"The house in Brookline?"
"Oh, no. That was later. I mean, I was still living in my condo here in town then."
"So you never saw any keys Mau Tim had for other apartments in her bui1ding."
More stiffening. "No."
"Never used the key Sinead kept here to get in the front door of their building there?"
"Of course not."
"How about Erica?"
"Erica?"
"Yes. Did she ever use that key?"
"Not that I know of." Yulin tried to get back to conversational. "What does this have to do with anything?"
"You know who Mau Tim's uncle is, George?"
"Some lawyer in a big firm. Look, I already — "
"Know who her father is?"
Yulin started to look exasperated. "Let me take a wild guess. Her uncle's brother?"
"Because of the last name."
"Yes."
"Actually, 'Dani' is kind of a stage name. Like 'Mau Tim'."
A deep sigh. "And therefore?"
"I understand that Mau Tim was thinking about trying her luck in New York."
Yulin seemed confused again. "I've told you, John. At least twice. We launched Mau Tim. She was loyal to us."
"Like she was loyal to Puriefoy for scouting her."
"That's different."
"Mau Tim was going to leave Boston and leave your agency, George. Five hundred thousand is a nice reverse severance package, don't you think?"
Yulin closed his eyes. Maybe counting to ten. It never helped me much.
"John, there can't possibly be any evidence involving me in Mau Tim's death. To think that my going to bed with her a few times over six months ago could have anything — "
"Mau Tim's birth name was Amatina Danucci."
That last name caught him amidships.
"Her grandfather is Tommy the Temper Danucci, George"
The mouth gaped open, and something rose in his chest. An image of Nancy after the vodka came into my mind.
"George, if I were you, I'd hie me to a bathroom."
Yulin, a hand over his mouth, lunged out and toward the porcelain facility.
* * *
"Who's throwing up?"
Erica Lindqvist spoke as I was leaving Yulin's office. Just inside the yellow door, she was stylishly turned in a sweater dress and reptilian belt. An unlined trenchcoat was over one arm, a Gucci handbag trailing from the other hand.
I said, "Your partner."
Lindqvist's voice lost the playful tone. "George doesn't usually do that on company time."
"Something I said didn't agree with him."
She tried to get the light voice back. "Should I wait to hear it till the bathroom's free?"
"I'm not sure I can stay that long."
Lindqvist reached into her bag, coming out with a small leather case. "Let's go up to my apartment, then. I know all the rooms are available there."
-25-
"WHY DON'T WE SIT OUT ON THE DECK?"
In her living room, Lindqvist laid the trenchcoat over the back of a barrel chair like the ones in her reception area downstairs. The handbag landed on the chair's seat. I followed the cascade of brown hair through a sliding glass door. There was a view of the Charles River over and between buildings, but mostly there was a view of the roofs of the buildings across the alley, buildings that would front on the south side of Commonwealth Avenue.
I said, "Don't you worry about your work getting too close to home?"
"My work brings me pleasure, John. Today in the form of you."
The deck was about twelve-by-twenty, redwood made smudgy by the sooty Boston air. I could see a chaise longue and two chairs, also redwood, with bright print pads and two side tables. The furniture and a gas grill pretty well filled the deck surface, which stopped only a foot or so before the edge of the roof. Around that edge, the gravelly tar and flashing looked well maintained.
Lindqvist said, "I know it's a little early, but can I get you something to drink?"
"No, thanks."
She took the chaise longue, reclining to a reading position.
"I take it, then, that you haven't thought much about my offer."
"Sorry?"
"You remember. A little . . . smorgasbord to go with your usual fare?"
"Thanks, but I'm still taken."
Lindqvist watched me, measuring something. "Yes, you do have that look." She shook her head and sat up straighter in the lounge. "I think I'd better hear what you said to George."
"A couple of questions first. You own this building?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"What manner would that be?"
"It's in a realty trust. You know what that is?"
"Uh-huh. What do you do, rent out the space downstairs to the agency and other tenants and the space up here to yourself?"
"That's right."
"Mind telling me where the seed money came from?"
Lindqvist gave me the measuring look again. "Quite a lot of it from that grandfather I told you about."
"Inheritance?"
A nod. "Long time ago. The family always said, 'Invest in the land, Erica. The land will always provide for you.' Well, there wasn't much land under this building, but like a filet mignon, what there was is choice."
"Speaking of family, was the lawyer who set up the trust one Vincent Dani by any chance?"
"Vincent . . . He was Mau Tim's uncle?"
"That's right."
Lindqvist appeared puzzled. "Why ask me a question like that?"
"He did the trust work for the building over on Falmouth."
"Where Mau Tim was killed?"
"Right."
"John, I don't get any of this."
"You told me before that the only relative of Mau Tim that you spoke to was her uncle."
"That's right, I think. I mean, I know that's what I told you, and I'm pretty sure I'm right."
"But you never met him or anyone else in her family?"
"No. Why?"
"Like I told George downstairs, Mau Tim was connected"
"Connected to what?"
"Tommy the Temper Danucci."
"Danucci? The Mafia boss?"
