Wedmore sighed, and got up.
This was the damnedest thing she’d dealt with in a while.
She was just leaving the interrogation room when her phone buzzed. It was a text, from Joy.
It read: “Got something. Call me.”
Twenty-two
Keisha tried to think how she would explain it.
Because she would have to explain it. There was no doubt in her mind. The police would eventually find Wendell Garfield, if they hadn’t already, and sooner or later they’d discover her business card, tucked into his shirt pocket.
If the card had been anywhere else-in a drawer, in his wallet, even-it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. Over time, everyone collects lots of business cards. You find them in your car, your coat pocket, pinned to bulletin boards.
But a card that’s been tucked into a shirt, well, that’s a card that has to have been acquired, or at the very least referred to, very recently. Assuming that Wendell Garfield did not wear the same, unlaundered shirt for days or weeks on end, it would be reasonable for the police to assume he’d acquired, or been looking at, that card in the last couple of days. Since his wife had gone missing.
And how did most people acquire cards? From the people whose name was on them.
It was just a matter of time before the police would be at Keisha’s door, asking whether she’d met with Wendell Garfield. When was this meeting? Where was it held? What was its purpose and who had initiated it?
What would she tell them?
“I have no idea how he got that card.”
That’s what she would tell them.
It might be a hard story to stick to, but now that Kirk had gotten rid of everything else linking her to the Garfield house, she believed she could ride it out.
She’d tell them that she often left her cards pinned to noticeboards in grocery stores. Sometimes she’d leave a few out on tables at craft shows and community center events. She’d distribute them to random people she might meet waiting in a checkout line, or at a bus stop.
The cards were out there, she’d say. Who knows where he might have gotten one?
Maybe he’d come across one weeks ago, put it in a drawer, and after his wife disappeared, he went hunting for it, thinking maybe a psychic could assist him in ways the police had not. He’d found the card and slipped it into his shirt, and probably would have called her if he hadn’t ended up with a knitting needle in his brain.
Of course, only Keisha knew it would have made no sense for Garfield to engage the services of a psychic to find his wife. He knew all about his wife’s fate. But the police didn’t know that, did they? So far as they were aware, Wendell Garfield was still a distraught husband desperate for his wife’s return. Maybe the police would even start working on the theory that whoever got rid of Ellie-at some point they’d conclude that she was the victim of foul play, even if they never found her body at the bottom of that lake-was the same person who’d killed her husband.
That would make sense, right?
And really, what did her business card have to do with all that?
It’s just a card.
She tried to tell herself not to worry about it. Play dumb, stonewall, act perplexed. However he came into possession of her card, it wasn’t her responsibility to explain it.
The phone rang.
Keisha looked at it but did not move. Probably Chad calling back, or some other needy client. Let it go to message, which it would do after five rings. The ringing stopped, and Keisha waited for the light to flash to indicate a message had indeed been left, but the light never flashed.
Just as well, she thought.
There was a loud rattling at the front door, then the sound of it opening. Keisha jumped almost as much as she had the first time the phone had rung.
Who the hell was this? Wasn’t it too soon for Kirk to be back?
“Hey, babe!” he called out.
Keisha met him in the hall. “What are you doing here?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Where did you go? Where’d you get rid of it?”
“It’s all taken care of,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
“Okay, but where?”
“I did what you asked, okay? It’s done.” He tried to get past her to go into the kitchen, but she laid her palm on his chest.
“I told you to take it to Darien or someplace far. You didn’t go that far, did you? You’re back too soon.”
“Well shit, that was just a stupid idea you had. I mean, the main thing is, don’t dump it in your backyard, right? Just because you don’t want to put it out in front of your house on pickup day doesn’t mean you got to drive it to hell and back.”
Keisha shook her head angrily. “Where did you toss it?”
He waved her off. “Look, you owe me some money. I had some expenses, at the car wash. Used every quarter I had.”
“Where did you ditch the bag?” It came out more like a scream than a question.
“Jesus, don’t get your panties in a knot. Almost all the way to Bridgeport,” he said.
“What did I tell you?”
“I heard what you said, but once I was out there, I had decisions to make. I saw a good spot behind this strip of stores so that was where I left it.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “I swear to God. Did you at least shove it way down into the Dumpster with a bunch of other bags?”
Kirk hesitated.
“What?” Keisha asked.
He shrugged. “Pretty much.”
“What do you mean, pretty much?”
“Okay, so I drive behind this place and I’m getting ready to put the bag in the Dumpster, right? Then this asshole comes out the back door of this pizza place and starts giving me attitude about putting my trash in his bin, so-”
“Wait a minute? He saw you? And the car? He saw you putting the bag in there?”
“God, woman, let me finish,” Kirk said. Keisha was really starting to get on his nerves. “So anyway, the guy’s all in my face about it, and I’m thinking, what’s the big deal, one lousy bag of garbage, so what if I dump it in his bin, you know? So he’s acting like he wants to get into it, which is okay by me, but then some other guy the size of a refrigerator comes out to back him up and he’s swinging this fucking pipe like a baseball bat, so I had to get the hell out of there. I can take on one guy, no problem, but two, that’s a bit much.”
“Oh my God,” Keisha said. “Do you think they called the police?”
He shrugged. “Why would they do that? A fight over a bag of garbage? Who’s going to call the cops for that? It’s a couple of pizza guys. Don’t worry about it.”
Keisha was very worried. What if they made a note of the license number of her car?
She asked, “So where did you end up putting the bag?”
“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Kirk said. “When that shithead started coming at me with the pipe, I had to take off, right then. So I left the bag there.”
“You left it there? Where they’d seen you?”
“That guy would have killed me with that pipe,” Kirk said.
Keisha was wishing he had. “Tell me you at least got the bag way in there before all this happened. I mean, nobody’s going to want to go into a Dumpster after a specific bag. Not after you’re gone.”
Kirk made a funny face and ran his hand over his chin. “Well, I’d agree with you on that if that was the way it happened. But I never actually got the bag into the Dumpster.”
“What?”
“I had to leave it on the ground. When that guy started coming after me. Asshole would have busted my head open.”
Was the floor tilting? Were they in the middle of an earthquake? Things seemed to be swaying to Keisha. “You’re telling me you left it there? Right there? In front of them? Shit, why didn’t you just empty the bag out so they could get a real good look? What the hell were you-”
I’ve had just about enough of this, he thought.
He exploded, throwing her up against the wall so hard it knocked the wind out of her. He wrapped his right hand around her throat, pinning her head to the wall, squeezing her right where the pink sash had bit into her skin.