Quinn the importance of cooperating with my investigation."

  Yulin looked at Cotter, who said, "George, you know this asshole'?"

  Yulin winced at the last word. "Mr. Cuddy is processing a claim we have arising from Mau Tim's death, Quinn. We have an obligation to cooperate with him."

  Cotter stood up defiantly. "Maybe you do. I'm going for a ride."

  He crossed the room and left. Very athletically.

  Yulin looked down at me. "I'm sorry, John, but we're just Quinn's agents, not his parents."

  "You're rooming with him?"

  From down the hall came the sound of the heavy door slamming. Yulin went over to a bar. "Drink?"

  "I'll pass."

  He took out a tall glass and an opaque bottle. Yulin splashed liberally from the bottle into the glass, not bothering with ice or mixer. He snuffled over the drink, then downed half of it.

  "Single malt."

  "Whiskey?"

  "Right. Smooth as silk, with a bouquet you can appreciate best with a tall glass. Now, what was your question?"

  "I asked you if you're rooming with Cotter."

  "In a manner of speaking. Quinn's under contract to house-sit this place."

  "He seemed a little reluctant to admit you lived here, too."

  "I believe the real estate company that hired Quinn prefers . . . single occupancy."

  "Who owns the house?"

  "Some wealthy investor who decided to take a sabbatical. Isn't that a super idea? Just disappear for a while, travel and refresh oneself."

  There was the sound of a cycle rewing, just audible through the solid walls of the house. Then a high whining sound that faded quickly.

  I said, "So you're kind of sub-sitting?"

  Yulin looked at me, then smiled. "I see. 'Sub-sitting' instead of 'sub-letting.' Clever, John. But no. I decided to rent out my own place for a while, try living in a different environment.

  My own quasi-sabbatical, you might say."

  "Or your own quasi-cash-shorts, I might say."

  Yulin pursed his lips. "Close enough." He downed the rest of the glass and went back to the bottle.

  "How tight are things for you, George?"

  "Tight." He splashed the whiskey again. "Ever since the Massachusetts Miracle started turning to clay, things have looked down. Oh, we still have bookings for the campaigns that were already underway. But both Erica and I can see the dark at the end of the tunnel, at least short-term."

  "Which made Mau Tim all the more important to you/'

  "Yes." A cautious sip this time. "Yes, frankly she'd been a savior over the last few months. You see, we service mostly the smaller agencies. Advertising agencies, I mean. The bigger ones, like Hill, Holliday, they do three, four hundred million in billings a year. But the smaller ones, they're hurt most by the downturn. They're the ones the jittery clients leave for the safer harbor of the bigger firms. Then come layoffs, and, well, fewer phone calls to modeling agencies like ours.
"

  "How's Larry Shinkawa's firm doing?"

  "Quite well, surprisingly. Berry/Ryder is riding the crest of what business there is right now."

  "I understand Quinn was pretty upset about losing out on a job Shinkawa was placing through you?"

  Yulin started to take another cautious sip, stopped, then took a gulp. "Who told you that?"

  "How upset?"

  Yulin clacked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "Quinn is excitable. It's sincere if a bit shallow of him. But that's what comes across so well in his shoots."

  "But not well enough for Shinkawa."

  "John, Larry Shin is . . .” The last sip. "Larry Shin is a very shrewd man in a very tough business. He likes to make things personal and does it well enough to cover himself. Quinn was perfect for the running-wear shoot. I thought so, and Erica agreed. I'm sure even Larry thought so, but depriving Quinn of the shoot was Larry . . . tweaking Quinn with his power, tweaking him in a way that Quinn has to swallow, and knows he has to swallow, to continue to prosper in this business. Besides, as I told Quinn, Larry will probably pick him for more shoots now, just to make the point that he was only making a point the first time."

  "That why you forgot to mention Cotter to me when we were in your office?"

  "You asked me, I believe, about Mau Tim's 'boyfriends.' I never thought of Quinn that way."

  "Seems to me he was nuts about her."

  "Perhaps. But that didn't make him her 'boyfriend' in my book." Yulin gestured with the empty glass. "If you've already worked your way around to Quinn, you must be nearing the end of your investigation."

  "Not quite. Quinn told me something else I didn't know."

  "What was that?"

  "You had a set of Sinead's keys at the agency."

  "Probably still do. So?"

  "I don't remember your mentioning that in your office either."

  Yulin set down the glass. "I don't remember your asking me about keys, John."

  "I was investigating Mau Tim being killed in her apartment. You had a key to the building, but you didn't tell me that."

  "We'd heard that a burglar broke in. I didn't — and frankly, I still don't — see why keys are important. But yes, some of the models like to keep a spare set nearby, so we do have some in a petty-cash box at the agency."