"Mau Tim, or Tina, was his granddaughter."
Lindqvist's eyes flitted left-right-left. "Oh, God. Oh, my God."
"You and Georgie have a half-million policy on the life of a mobster's favorite offspring."
She sagged back in the lounge chair. "But we never . . .nobody ever — what do they do, 'come around'?"
"They came around. Checked you out discreetly. Thought you looked okay for her. They took a somewhat dimmer view of Oz Puriefoy."
"Oz? Why?"
"Because he's black."
"Oh, God." Lindqvist came forward in the lounge. "What about Sinead?"
"What about her?"
"She's living with Oz. I can't afford to lose another model right now, John."
A woman who could keep her eye on the bouncing ball of business. "The family sent an enforcer around to have a talk with him. About a year ago. I don't see any threat to either of them that way."
"That's good." Lindqvist sagged back again, eyes closed.
"That's a relief." Then the eyes opened. "Mau Tim's . . . relatives. Will they be looking for a piece of the policy?"
"They haven't said anything to me about it."
"Shou1d that be a relief, too?"
"I don't know, Erica. I don't work for them. Right now, I'm just trying to work around them."
She seemed to think that over. "They're using you. To find out who killed Mau Tim."
"I'd hate to negotiate against you."
An attempt at a saucy smile. "You wouldn't feel a thing. That you didn't want to, I mean."
"You had a key to her place."
"What?"
"Mau Tim's place. You had a key to her building."
"Oh, no. I mean yes, yes to her building, but Mau Tim never — "
"But Sinead did."
"Yes." Lindqvist seemed to be trying to measure something else, maybe how much I'd found out from the other people I'd seen. "I guess the owners of her building — Oh, God, that's the family, right?"
"Right."
"I guess the owners didn't want keys being given out, but Sinead wanted to be sure that somebody nearby could get into her place if need be. So she gave us a set."
Nearby. What was wrong with Yulin's explanation at the Brookline house finally hit me. "I thought Sinead's family lives just over in Medford?"
Lindqvist's voice turned cautious. "I think that's right."
"Why didn't she give them a set of her keys?"
"For all I know she did."
Lindqvist didn't sound convincing. "You ever use your key, Erica?"
A quick "No." Very quick.
"Where are the keys kept?"
"Downstairs. In a lockbox."
"So George has access to the box as well."
A slow "Yes." Very slow.
"George ever make use of that key, as far as you know?"
"He . . . he went over to see Sinead once."
"Once."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why once?"
"Why at all."
"George fancies himself a . . . mentor of sorts."
"To the younger models."
"Yes."
"Male and female?"
Lindqvist gave me a frosty look this time. "Not that I know of."
"I was thinking about him living with Quinn Cotter out in Brookline."
"Oh. Oh, that's purely economics. Or economical, if you want to be specific. George was living beyond his means by quite a lot."
"Because the take from the agency isn't shared fifty-fifty?"
The frosty look. "I brought more to the agency than George did."
"Like the office space."
"And I bring more to the agency than he does. I'm the one who breaks her ass pitching accounts to lechers who can't wait to get through me to get to the girls. I'm the one who creates the market for our models. George sits and plays social director over the telephone."
"And makes house calls."
"House calls?"
"Like on Sinead Fagan."
"Yes."
"But just once."
"Yes."
"We're back to why, Erica."
Lindqvist seemed suddenly tired. "George thought there was something wrong with Sinead. Something she needed to talk out. He was wrong."
"In what way?"
"She'd already talked it out with me."
Sinead and her "quite a lots." I said, "Little sister to big sister."
Lindqvist looked very uncomfortable. "Yes."
"And when George made a pass at her?"
"I didn't say that."
"Sure you did. What did Sinead do?"
"She threw him out. He was no match for her Irish temper."
"What did Sinead tell you, Erica?"
"About George?"
"No. About what she ‘needed to talk out'?"
Lindqvist looked even more uncomfortable, the eyes flitting again. "I'm not sure I can tell you that."
"I'm not sure you can get your half-million if you don't."
"So." The frosty look turned frigid. "You turn out to be a bastard after all."
When you're holding the high cards, you don't have to answer things like that.
"All right." Lindqvist dropped the attitude, twisting her hands in her lap. "Sinead had a tough time of it when she was younger?
"What kind of tough time?"
Lindqvist told me.
-26-
GEORGE YULIN WAS GONE BY THE TIME I GOT BACK DOWNSTAIRS, so I had to trouble Erica Lindqvist again to find and write out the address I needed. She added the telephone number, but I decided to drive over without calling first.
* * *
"The hell do you want here?"
Oz Puriefoy looked at me from inside the front door of a wooden two-decker in Jamaica Plain. Given the open door behind him, I figured he lived on the first floor. I also could hear the tape from Sinead's moving day on a speaker system somewhere inside.
I said, "You two taking some time off?"
"We aren't on any schedule, man. What do you want?"
"I'd like to talk with your roommate."
"I think she's about had her fill of that."
"She can talk to me, or she can talk to the guy who came to see you."
"What guy?"
"At your studio. Leather coat and toothpick?"
