Shallow Graves

weeks.“
    “How?“
    “She was talking about neighborhoods in Manhattan, asking my advice on modeling agencies down there, did I know anybody in them.“
    “And that didn’t bother you?“
    “Hey, it doesn’t matter which agency handles a girl. I can still have her in my campaigns.“
    “Professionally. How about personally?“
    “Mau was fun, John. A little deeper than most. But we weren’t in love or anything. Life goes on, you know?“
    “You share Mau Tim’s decision on New York with anyone else?“
    “No.“ The smile. “I figured that was her business, right?“
    “Right.“ I handed him my card. “You think of anything else, let me know.“
    “Sure, sure.“ He stood up. “Can I see you out?“
    “That’s okay.“ We shook. “I’ll find my way.“
    At the door, I turned back to him. He was watching me leave rather than lifting a phone or turning to a file.
    I said, “One other thing?“
    “What is it?“
    “You ever had a visit from a guy in a leather coat, toothpick in his mouth?“
    From the look Larry Shinkawa gave me, I was pretty sure he hadn’t.

- 16 -

    Walking back to the condo from Shinkawa’s office, I thought about calling Quinn Cotter. Since I was having dinner that night with Nancy, I figured it was just as easy to drive a few miles out of my way and find Cotter’s place even if he wasn’t home.
    Brookline lies west of Boston’s student ghetto. It’s a classy town that boasts tum-of-the-century brownstones, skyscraper condominiums, and some of the most impressive mini-estates in the metropolitan area.
    I left Route 9 and did some winding up Fisher Hill itself before finding the address Shinkawa had given me. The street number was etched into a stone monument, just above an orange and black sign that said NO TRESPASSING. I let out a low whistle as I parked the Prelude in the empty semicircular drive of a magnificent Tudor mansion. A fieldstone first floor and four gingerbread gables faced me. Professional landscaping, subtle use of fencing, and what from the second-floor rear windows would have to be a postcard view of the Chestnut Hill Reservoir a quarter mile below and across the road.
    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