Read Online Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremiah Healy - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeremiah Healy
Ads: Link
began pouting, hands on hips, a pair of
sunglasses halfway down her nose, eyes searching out the photographer
over the rims. Above the music, she shouted, "Chris, these
shades are like weird."
The photographer spoke to his camera. "They look
fine, Sinead."
"I feel like somebody's grandmother."
"Don't worry about it. They fit the scene, and
nobody's looking at your eyes, anyway."
"They still feel weird."
George Yulin was right about Sinead Fagan's
Medford accent. Weird came out "we-id," grandmother
"gramuva."
The "scene" appeared to be a beach. There
was a big striped umbrella guy-wired into the shallow sand, the
background wall draped with a blue and white cloth that looked enough
like sky and clouds to fool me, and I knew it was fake. The blonde
patiently waited through the shorter man's fussing and Sinead's
whining.
Chris the photographer said, "That looks fine,
Bruce."
As the man with the brush moved back out of the
scene, Chris said into the lens, "Sandy, hold where you are.
Sinead, just a little to the right."
Sinead huffed out a breath and shifted left.
"Awright?"
Bruce mouthed something into the photographer's ear
and grinned mischievously.
Chris said, "Other way, Sinead."
"Other way what?"
"Move the other way, toward Sandy."
Sinead huffed again but moved the correct way.
" More."
Sinead nearly bumped into the other woman, Sinead's
sunglasses slipping off her nose and into the sand below. Reaching
for them, Sinead lost her balance, plopping into the sand behind
them.
Sandy closed her eyes and broke her pose. The brush
man burst out laughing. Chris raised his head from the camera and
said, "Bruce, kill the music."
The shorter man went to the stereo on a side wall and
suddenly the room grew still. It was as though the sound instead of
the shadow had been covering my presence, because as suddenly
everybody seemed aware I was there.
The photographer said, "Who are you?"
"John Cuddy. I'd like to talk to Ms. Fagan, if I
could."
"Who?"
"That's me, Chris."
Sinead Fagan came off the set, one hand holding the
sunglasses while the other whisked her bottom. Sand on her feet
squinched a little on the linoleum floor. "What do you want?"
It came out "Wotchawan?" Posed and silent,
she looked poised, mid-twenties. In motion and talking, just another
gangly teenager.
I said, "I'd like to speak with you privately."
Before Fagan could answer, Chris said, "Tell you
what, folks. Let's take fifteen, everybody shake out the bugs, okay?"
Sandy said, "Fine." Bruce looked like he
wanted to laugh some more, but thought better of it. All three of
them moved off toward a coffee machine on the opposite wall under a
collage of giant lips.
Fagan watched me warily. Up close and out of the
harsh lights, the makeup was heavy, covering a lot of freckles and a
little too much sideburn edging close to her jawline.
I said, "My name's John Cuddy, Ms. Fagan. I'm a
private investigator."
"No shit."
Fagan said the second word flatter than the first, as
though she didn't believe me. I took out my ID folder, letting her
mouth what she read on it.
"What's this for?"
"The death of Mau Tim Dani."
The face behind the makeup seemed to cave in,
crumbling the caked-on powder. "I don't wanna talk about that."
"Ms. Fagan, it won't take long. We can talk here
at your convenience, or in a conference room with lawyers and a
stenographer. Up to you."
She thought it over, maybe struggling to remember if
that's what happened on L.A. Law. "Let me get a robe, awright?"
Fagan walked, then trotted behind the set, returning
wrapped in a short terry cloth, sash undone. And now wearing the
sunglasses, something she probably thought of in front of the mirror,
to hide her emotions from me.
I pulled up a couple of folded folding chairs and
unfolded them. When we were settled, I said, "You and Mau Tim
were friends."
"Yeah."
"You lived in the same apartment house."
"Yeah. You know the answers to all these, how
come you gotta ask them?"
Defiant,
sunglasses halfway down her nose, eyes searching out the photographer
over the rims. Above the music, she shouted, "Chris, these
shades are like weird."
The photographer spoke to his camera. "They look
fine, Sinead."
"I feel like somebody's grandmother."
"Don't worry about it. They fit the scene, and
nobody's looking at your eyes, anyway."
"They still feel weird."
George Yulin was right about Sinead Fagan's
Medford accent. Weird came out "we-id," grandmother
"gramuva."
The "scene" appeared to be a beach. There
was a big striped umbrella guy-wired into the shallow sand, the
background wall draped with a blue and white cloth that looked enough
like sky and clouds to fool me, and I knew it was fake. The blonde
patiently waited through the shorter man's fussing and Sinead's
whining.
Chris the photographer said, "That looks fine,
Bruce."
As the man with the brush moved back out of the
scene, Chris said into the lens, "Sandy, hold where you are.
Sinead, just a little to the right."
Sinead huffed out a breath and shifted left.
"Awright?"
Bruce mouthed something into the photographer's ear
and grinned mischievously.
Chris said, "Other way, Sinead."
"Other way what?"
"Move the other way, toward Sandy."
Sinead huffed again but moved the correct way.
" More."
Sinead nearly bumped into the other woman, Sinead's
sunglasses slipping off her nose and into the sand below. Reaching
for them, Sinead lost her balance, plopping into the sand behind
them.
Sandy closed her eyes and broke her pose. The brush
man burst out laughing. Chris raised his head from the camera and
said, "Bruce, kill the music."
The shorter man went to the stereo on a side wall and
suddenly the room grew still. It was as though the sound instead of
the shadow had been covering my presence, because as suddenly
everybody seemed aware I was there.
The photographer said, "Who are you?"
"John Cuddy. I'd like to talk to Ms. Fagan, if I
could."
"Who?"
"That's me, Chris."
Sinead Fagan came off the set, one hand holding the
sunglasses while the other whisked her bottom. Sand on her feet
squinched a little on the linoleum floor. "What do you want?"
It came out "Wotchawan?" Posed and silent,
she looked poised, mid-twenties. In motion and talking, just another
gangly teenager.
I said, "I'd like to speak with you privately."
Before Fagan could answer, Chris said, "Tell you
what, folks. Let's take fifteen, everybody shake out the bugs, okay?"
Sandy said, "Fine." Bruce looked like he
wanted to laugh some more, but thought better of it. All three of
them moved off toward a coffee machine on the opposite wall under a
collage of giant lips.
Fagan watched me warily. Up close and out of the
harsh lights, the makeup was heavy, covering a lot of freckles and a
little too much sideburn edging close to her jawline.
I said, "My name's John Cuddy, Ms. Fagan. I'm a
private investigator."
"No shit."
Fagan said the second word flatter than the first, as
though she didn't believe me. I took out my ID folder, letting her
mouth what she read on it.
"What's this for?"
"The death of Mau Tim Dani."
The face behind the makeup seemed to cave in,
crumbling the caked-on powder. "I don't wanna talk about that."
"Ms. Fagan, it won't take long. We can talk here
at your convenience, or in a conference room with lawyers and a
stenographer. Up to you."
She thought it over, maybe struggling to remember if
that's what happened on L.A. Law. "Let me get a robe, awright?"
Fagan walked, then trotted behind the set, returning
wrapped in a short terry cloth, sash undone. And now wearing the
sunglasses, something she probably thought of in front of the mirror,
to hide her emotions from me.
I pulled up a couple of folded folding chairs and
unfolded them. When we were settled, I said, "You and Mau Tim
were friends."
"Yeah."
"You lived in the same apartment house."
"Yeah. You know the answers to all these, how
come you gotta ask them?"
Defiant,
Similar Books
