Peyton was rooting in a third drawer.
Martinson said, “What about that?”
Peyton straightened, red-faced and winded, and told him he could use the phone on the desk.
Unless Aggie St. Denis turned out to be a rabid, cophating brat, Martinson made up his mind going in, the right way to play her was soft.
She buzzed him into the building and waited in the doorway of her apartment. She was expecting him, after that phone call from Peyton’s office, but Martinson showed her his badge anyway. She glanced at it, left the door open, and walked back inside.
She was pretty. Not a knockout model type, but fine-featured, attractive, with boyish hair she parted on the side. She was dressed in stiff new Levis, a man’s cut that gapped at the waistband where her figure tapered in, and fit snugly over her hips. She wore a v-neck t-shirt without a bra. Her feet were bare.
They were standing in her living room, near a couch and a TV with a 19-inch screen. She didn’t ask him to sit.
Martinson told her why he was there, and he asked her if she knew a man named Harold James Healy. He might have been going by Harry James.
She jumped on him. “Let me tell you something right now, detective. You’re making a mistake. Harry didn’t kill anybody.”
Which told him Peyton was right. She did have something going with Healy or she wouldn’t have come out of the box so defensive.
“We have a witness who saw him leave the scene shortly after the murder,” Martinson said. “And we have corroborating evidence that proves he was there.” He let this sink in. “If you were me, you’d be looking for him, too. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Earlier this week,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“It was one or the other, wasn’t it?”
She kept the apartment neat, but she owned too many books for the bookcase that stood to the right of the entrance. There were stacks of books on the floor. Martinson unshelved an oversized, leather-bound edition of Shakespeare’s tragedies. It was an old volume, the leather dry and cracked, and there were two more like it that made a set. He thumbed through the first few pages.
Aggie St. Denis closed the cover and put the book back. “I’d rather not have you sorting through my things,” she said, “if it’s all the same to you.”
“I’m sorry, I was just trying to find out when it was published.”
“1897,” she said.
“Wow, that’s a hundred years ago. That set must be worth some money.”
“Ten dollars each,” she said. “I tried selling them when I was broke, and that’s the offer I got.” She refolded her arms, remaining near the bookcase, but her shoulders had dropped down a bit.
“That’s funny,” Martinson said. “The same thing happened with this watch my grandfather gave me when I was a kid. I kept it in a cloth bag that closed with a string, and put it in a jewelry box and forgot about it. Long story short, I recently came across the watch. I thought, hey this is probably a really valuable piece. I took it to a jeweler and he appraised it for a hundred bucks.”
“But is has sentimental value,” she said. “That’s different.”
Martinson pretended to think about what she was saying. He said, “I guess so.”
“You weren’t close with this grandfather?”
“Nobody was. He was an ornery son of a bitch. Lived in the same apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan most of his life. In ’57 or ’58, he was supposed to come and live with us. My father hired a contractor and was all set to build an addition to our house, but then grandpa died.”
“That’s sad,” Aggie St. Denis said. “But what you’ve got is a family heirloom, and I’ve got a set of books I bought at a garage sale.”
Martinson said, “Family heirlooms are usually worth something besides sentiment, aren’t they? Although when you think about it, nothing has any value, except for the value we assign it. I’ll give you an example. A painting sells for twenty-five million dollars. Twenty-five million. What makes a piece of canvas with some colors splashed on it worth even one dollar? Basically, just somebody’s say-so. Then a second guy comes along and says, Hell, twenty-five million? That’s a bargain. I’ll take it. There you go. That’s what your picture’s worth.
“Same thing with the watch,” Martinson went on. “I take it to three jewelers, they all say the same thing. It’s worth a hundred bucks. But let’s say I had a totally different relationship with my grandfather. Let’s say I loved him more than anybody I ever knew. I’d starve to death before I sold that watch. That watch would be priceless.”
Aggie St. Denis was getting lost following the Martinson logic. She shook her head, and Arnie knew his argument, if he was trying to make one, was falling apart.
“But isn’t that what I said in the beginning?” She sounded like she genuinely didn’t remember. “We’re talking about two distinct quantities. On the one hand, money. On the other, what, emotional attachment? Anyway, that’s a weak example. Your watch’s got nothing to do with my books.”
“Maybe not,” he said, though he’d forgotten where they were, and he wasn’t thinking about whether he agreed with her or not. Arnie felt the first twinge of a headache boring in under his eyes. He took two deep breaths and hoped whatever was coming would go away. Just for a while.
“I guess I was taking the long way around to the point that all of us cling to various things, convinced they’re so valuable, and then something happens, or somebody comes along, and proves us wrong.
“Now let me ask you a question,” he said. “You’re an intelligent woman. What’s more important, living up to some false sense of honor by protecting a potentially dangerous criminal, or helping society make this individual answer for his behavior?”
“We’re back on Harry.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“He didn’t do it,” she insisted. “Harry wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
“That’s odd,” Martinson said. “Because he’s been arrested for assault, and he certainly hurt one of our police officers. Put him in the hospital. I would say that not only is he capable of hurting people, he already has.”
“He wouldn’t do what you said he’s done. He couldn’t have. I know his side of the story.”
“Then why don’t you let me in on it?”
“Would it change your opinion?”
“It might.”
“Harry went to do a job for the man who was murdered. When he returned to the man’s room, he found him dead.”
Martinson said, “A job, huh? What kind of job?”
She double-clutched and broke eye contact. She said, “I don’t know.” She was lying.
“Let me guess. He made a delivery for the victim.”
“I don’t know,” she said again.
“And wonder of wonders, the victim was already gone by the time your boyfriend got back with his money? Is that what he told you?”
This time, she didn’t answer.
“And you believe him? Look, at one point there had been a fairly large amount of cocaine in the victim’s room, and by the time his body was discovered, those drugs were gone.” Martinson went right at her. “Your boyfriend stole those drugs and killed that man. This guy you’re trying to protect.”
“Then why bother with the story?” she argued. “Why wouldn’t he just steal my money and steal my car and disappear in the middle of the night? If he’s the kind of man you say he is?”
“What was he selling you? A frame? Prisons are full of guys who didn’t do it. You know that, right? If he’s so innocent why didn’t he give himself up?”
No answer for that, either.
Martinson said, “So where is he now?”
“I have no idea,” she said. Another lie.