Shallow Graves - Jeremiah Healy (23 page)

"I asked you if you're rooming with Cotter."

"In a manner of speaking. Quinn's under contract
to house-sit this place."

"He seemed a little reluctant to admit you lived
here, too."

"I believe the real estate company that hired
Quinn prefers . . . single occupancy."

"
Who owns the house?"

"Some wealthy investor who decided to take a
sabbatical. Isn't that a super idea? Just disappear for a while,
travel and refresh oneself."

There was the sound of a cycle rewing, just audible
through the solid walls of the house. Then a high whining sound that
faded quickly.

I said, "So you're kind of sub-sitting?"

Yulin looked at me, then smiled. "I see.
'Sub-sitting' instead of 'sub-letting.' Clever, John. But no. I
decided to rent out my own place for a while, try living in a
different environment.

My own quasi-sabbatical, you might say."

"
Or your own quasi-cash-shorts, I might say."

Yulin pursed his lips. "Close enough." He
downed the rest of the glass and went back to the bottle.

"How tight are things for you, George?"

"Tight." He splashed the whiskey again.
"Ever since the Massachusetts Miracle started turning to clay,
things have looked down. Oh, we still have bookings for the campaigns
that were already underway. But both Erica and I can see the dark at
the end of the tunnel, at least short-term."

"Which made Mau Tim all the more important to
you/'

"Yes." A cautious sip this time. "Yes,
frankly she'd been a savior over the last few months. You see, we
service mostly the smaller agencies. Advertising agencies, I mean.
The bigger ones, like Hill, Holliday, they do three, four hundred
million in billings a year. But the smaller ones, they're hurt most
by the downturn. They're the ones the jittery clients leave for the
safer harbor of the bigger firms. Then come layoffs, and, well, fewer
phone calls to modeling agencies like ours."

"How's Larry Shinkawa's firm doing?"

"Quite well, surprisingly. Berry/Ryder is riding
the crest of what business there is right now."

"I understand Quinn was pretty upset about
losing out on a job Shinkawa was placing through you?"

Yulin started to take another cautious sip, stopped,
then took a gulp. "Who told you that?"

"How upset?"

Yulin clacked his tongue off the roof of his mouth.
"Quinn is excitable. It's sincere if a bit shallow of him. But
that's what comes across so well in his shoots."

"But not well enough for Shinkawa."

"John, Larry Shin is . . .” The last sip.
"Larry Shin is a very shrewd man in a very tough business. He
likes to make things personal and does it well enough to cover
himself. Quinn was perfect for the running-wear shoot. I thought so,
and Erica agreed. I'm sure even Larry thought so, but depriving Quinn
of the shoot was Larry . . . tweaking Quinn with his power, tweaking
him in a way that Quinn has to swallow, and knows he has to swallow,
to continue to prosper in this business. Besides, as I told Quinn,
Larry will probably pick him for more shoots now, just to make the
point that he was only making a point the first time."

"That why you forgot to mention Cotter to me
when we were in your office?"

"You asked me, I believe, about Mau Tim's
'boyfriends.' I never thought of Quinn that way."

"Seems to me he was nuts about her."

"Perhaps. But that didn't make him her
'boyfriend' in my book." Yulin gestured with the empty glass.
"If you've already worked your way around to Quinn, you must be
nearing the end of your investigation."

"Not quite. Quinn told me something else I
didn't know."

"What was that?"

"You had a set of Sinead's keys at the agency."

"Probably still do. So?"

"I don't remember your mentioning that in your
office either."

Yulin set down the glass. "I don't remember your
asking me about keys, John."

"I was investigating Mau Tim being killed in her
apartment. You had a key to the building, but you didn't tell me
that."

"We'd heard that a burglar broke in. I didn't —
and frankly, I still don't — see why keys are important. But yes,
some of the models like to keep a spare set nearby, so we do have
some in a petty-cash box at the agency."

"Sinead's, but not Mau Tim's."

"Correct."

There was something wrong about that, but I couldn't
quite touch it. "At your office, George, you said you went home
the night Mau Tim died."

"Also correct. After that ad party and some pub
crawling, I came back here."

"When did you arrive?"

"Oh . . . ten? I wasn't paying much attention,
and Quinn was watching video, not TV, when I got in, so I can't even
peg it by what was on the screen."

"Thorough."

Yulin darkened. "What was that?"

"I said thorough. Very thorough of you to think
all that through in answering a simple question"

"Yes, well, I tend to do a lot of time
management, John, both for myself and my models. It's tough to leave
some things at the office, you know?"

"Speaking of leaving, I found something else out
this afternoon."

"I'm glad to hear it's been a productive day for
you."

"It seems a lot of people think Mau Tim was
about to pull the ripcord, George."

His face darkened again, and he reached for the
whiskey bottle. "Ripcord?"

"She was bailing out. Moving to New York and
changing agencies."

The neck of the bottle rattled against his tall
glass. "You don't know that because it isn't true."

An article of faith that Yulin couldn't recant. I
stood up. "Give Quinn my regards."

As I moved to the French doors, Yulin said, "John?"

"Yes?"

"We seem to have . . . We don't appear to be on
the same wavelength today. My fault — the single malt, I'm afraid."

"Don't worry about it, George"

"No, seriously. If there is anything I can do to
. . . facilitate this process, please let me know."

