Shallow Graves

pose for free.“
    “Why is that?“
    A shrug. “The glamour and the... bright lights?“ Yulin smiled at his industry joke.
    “You have a home number for Sinead?“
    “Yes, but I’m not sure she’s still living at the same place.“
    “Where Mau Tim was killed, you mean?“
    “Right. I think she’s moved in with Oz.“
    “Puriefoy’s dating her, too?“
    “No. He’s dating her currently, though ‘dating’ might be an awfully chivalrous way to put it.“
    “Do models usually get involved with their photographers?“
    “Some. However, in Sinead’s case, it might just be that Oz is the first man she’s known who hasn’t thrown up on her.“
    “There any way I can see her today?“
    “I doubt it. She’s on a longish shoot.“
    “Where?“
    “Nearby. But it’s not a great idea to interrupt a model on a job.“
    I folded my pad. “The sooner I see her, the sooner Empire can decide whether you get paid on the policy.“
    George Yulin mulled that over for all of five seconds. Then he jotted an address on a slip of white paper while saying, “You might just catch her.“

- 7 -

    The music was so loud I could feel it in my chest.
    There had been no one in the waiting area of the photography studio a few blocks from Lindqvist/Yulin, and I could hear a driving beat from behind a closed, inner door. I opened the door and was hit by a rap-reggae hybrid from four floor speakers that topped off above my waist.
    On the far side of the thirty-by-thirty room were four people. The two men wore black mock turtlenecks and black pants, the two women bikinis. The taller man played with his earring behind a long-lensed camera on a tripod, an identical camera lying on the crest of a stepladder beside him. The shorter man brushed the billowing hair of a statuesque blond woman who was physically perfect. Standing next to the blonde was a redhead who looked younger than the blonde but had a similar body. The redhead’s hair was short and spiky, a cocklebur with a haughty face.
    The women didn’t seem to match, like somebody’s older sister running into somebody else’s younger sister at the beach, but maybe that was the effect they wanted. It took a minute for me to realize that I was standing in shadow, and probably the models couldn’t see me through all the lights shining on them.
    The redhead 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