“I was minding my own business. Stan told me how it had gone, after it was over.”
“He told you the woman had appraised the library as worthless.”
“That’s what he said, yes.”
“You never met the lady?”
“No.”
“Is there any way I can persuade you to talk to me?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“You have nothing else to say to me?”
“Not at this time.”
I got up to leave.
He rose with me, his eyes linked to mine. He won’t let me walk out of here, I thought: it’s bothering him too much. But when he spoke, it was only about the house. “I think you should buy Stan’s house, Mr. Janeway. I really do.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“A man would be foolish if he could get a house like that for fifty thousand and he didn’t snap it up. You could rent it for more than the payments. In a few years… who knows?”
I tried to penetrate that wall. A vast enigmatic gulf lay open between us.
“Sometimes, I’ve heard, houses talk,” he said. “Sometimes they give up secrets. This one may be like that. Sometimes I feel Stan’s presence… sometimes it seems like he’s still there, sitting in the library reading. That’s a solid house, Mr. Janeway: more than that, a kind house. I’d buy it myself, if I were younger and had the money.”
41
It was just a matter of geography. Val Ballard lived in Littleton, south of town: Judith Ballard Davis was in Park Hill, a few minutes’ drive from Madison Street. I went there first.
She peered at me through the screen door and struggled to put a name with my face.
“Detective Janeway,” I said. “Remember?”
“Ah,” she said, and let me in.
If she knew anything about my recent history, she didn’t let on. To her my life began and ended and began again when I walked into, out of, and now back into hers. “You ever catch that guy?” she asked, leading me to the living room. I said no, I was still working on it. She motioned me to the big stuffed chair and asked if I wanted a drink. I said you betcha and she made me a double. She watched me take off the top third in one gulp. She never stopped watching me. I knew I didn’t look much like a cop anymore, and I sure didn’t feel like one, but she never asked any of the obvious questions— where was my tie, why weren’t my shoes shined, how come I was drinking on the job. She just looked at me and waited.
“I went by your house a while ago,” I said.
She looked momentarily confused. “Oh, you mean Stan’s house.”
“It’s a nice place. I’m surprised you haven’t sold it yet.”
“It’s a white elephant. You couldn’t give it away, the way the Denver market is.”
“Maybe you’ve got the wrong realtor. I think that house should sell.”
“Put your money where your mouth is, Detective. You could have my part of it damned cheap. I mean damned cheap.”
“I’m listening.”
“Is this why you came here?”
“No, but I’m listening anyway.”
“Make me an offer.”
“I’m not really in the market. I wouldn’t want to insult you with what I could pay.”
“Insult me, please. I’ve got thick skin and I want to get out of this.”
“I’m almost embarrassed to offer it…fifty?”
“Give me twenty-five and you could walk out of here with my part right now.”
“What do you think your brother would say?”
“Do you mind if we don’t call him that? Just hearing it makes my stomach turn.”
“What do you want to call him, then?”
“What I call him wouldn’t be allowed on the radio. Let’s keep it on a high plane. Let’s not call him anything. That matches his personality.”
“Okay. What do you think he would say?”
“He needs the dough worse than I do.” She grinned maliciously. “Alimony. I hope she takes the little pissant for everything he’s got or ever will have.”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” I said: “At that price, I’d definitely buy it.”
“Detective, you’ve made my day. Let me freshen up that drink for you.”
I put my hand over the top. “I’d better not. I’ve got a lot to do yet tonight.”
“Going to see him?”
“I’ll have to, won’t I?”
“Call me later, let me know what he says. I know he’ll say yes. He’ll cough and sputter and blow smoke out of his ass, but in the end he’ll be as delighted to be out of it as I am. We can have the papers drawn up over the weekend and I’ll never have to see that idiot again.” She lit a cigarette. “So what’s the real reason you came over here?”
“I’ve been thinking about those books. I even found some of them.”
“So?”
“They weren’t exactly the kind of books everyone thought.”
“I don’t mean to be short, but why should I care? They’re gone now. Ancient history. None of my business anymore.”
“You might decide to change your mind about that.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Detective.”
“I think you people screwed up. Or maybe just one of you screwed up.”
“You’ll have to make it plainer than that.”
I watched her eyes particularly. Liars usually look away unless they’re very accomplished. She was meeting me head-on.
“I think somebody pulled a scam,” I said. “I think those books were worth a helluva lot more than anybody ever knew.”
“Who pulled a scam? Are you talking about that little man that got killed?”
“He was just a tool. Somebody else was the main guy.”
“And you think it was one of us?”
“Coulda been. The question is, which one?”
“I don’t even know what was supposed to’ve been done.”
“I think you’re brighter than that, Mrs. Davis.”
“Ms. Davis, please. There is no Mr. Davis: never was, never will be. It’s my mother’s maiden name.”
I didn’t say anything. I could see by the color in her cheeks that she was getting a glimmer.
“That son of a bitch,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.
“Somebody’s a son of a bitch,” I said.
She got up, walked to the window, and came back.
“Let me get this straight. You think one of us found out what the books were really worth, hired somebody to buy them, and…is that what’s going through your head? Is that what he did to me?”
I shrugged.
“So tell me, how much did the bastard take me for?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her that yet.
“How much?” she pressed.
I finished off my drink.
She lit another cigarette. “Can we get a straight answer here? Christ, you men are all alike.”
“If I had a straight answer I’d give it to you. Like I told you, I’ve only seen two hundred books.”
“Then let’s start with that. How much would those two hundred books be worth?”
“There’s no guarantee they even came from here. It’s just my hunch.”
“What’s your hunch? Talk straight, please. How much are those two hundred books worth?”
“In a bookstore, at retail… twenty grand. Maybe as much as thirty.”
Her nostrils flared, blowing smoke. She looked ready to erupt.
Then she did erupt.
“Thirty thousand dollars! Thirty thousand dollars for two hundred books!” She leaped up and spilled her drink. “Son of a fucking bitch!” she screamed. “Do you have any idea how many books there were in that goddamn house?”
“Books are funny things,” I said calmly. “Just because one’s worth a lot, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything as far as the others are concerned.”
She was trembling now as, she faced me. “What it means, Detective, is that old Stan wasn’t quite the klutz that everybody thought. What it means is that Stan knew exactly what he was doing. And what that means, Mr. Janeway, is that there’s an excellent possibility that all those books were worth money. Christ, we could be talking a million dollars here! Even the house is nothing compared with that!”