Read Online Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy by Jeremiah Healy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeremiah Healy
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— and I let him in."
"Shinkawa was invited to the party."
"Sure. Him and Mau was going out."
"That night?"
"No, no. We was all going out after. They was,
like, 'dating,' you know?"
Fagan said the word like I might have heard it back
when I was young. I wondered when it had turned sour. "Who else
was coming to the party?"
The stop. "That was it."
"Nobody else was invited?"
"Well, this other guy was invited, but he
couldn't come."
"What other guy?"
"This other model."
"His name?"
"Quinn."
"First name?"
"That is his first name. Quinn Cotter."
"Where does he live?"
"I dunno."
"How'd you invite him?"
"Saw him on a shoot. Why?"
I no longer even remotely envied Chris the
photographer.
"This Cotter work for Lindqvist/Yulin, too?"
"Yeah."
"Why didn't Cotter come to the party?"
"I dunno. Ask him."
"All right. How about a guy named Shawn?"
" Shawn?"
"Yes. I'm not sure which spelling."
"What do you mean?"
Fagan seemed blank, and for just a second I wasn't
sure she knew what 'spelling' meant. "Did you ever hear Mau Tim
talk about a Shawn?"
" No."
"Somebody said he was her first boyfriend."
"News to me."
"All right. You, Puriefoy, and now Shinkawa are
in your apartment. Then what?"
"Larry Shin says, where's Mau Tim, and I says
she musta just got outta the shower, and he says, let's go up and
surprise her."
"Did you?"
"Uh-unh. He did, not me."
"Puriefoy?"
"No, him neither. Just Larry Shin."
"Then what?"
" Larry Shin goes up, awright, and like two
seconds later he's down the stairs, saying that Mau Tim ain't
answering."
"You remember what he said?"
" N0, just like he was knocking and hollering for
her, and she didn't answer him."
"What did you do?"
Chris the photographer called over. "Sinead?"
"Right." She stood up. "That's it."
"Wait. What did you and Puriefoy do?"
"I don't wanna talk about that, awright?"
I didn't want to see this woman again if I could help
it. "Did you ever talk with Mau Tim about anything that was
bothering her?"
"No."
"How about going to New York?"
The stop. "Everybody talks about going to New
York. It don't mean nothing."
Chris said, "Sinead, how about it?"
"Awright, awright." Her sunglasses slipped
as she looked down at me. "That's all I can tell you."
"Sinead, you seem to have been her best friend.
Is there anything else she talked about with you? Boyfriends, family,
anything?"
Fagan righted the glasses. Very evenly, she said, "We
didn't talk about family, awright?"
Sinead trotted off to rejoin the others at the beach.
-8-
I TREATED MYSELF TO LUNCH AT THE HARVARD BOOKSTORE
CAFE, a place where you can think about eating while browsing or
think about browsing while eating. A friend of mine named Moncef
designed the menu there. He and his wife Donna used to own
L'Espalier, the best restaurant in the city. A few years ago, they
pulled up stakes and moved to Virginia, to raise their family in a
calmer environment. Moncef still comes up to Boston once in a while,
and he was there that day. We shot the breeze for half an hour over a
plate of perfectly stir-fried turkey and vegetables.
To walk off lunch, I crossed the Public Garden and
the Common to my office on Tremont. I'm in an old building, and my
door on the third floor has a pebbled-glass top with "John
Francis Cuddy, Confidential Investigations" stenciled on it.
Behind the door is a desk, a desk chair, and two client chairs. Two
windows overlook the Park Street Subway Station, and my license hangs
from a wall I painted myself to save a few bucks on the monthly rent.
The rest of the office could be carted off in the front basket of a
bicycle.
I was upstairs for five minutes and in my desk chair
four when there was a knock on the door. "It's open."
A guy came in wearing a knee-length leather coat over
a navy blue suit. In his mid-forties, he was five seven and pushing
two hundred pounds. A comb had recently slicked his black hair to the
sides in a Teen Angel look. The face was pudgy, the
"Shinkawa was invited to the party."
