under a hooded sweatshirt. He stared straight ahead, and let Robotaille and Martinson lead him through the front door, where three uniformed cops intercepted the jostling bodies.
Due to some screw-up between New York and the Marshalls’ office, Healy arrived without his lawyer, but rather than turning to stone, he wanted to talk. He had a lot to say. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to tell them anything.
“Just so you know I know,” he told Martinson at one point, “I don’t have to answer a single one of these questions until my attorney gets here. But to tell you the truth, I’d rather be talking to you than sweating my ass off in some jail cell.”
Lili was standing with Kramer outside the interview room, watching and listening through the two-way glass. Martinson made Healy run through his story another time. Healy wasn’t disrespectful, but his breezy tone was bugging her. He seemed relaxed, almost relieved, like a man with a weight off his shoulders.
Martinson told him they lifted a fingerprint that belonged to him off the stereo in Pfiser’s room. Healy didn’t deny being there.
“I shut it off,” he said. “It was blaring some Patsy Cline thing. I wiped down the scotch bottles and the glasses, but I forgot about the stop button on the stereo.”
He had drained his second can of Coke, and now he was wondering about coffee. Martinson shifted his gaze toward the mirror, nodding his head yes, and Lili had to go fetch him a cup.
“Light and sweet,” Healy said.
Martinson was waiting outside when she got back. Kramer was chewing the inside of his lip, and everybody stayed mute as Arnie took the coffee and went back in. He set the cup on the table.
Healy led Martinson, for the third time, to the point where he ditched Pfiser’s rented Mustang in Hollywood.
Arnie went soft. Acevedo was waiting for the chance to burn Healy down, hopefully before his lawyer got there.
“Tell me about your relationship with Leo Hannah.”
“There was no relationship. I saw the guy exactly twice, once in jail, once on Ocean Drive. That’s how much I know him.”
“Were you aware of a conspiracy to rip off Pfiser?”
“I told you who’s gonna help you is that chick, Vicki, who was in his room. She told Manfred her name was Jennifer. What does that tell you?”
“Why did you agree to meet with Pfiser when Hannah suggested you go see him? Didn’t that make you the least bit suspicious? You just said there was no relationship.”
“What can I say? I needed the two hundred.”
Martinson said, “Who got the package, Harry?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I thought you said you wanted to talk. Help me out with this.”
“Two queers in a motel room. This is the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life.”
“What do you want for free? Tell me about JP Beaumond.”
“I told you I don’t know the guy,” Healy said, and Martinson pushed Beaumond’s mug shots at him again.
“JP Beaumond,” Martinson said. “I’m just trying to get this clear in my mind.”
“I don’t need to look at him any more. I don’t know him.”
“What about him?” Martinson gave him a picture of Alex Fernandez.
“Ditto.”
“In or out of the company of Leo Hannah.”
“Look, you guys want me to help you make your case, I’ll help you make a case, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know. You seem like a decent guy, but I think we’re about done here. Where’s that fucking lawyer? He’s costing my brother a fortune.”
Kramer was worrying a button on his sleeve, and he hadn’t stopped chewing his lip. He was looking at Lili but she refused to meet his eyes. She was getting the awful, empty-gutted feeling that Healy was telling the truth, that while he might have been guilty of a lot of things, the murder of Manfred Pfiser wasn’t one of them.
Healy was lawyered-up tight with a hot rod from New York named Connor Merrill, and Merrill hired a Palm Beach bulldog, Otto Wagner, to help him navigate Florida statutes. Kramer gave Acevedo her crack at Healy, but she didn’t have any more luck with him than Arnie did. For his final interview, it was Kramer, Martinson, Acevedo, and both attorneys, with Assistant DA Whitaker Graves observing through the glass. Healy gave them a written statement. It didn’t sway one letter from what he had been saying all along.
Graves was a serious young man with a pinkish complexion and scowl lines creasing his forehead. Kramer’s lantern jaw was pulsing.
“What do you make of this guy, Arnie?” Kramer said.
Martinson said, “He didn’t do it.”
“What have we got left?”
“We’ve got Victoria Leonard,” Lili said. “We figured she was lying to protect Fernandez. I wonder if she’ll stick to her story now that he’s dead.”
“Would we have any shot at all with a grand jury?” Kramer asked Graves.
“John, your own detectives think somebody else did it.”
“The Medical Examiner’s opinion eliminates Healy,” Martinson said. “Any grand jury would have to hear from him.”
Graves said, “Forget this guy, John.”
Kramer took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He was thinking about the bank of cameras set up in front of the building. He’d need to throw them something. He said, “What’s happening with that thing on Pine Tree?”
Dade investigators recovered gravel from the cuffs of JP Beaumond’s camouflage pants, and its composition matched the mix lining the driveway of Leo Hannah’s house on Pine Tree Drive.
They also found fibers, manufactured by a company that sold carpets to General Motors in the late ’80s, stubbornly clinging to those same fatigues. Martinson figured Hannah shot Beaumond on Pine Tree, dragged him out of the house, and loaded him into the trunk of an ’89 Cadillac. Then he drove to the Glades and dumped the body. The car, what was left of it, had been found in Liberty City. It was registered to a Theodore Kistler of Biloxi, Mississippi, who identified Beaumond as the man who carjacked him in St. Cloud.
Martinson picked up the ringing phone. A voice talking through a handkerchief asked for him.
“This is Martinson,” he said.
The muffled voice said, “People are saying Junior Fabricant for Josephine Simmons.”
“Uh-huh,” Martinson said. “Who’s this?” He knew who he was talking to, he just wanted to string him out.
“Don’t worry who’s this. Junior Fabricant for the old lady.”
“Junior Fabricant.” Martinson wrote the name on a slip of paper.
“That’s right.”
“Good work. You get an A in citizenship,” Martinson said. “A for Anton.”
There was a short lapse of dead air, and Anton Canter clicked off.
Lili was standing at the window, the late sun throwing an aura around her body. She stepped out of the fading light and headed over to where he was sitting. “It just seems like a lot of work for nothing.”
He wanted to tell her that disappointment and frustration were a big part of this job. If that’s all she learned from this case, she could take it with her through the rest of her career, which would continue decades after Martinson was comfortably retired, a notion he was giving more and more thought.
He asked her, “Did you ever try to keep a garden?”
Lili said, “I live in an apartment.”
“Nothing but work,” Martinson said. “Weeding and planting and watering, and then the animals get after your tomatoes or whatever, and you wonder why the hell you bother.”
“I didn’t know you had a green thumb.”
Arnie said, “I don’t. I’m drawing a comparison. The same way you have to trust that one season it’s all going to come together and you’re going to harvest that bumper crop, in this job you’ve got to trust that your work is