I nodded without saying anything more and made my way
out.
 
 

-17-

"JOHN, WHAT HAPPENED?"

"I fell and banged my chin."

Standing in her living room and still dressed from
work, Nancy reached up a hand, turning my face just a little under
the light. "Looks more like assault and battery with a shod
foot."

"You've got quite an eye, counselor."

"After a while. What really happened?"

"I'm not sure how much I should tell you."

Nancy cocked her head, the hair still drawn back by a
silver barrette.

"I promise, Nance, I'm not doing anything over
the line. It's just that it has to do with an open homicide."

"The Suffolk one from Empire?"

"Right."

Nancy frowned, the corners of her mouth knitting
crosslines all the way up to the hairline. Then she nodded. In
acceptance rather than agreement. "I'm going to cook us dinner."

"I was ready to take you out to eat."

"I'll be in Dallas restaurants both tomorrow
night and Saturday. I'd like a meal in my own home as a send-off."

I took her chin in my hand. "You shouldn't try
to live by bread alone, counselor."

"I've heard that."

"Another thing. I've been thinking about what
you told me on your birthday."

"The bank robbery? The jury convicted him this
morning."

"No, I meant what you showed me at the Ritz."

"What I . . . ?"

"About the sensitive spots. On the palm, the
fingertips, the thumb."

"Uh-huh."

"I've come up with a few more."

"Really."

I moved my hand to the back of her open collar.
"There's this one, stroking the little hairs at the nape of the
neck."

Nancy closed her eyes. "So far, so good."

I moved my hand again. "Then there's the
earlobe. Just a gentle, milking motion."

"Would it be rude to moo?"

I moved my hand a third time. "Then the lips.
The back of the fingernail's best here."

Nancy ran the tip of her tongue along my finger.

"Unfortunately . . ." I cleared my throat.
"Unfortunately, the other spots I thought of aren't yet . . .
accessible."

Nancy undid her barrette,
the hair tumbling down. "Make them accessible."

* * *

Nancy's hand snaked from under the sheets, turning
her alarm clock so she could see its face. "Damn. I should have
put the cutlets on ahead of time."

"Would have killed the mood."

She snuggled back against me. "As one of the
guys at the office is fond of saying, you couldn't have killed that
mood with a stick."

"Madam, such vulgarity."

"Sorry." Nancy sighed. "I really miss
him."

"Renfield."

"Who else?"

"Did you check on him today?"

"I called twice. He came through the operation
fine, but when I asked if I could visit, they said he was still
sleeping from the anesthesia and that it was best not to wake him."

I thought back on my times in human hospitals, where
they didn't seem to share the same compunction.

Nancy said, ”You'll still be able to pick him up
tomorrow?"

"A promise is a promise."

"They said any time after three-thirty and
before six, but I really hate to think of my kitty being there any
longer than he has to be."

"I'll be scratching at their door by
three-thirty-one."

"Poor little guy. I had them hack off his nuts
because he was spraying my furniture and his front toes because he
was shredding it. Now what'll he think?"

"I'rn pretty sure cats don't dwell much on
motivation and consequence, Nance."

She shifted a little off the arm before it fell
asleep. "Did I tell you last night that it wasn't your fault?
That he was born with this problem."

"Among other things."

"God, I was so drunk."

"It takes getting used to."

"Two other times I got like that, John. Once
when my mom died, and once when I found out I passed the bar exam."

"Not after the exam itself?"

"N0. Oh, New England threw a party for all of us
taking the Massachusetts bar. They're really good about that. The
Alumni Association rents out Anthony's Pier Four, the covered patio.
It's just a block from where the exam's administered, over at
Commonwealth Pier."

"You mean ‘The World Trade Center?' "

"Please. It was a real lift, going into that
last afternoon, three more hours to go after nine hours over the two
days, talking with the other New England grads about it, watching the
Harvard and BU kids turn green, knowing their schools don't do
anything like that for them. But I didn't get drunk. Nobody I saw
did. We just milled around and decompressed, talking to the
professors and administrators who came by to kind of . . .I don't
know, say good-bye till the fifth-year reunion, I guess."

Nostalgia. The cat was still bothering her. "Nance?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about Renfield. He's going to be
fine."

"John, do me another favor?"

"What's that?"

"Stay with him?"

"
Nance, I'm not going to leave him in a basket
on the doorstep."

"I mean, stay here with him till I get back."

"When is that?"

"My plane touches down on Sunday at twelve
noon."

"You want me here for two days?"

"Please." A little kiss on my earlobe.
"I'll take a taxi from the airport."

"Nance, I can pick you up."

"No. No, it's all reimbursed. I'll get a cab and
relieve you as wet nurse if you'll just stay here with him till
then."

How hard could it be? "Okay."

"Oh, John, thank you." Another kiss, same
place.

"I think a gentle milking motion works best
there."

"Like this?"

"Just."

After a minute, I said, "Nance?"

"Ummm?"

"What did you mean by 'wet nurse?' "

"Just an expression."

* * *

Friday morning, I got a kiss good-bye as Nancy
carried her garment bag out to the yellow Checker. The sun was
burning brightly, cutting through the light fog we sometimes get when
the water is colder than the air. Or when the air is colder than the
water. Boston's not on the level of San Francisco, but we're getting
there.