the admiration he had to express. “Why would you have heard of Toots Shor? Or Josephine Baker? They’re legends of this industry.”
Martinson didn’t know who the other two were, either. He said, “Is that right?”
“Legends of the time-honored profession of showing people a good time. Frankie Yin is a legend.”
“And Healy worked for him, is that it?”
“Detective Martinson,” Peyton said, switching gears, “May I offer you a cocktail?”
“Can’t do it,” Martinson said.
“Beer or something?”
“Thank you, no.” This Peyton was a prize.
“Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to help myself. You don’t mind, do you?” Not really expecting an answer.
“This’ll only take a minute,” Martinson said, “if you’ll bear with me.”
“No problem,” Peyton said. “I’ll be right back.”
His boots clopped across the concrete, and then Arnie heard the sound of bottles clinking. He checked out the photographs Peyton had mounted on a wall, pictures of himself with members of the Dolphins, the Marlins, the Miami Heat. He couldn’t get over how tall the basketball players were, like they had to duck down to fit in the frame. The seven-footers dwarfed Peyton, a paw here or there on his shoulder, like he was a little kid.
“Would you believe,” Peyton said, re-entering his office, “that Frankie Yin started out as a busboy?”
“I’m here to find out about Harry Healy, who I’m investigating on suspicion of murder. Frankie Yin does not concern me. What more can you tell me?”
“Not much,” Peyton said, less enthusiastic now. “He seemed decent enough.” He swallowed some vodka and looked through it to the bottom of the glass. “Likeable. He was a likeable guy.”
“So he must’ve made some friends here.”
“I don’t know. He was polite, but he pulled up a bit short of being friendly.”
“Nobody he was particularly close with?”
“He might’ve had something going with one of my bartenders,” Peyton said. “Aggie St. Denis.”
Martinson wrote down her name. “What was she, his girlfriend?”
“One night, he swapped shifts with another guy so he could leave with her. Occasionally, I’d notice them coming into work together. Does that make her his girlfriend?”
“Did you ask her, this bartender girl, what happened to her pal Harry?”
“As a matter of fact,” Peyton said, “I did. She told me she hadn’t seen him, and I took her at her word. She’s not responsible for his behavior.”
“I didn’t say she was. But I’d like to get an address and a phone number for her.”
Peyton said, “Sure.” He opened a desk drawer and rummaged through a mishmash of catalogues and brochures and order forms. “I gotta have it around here somewhere.” He unjammed another drawer overflowing with the same kind of mess.
A green metal filing cabinet sat between the desk and a wall. On the side that was facing out, somebody had taped a list of names and corresponding phone numbers. In black marker across the top it said STAFF PHONE LIST. Healy’s name wasn’t on it.
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
