Shallow Graves

curled over the chipped and gouged wainscoting, painted an uneven white. A couple of plastic chairs and two TV trays were the furnishings.
    “Help you with something?“
    The voice really was sonorous, like a Shakespearean actor. His complexion ran to medium brown. Puriefoy was mostly bald, with a beard that seemed to ride up and over his ears into the fringe of hair remaining on his head. He wore hiking khakis with button pockets on the thighs and an old chamois shirt, stained down the front like a mechanic’s overalls.
    I said, “My name’s John Cuddy. I’m a private investigator.“
    Puriefoy made a face as he stood up, rising to about six feet. “You got some ID?“
    Taking out my leather folder, I walked over to him.
    He examined it, shook his head, and handed it back to me. “I can’t help you.“
    “You haven’t heard what I’m here for.“
    “Don’t matter.“ He turned back to the train set. “I don’t know anything about it.“
    “I’m looking into the death of Mau Tim Dani, and I’m guessing Sinead Fagan already told you I spoke to her about it.“
    His head came up as he stopped and turned to me again. “She said you were working for some insurance outfit.“
    “That’s right.“
    “Why?“
    “Why insurance, you mean?“
    “Yeah. Her family, they own the building. Who’s getting sued?“
    “Nobody yet. Everybody helps me, maybe nobody will.“
    A cynical scowl. “Yeah. Right.“
    “I understand you were the one who scouted her.“
    Puriefoy looked like he was trying to decide which would be less trouble, to throw me out or talk with me and get it over with. Then he said, “How long you gonna be?“
    I dropped my head toward the train. “Tell your models to take their lunch break.“
    A laugh. “I’ll tell you, man, these here be a lot easier to work with than the prima donnas in this trade.“
    “How so?“
    “Aw, these girls, they hook up with an agency, they figure they’re movie stars. They get to wear hot clothes, go to big parties, everybody coming on to them. Then they find out modeling’s just standing around for an hour, hour and a half, same leg set, same perfume or wine or whatever the fuck product in their hand. They cop an attitude, you know?“
    “Was Mau Tim like that?“
    A more cautious look. “They’re all like that. This strictly product work, like I’m doing here? This is easy money. You do good work, it shows. How your work looks don’t depend on some model’s got a hair across her ass, you know?“
    “How did you discover her?“
    Puriefoy took a deep breath, went over to a chair, and slumped into it. “You want to sit?“
    “Thanks, no.“
    Puriefoy rolled his shoulders, then crossed his arms, feet flat on the floor. “Mau Tim—she was calling herself ‘Tina’ then, by the way—Mau Tim I spotted in a cafe over in Copley Place. She had this bag from Neiman’s next to her, and she was checking it, maybe figuring somebody’d try and walk with it. I watch her, eating this croissant. She takes a little nibble, like a rabbit, you know? Then she sends out her tongue after the little bits around her lips. Man, I watch her for like a minute, I know she’s a natural. You know about scouting, you know what a natural is?“
    “Naturally photogenic?“
    “Yeah, but more than that. See, Mau Tim, she was perfect being herself. Like they used to say about that actor dude, Spencer Tracy. I mean, you don’t have to pose a girl like that, you don’t have to like direct her, you just tell her the theme for the shoot, and she does it and you click away at her. They say somebody with grace, it shows when they move? With Mau Tim, it showed even when she didn’t move. It showed through the lens and on the paper. I printed a galley sheet for her test shots, I couldn’t decide which ones ought to go in her minibook, they were all that good.“
    I thought the mini-book decision was up to the agents. “You sent her over to Lindqvist/Yulin?“
    The photographer pulled back a little. “Yeah. Why?“
    “Just checking something. Why that agency?“
    A shrug. “They were a little hungry. They did okay by a sister I sent them, got her good fashion bits, even a couple of runways for the lah-di-dah boutiques. See, Mau Tim was exotic, man. She needed a little bringing along before she hit the big time, and I figured Erica could do that.“
    “But not George?“
    “George? Man, George is like a booker, not a creative guy. Erica’s got the vision,