Puriefoy swallowed once and swung the door wide.
* * *
"Like, I don't see why I have to talk to you anymore, awright?"
Fagan wore green stirrup pants, a little hole near the left knee. The striped cotton sweater she wore on top was too big, baggy at the waist, elbows, and wrists. Her cocklebur hair was matted here and there. With no makeup, she looked so young.
"Sinead, there are some things I need to know about Mau Tim that I don't think you've told me."
"So what makes you think I know anything to tell you now, huh?"
I waited a minute, hoping to let the silence soften her. Puriefoy had left us alone in a small room off the kitchen, the place being larger inside than it looked from the street. Fagan slumped in one of three beanbag chairs. I'd pulled a straight-back in from the kitchen and tried not to look down at her too much.
"You were her best friend, Sinead."
"So what makes you think I'd tell if I did know?"
A little progress. "I just came from Erica Lindqvist."
Fagan pouted. "So?"
"She told me what happened between you and your stepfather."
"That fucking bitch!"
The last word rose to a nerve-curdling shriek.
"Sinead — "
"The fuck right does she have to tell you shit?"
Puriefoy's head appeared in the doorway. "Hey, babe. Everything cool?"
"No, it isn't fucking cool, Oz. Get out of my face, awright?"
Puriefoy showed her both palms. "Okay, okay. Yell your reads off. The Haitians upstairs, I'm sure they understand how two white folks got to let loose from time to time."
Fagan ran the forearm of the sweater over her eyes. "Oz, just go away for a while, please?"
Puriefoy looked from her to me to her. "Okay. I'll go get us some ice cream for later. Rocky Road?"
I thought it sounded appropriate, but Fagan just nodded in a "whatever" way and dropped her head.
She waited until the apartment door closed. Then she waited a little longer, picking at the fabric of her pants near the knee hole. "Erica shouldn't have told you that shit."
"She didn't tell me much. Just enough to know I ought to hear it from you."
"Why?" The face came up, tears welling at each corner of her eyes. I suddenly remembered how truly young Sinead Fagan was, a woman's body wrapped around a teenager's mind and emotions.
"Because you told Mau Tim about it, too."
I didn't know that for sure until Fagan dropped her head again and said, "So what?"
I let out a breath. "Sinead, look. I'm sorry I had to interrupt your shoot, and I'm sorry I made you go through finding the body again. But I'm grasping at straws here, trying to make sense of what happened. What could have happened."
A shake of the head.
"Sinead?"
She drew her knees up to her chest, embracing them the way a track star does on a cold day.
"Sinead, I'm trying to find out who killed your friend."
"My life's got nothing to do with that. My stepfather's gone. He went to California like three, four years ago."
"Please. I promise you it won't go any further than this room."
A laugh. Sarcastic, cutting. "Yeah, that's a good line. Real fucking good. You get that from E1ica?"
"No."
" 'Cause that's the same fucking thing she said to me when I told her about it."
"I forced it out of Erica, Sinead. Nobody'll force it out of m
e."
"Sure."
"Sinead, I promise."
Fagan looked up at me. "Awright. Awright, I'll tell you what I told Mau, okay?"
"Okay."
"No . . . details. Just what we were talking about."
I sat back and tried to relax.
Fagan took another swipe at her eyes with the sleeve of the sweater. "Mau and me were sitting around her place one night, and we were thinking about maybe getting a video, you know, except it was raining, almost snowing. So she starts working the remote and finds a channel showing this Ted Danson movie called Something About Amelia. Well, like the title rang a bell somewheres, but I couldn't remember why and Mau always thought Ted Danson was so boss on Cheers, so she says, let's watch it. And I says okay, and then two minutes later I remember it's about this guy, this father, who's fucking his daughter. Like fucking her, and the wife, the mother, doesn't even know.
"So I tell Mau to turn the thing off. And she says, but I think Ted Danson is just so boss, and I get up and take the remote away from her and turn the fucking thing off. And she says, what's the matter? And I tell Mau how my mom's new husband always used to hit on me. Always around when I was trying to take a shower or get dressed for something. And how one night, he . . . he didn't just hit on me, awright? And how the fucker kept coming back, like one night a week, trying to get more. And Mau, she's watching me, with those great eyes of hers? And she's listening to me tell her about my step' and what I did to get even, why he had to go out to California and all."
Fagan seemed to run out of steam. I chanced a question.
"What did you do to get even?"
She looked up at me absently, then just shrugged, a little girl realizing the worst was over. "My step', my mom told me he was supposed to get this big promotion at work. She was always like that, always paying more attention to what was going on at work with him instead of at home with me. So, anyway, I got the fucker good. What I did was, I called up his boss and told him my step' was a baby-raper."
Jesus Christ.
"It got my step's fucking ass in the fucking sling and even my mom had to throw him out. And of course he didn't just lose the promotion. He lost his job, too. That's why he had to go out to the coast like that."
"And you told Mau about all this?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
The little girl shrug. "I dunno."
"You said before it was almost snowing out."
"Right. It was like, I dunno, a couple months ago."
Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy Page 22