"Sure. Him and Mau was going out."
"That night?"
"No, no. We was all going out after. They was,
like, 'dating,' you know?"
Fagan said the word like I might have heard it back
when I was young. I wondered when it had turned sour. "Who else
was coming to the party?"
The stop. "That was it."
"Nobody else was invited?"
"Well, this other guy was invited, but he
couldn't come."
"What other guy?"
"This other model."
"His name?"
"Quinn."
"First name?"
"That is his first name. Quinn Cotter."
"Where does he live?"
"I dunno."
"How'd you invite him?"
"Saw him on a shoot. Why?"
I no longer even remotely envied Chris the
photographer.
"This Cotter work for Lindqvist/Yulin, too?"
"Yeah."
"Why didn't Cotter come to the party?"
"I dunno. Ask him."
"All right. How about a guy named Shawn?"
" Shawn?"
"Yes. I'm not sure which spelling."
"What do you mean?"
Fagan seemed blank, and for just a second I wasn't
sure she knew what 'spelling' meant. "Did you ever hear Mau Tim
talk about a Shawn?"
" No."
"Somebody said he was her first boyfriend."
"News to me."
"All right. You, Puriefoy, and now Shinkawa are
in your apartment. Then what?"
"Larry Shin says, where's Mau Tim, and I says
she musta just got outta the shower, and he says, let's go up and
surprise her."
"Did you?"
"Uh-unh. He did, not me."
"Puriefoy?"
"No, him neither. Just Larry Shin."
"Then what?"
" Larry Shin goes up, awright, and like two
seconds later he's down the stairs, saying that Mau Tim ain't
answering."
"You remember what he said?"
" N0, just like he was knocking and hollering for
her, and she didn't answer him."
"What did you do?"
Chris the photographer called over. "Sinead?"
"Right." She stood up. "That's it."
"Wait. What did you and Puriefoy do?"
"I don't wanna talk about that, awright?"
I didn't want to see this woman again if I could help
it. "Did you ever talk with Mau Tim about anything that was
bothering her?"
"No."
"How about going to New York?"
The stop. "Everybody talks about going to New
York. It don't mean nothing."
Chris said, "Sinead, how about it?"
"Awright, awright." Her sunglasses slipped
as she looked down at me. "That's all I can tell you."
"Sinead, you seem to have been her best friend.
Is there anything else she talked about with you? Boyfriends, family,
anything?"
Fagan righted the glasses. Very evenly, she said, "We
didn't talk about family, awright?"
Sinead trotted off to rejoin the others at the beach.
-8-
I TREATED MYSELF TO LUNCH AT THE HARVARD BOOKSTORE
CAFE, a place where you can think about eating while browsing or
think about browsing while eating. A friend of mine named Moncef
designed the menu there. He and his wife Donna used to own
L'Espalier, the best restaurant in the city. A few years ago, they
pulled up stakes and moved to Virginia, to raise their family in a
calmer environment. Moncef still comes up to Boston once in a while,
and he was there that day. We shot the breeze for half an hour over a
plate of perfectly stir-fried turkey and vegetables.
To walk off lunch, I crossed the Public Garden and
the Common to my office on Tremont. I'm in an old building, and my
door on the third floor has a pebbled-glass top with "John
Francis Cuddy, Confidential Investigations" stenciled on it.
Behind the door is a desk, a desk chair, and two client chairs. Two
windows overlook the Park Street Subway Station, and my license hangs
from a wall I painted myself to save a few bucks on the monthly rent.
The rest of the office could be carted off in the front basket of a
bicycle.
I was upstairs for five minutes and in my desk chair
four when there was a knock on the door. "It's open."
A guy came in wearing a knee-length leather coat over
a navy blue suit. In his mid-forties, he was five seven and pushing
two hundred pounds. A comb had recently slicked his black hair to the
sides in a Teen Angel look. The face was pudgy, the
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