Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy (22 page)

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
beautiful, 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?"