feeling some heat,” said Joe, interrupting David’s reverie and finishing his thought all at the same time.
“The Nagoshi case?” asked David, just as Elvis Presley’s “A Fool Such as I” hit the jukebox turntable.
Joe said nothing, just nodded.
“So what’s the problem?” prompted David.
When Joe put down his drink and turned to face his friend, David noticed how tired he was looking. His normally olive Italian-American skin was a sallow shade of gray, and his dark brown eyes ringed with the telltale signs of exhaustion.
“I can’t get a read on this one, David. The case is so . . . clean.” Joe shook his head before going on. “The girl was about to start her third year at Deane, she was aiming to go to law school, so all her subjects are pre-law—except for art history, which she studied independently at some fancy art school in Fenway.
“She was smart, friendly and popular in an upbeat sort of way. Her family are strangely calm but extremely cooperative, her friends are forthcoming about the girl’s genuineness and her teachers do nothing but rave about her.”
“Boyfriends?”
“None as far as anyone knows—and Frank and I must have interviewed over a hundred people on this one. Besides, her father is the controlling type so I doubt any kind of illicit tryst would get past him—nor the older brother for that matter, who, as far as I can tell, is twenty-six going on fifty—a chip off the old block.”
“Last twenty-four hours?” David asked, his brain now snapping into investigatory mode.
“Nothing extraordinary. It was the last Friday before classes resumed so she went shopping on her own for school stuff in the morning, then to some French art film with two girlfriends in the afternoon—and out that night with same said female friends.”
“Underaged drinker?”
“Most are, but not in this case,” said Mannix. “She went to the Lincoln Club and met up with some college friends, but from what the bartender says, she was drinking sodas. The Lincoln is considered a family club so underage entry is allowed as long as they are not consuming alcohol.”
“You mean it turns a blind eye to the robust drinking habits of the Ivy League offspring of wealthy member parents.”
Joe shrugged again.
“Come on, Joe. These kids are probably covering half of the Lincoln’s exorbitant Beacon Hill rent. I’ve heard about that place on a Friday night. My guess is half the clientele is underage and most of them are chugging back imported beers and expensive wine coolers at seven dollars a pop.”
Another shrug. “What can I tell you?” asked Joe. “It’s not like we never . . .”
“Fair enough,” said David, realizing this was the second time in the past couple of months that he suddenly felt old.
“So what did the autopsy tell you?” David went on, getting them back on track.
“That she hadn’t been drinking, for starters,” said Joe, instinctively draining his own glass until all that was left was froth. “As far as the cause of death goes, Gus was spot on. Jessica Nagoshi died from manual strangulation, but not before someone clobbered her on the head with both ends of a garden hoe.”
“Both ends?”
“Yeah.” Mannix shrugged. “Go figure. The girl got it wham, wham —top and bottom ends—one blow from the right and a second from the left.”
“Two perps?”
“Unlikely, but Gus says the blows applied equal pressure so maybe someone ambidextrous.”
David paused. He could tell this ambiguity annoyed Joe, and it puzzled him as well.
“What about physical evidence?”
“The Nagoshis run a tight ship. Their staff are all from Tokyo and have been with them for years, including the gardener who is straight up. There were only four sets of clean regular prints in the greenhouse: the three family members—the mother died seven years ago—and the gardener. There were however two separate unidentifiable prints, the first one on the rock the perp used as her death
“The Nagoshi case?” asked David, just as Elvis Presley’s “A Fool Such as I” hit the jukebox turntable.
Joe said nothing, just nodded.
“So what’s the problem?” prompted David.
When Joe put down his drink and turned to face his friend, David noticed how tired he was looking. His normally olive Italian-American skin was a sallow shade of gray, and his dark brown eyes ringed with the telltale signs of exhaustion.
“I can’t get a read on this one, David. The case is so . . . clean.” Joe shook his head before going on. “The girl was about to start her third year at Deane, she was aiming to go to law school, so all her subjects are pre-law—except for art history, which she studied independently at some fancy art school in Fenway.
“She was smart, friendly and popular in an upbeat sort of way. Her family are strangely calm but extremely cooperative, her friends are forthcoming about the girl’s genuineness and her teachers do nothing but rave about her.”
“Boyfriends?”
“None as far as anyone knows—and Frank and I must have interviewed over a hundred people on this one. Besides, her father is the controlling type so I doubt any kind of illicit tryst would get past him—nor the older brother for that matter, who, as far as I can tell, is twenty-six going on fifty—a chip off the old block.”
“Last twenty-four hours?” David asked, his brain now snapping into investigatory mode.
“Nothing extraordinary. It was the last Friday before classes resumed so she went shopping on her own for school stuff in the morning, then to some French art film with two girlfriends in the afternoon—and out that night with same said female friends.”
“Underaged drinker?”
“Most are, but not in this case,” said Mannix. “She went to the Lincoln Club and met up with some college friends, but from what the bartender says, she was drinking sodas. The Lincoln is considered a family club so underage entry is allowed as long as they are not consuming alcohol.”
“You mean it turns a blind eye to the robust drinking habits of the Ivy League offspring of wealthy member parents.”
Joe shrugged again.
“Come on, Joe. These kids are probably covering half of the Lincoln’s exorbitant Beacon Hill rent. I’ve heard about that place on a Friday night. My guess is half the clientele is underage and most of them are chugging back imported beers and expensive wine coolers at seven dollars a pop.”
Another shrug. “What can I tell you?” asked Joe. “It’s not like we never . . .”
“Fair enough,” said David, realizing this was the second time in the past couple of months that he suddenly felt old.
“So what did the autopsy tell you?” David went on, getting them back on track.
“That she hadn’t been drinking, for starters,” said Joe, instinctively draining his own glass until all that was left was froth. “As far as the cause of death goes, Gus was spot on. Jessica Nagoshi died from manual strangulation, but not before someone clobbered her on the head with both ends of a garden hoe.”
“Both ends?”
“Yeah.” Mannix shrugged. “Go figure. The girl got it wham, wham —top and bottom ends—one blow from the right and a second from the left.”
“Two perps?”
“Unlikely, but Gus says the blows applied equal pressure so maybe someone ambidextrous.”
David paused. He could tell this ambiguity annoyed Joe, and it puzzled him as well.
“What about physical evidence?”
“The Nagoshis run a tight ship. Their staff are all from Tokyo and have been with them for years, including the gardener who is straight up. There were only four sets of clean regular prints in the greenhouse: the three family members—the mother died seven years ago—and the gardener. There were however two separate unidentifiable prints, the first one on the rock the perp used as her death
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