“All right,” she said, as Wedmore put her hand gently on Keisha’s back and led her toward the house.
She took her hand away as they continued walking. “How did you and Mrs. Beaudry connect?”
“She’s a client of mine,” Keisha said. “She’s consulted me for a few years now.”
“What kind of consulting?”
“You’d have to ask her that.”
“Oh. Psychic–client privilege?”
Keisha gave Wedmore a look. “That’s why I don’t come to the police when I have information about a crime.”
“Information? What do you mean by information?”
“Things come to me, Detective. Visions, images, likes pieces of a puzzle. But I don’t expect you to believe me any more than the Archers did.”
“When we go into the house, you’re not to touch anything. And we’re just going to step in. You can see the living room from the front door.”
“Is that where it happened?” Keisha asked.
Wedmore looked at her and smiled. “Yes, that’s where it happened.” The officer Keisha and Gail had spoken to earlier was guarding the front door, and stepped aside to let them through.
Keisha was rehearsing in her head how she’d act surprised. Turned out she didn’t need to rehearse at all.
What she saw as she looked into the living room horrified her.
A massive puddle of dark red had saturated the broadloom. It was concentrated in one area, but there were scattered splotches of red between where the body had been and the door.
“Dear God,” Keisha said, her eyes fixed on the scene for several seconds before she turned away. “That’s horrible.”
“Yes,” said Wedmore. “It’s pretty bad.”
“Can we go now?”
“Let’s just hang in for a second. Give your spidey senses a chance to pick something up, see who did it.”
Keisha shot her a look, and turned away from the living room. “It’s not like that. I can’t just say, oh, it was a man, six two, heavyset, with a thick beard and a dark coat, driving a red Mustang, license plate 459J87.”
“Is that a vision that just came to you?”
“No! I’m trying to make a point.”
“Okay, okay,” said Wedmore. “Maybe it would help, though, if you looked into the room one more time. There’s some things I could point out to you.”
“Like what?”
“Pull yourself together and have a look.”
Keisha did as she was told, steeled herself, and turned around. “What things?”
“You see the pink robe over there?”
“Yes.”
“And if you look there, you’ll see the sash from the robe. Also pink.”
“Okay.”
“So why isn’t the sash in the loops of the robe, do you think?”
Keisha resisted an urge to touch her neck. “I don’t know. Do you?”
“No. But I’ve an idea. I’m wondering if there was an attempted strangulation.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to think it through. You see, I don’t think anyone came here intending to kill Mr. Garfield. I mean, if you were coming here to kill him, you’d bring along something other than a knitting needle, don’t you think?”
“A knitting needle?” Keisha said. “He was killed with a knitting needle?”
Wedmore nodded. “That’s right. If you were coming here intending to kill him, you’d bring a gun, or a knife, even a baseball bat. Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Keisha said.
“To kill him with a knitting needle, that tells me that the perpetrator acted impulsively, that the needle was the closest thing at hand.”
“You may be right, I honestly have no idea. Do I have to keep looking?”
Wedmore ignored the question. “Even then, if you were going to act, like I said, impulsively, wouldn’t you be more likely to just hit him? Or grab something in the room that’s heavy and clunk him over the head with that? Like a lamp, or an ashtray, maybe, although I don’t think Mr. Garfield smoked.”
“Really, I have no idea.”
“To my way of thinking, the knitting needle is an act of desperation. A last-ditch effort or attempt at something. Maybe the only thing that the person who did this could reach. I’m even thinking it might have been a defensive move.”
“Defensive?” Keisha asked.
“Now we’re back to the sash. Suppose Mr. Garfield was strangling someone with that, and that someone grabbed the needle to try to save himself.”
“You know it was a man?” Keisha asked.
“I’m just saying,” Wedmore said. “I think it could as easily have been a woman.”
Keisha swallowed but said nothing.
“Is that how it happened?” Wedmore asked.
“I don’t know,” Keisha said. “I’m not picking up anything like that.”
“No, no,” Wedmore said. “I don’t mean in a vision. Is that how it happened, to you?”
“What?”
“Did he try to strangle you, Ms. Ceylon? When you came here to offer your services? Did he think you knew what had happened?”
Keisha stared, dumbfounded, at Wedmore. “What?”
“I was wondering if that’s how it played out,” the detective said innocently.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never been here before.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I am.”
“Because we found your card. Tucked right into Mr. Garfield’s shirt pocket. Your card, Ms. Ceylon. With your name on it, your phone number and website. ‘Finder of Lost Souls,’ it said on it.”
“Really? He had my card?”
“How do you explain that?”
“Well, I mean, quite easily, actually.”
Wedmore raised her eyebrows. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve provided business cards in the past to Gail, to Mrs. Beaudry. She must have given one to her brother. You should ask her about it.”
“I will.”
“And when he started wondering whether you were ever going to find his wife, he went looking for that card and was probably going to give me a call.”
“You were paying attention outside, weren’t you?” Wedmore asked.
“About what?”
“Wendell Garfield knew what had happened to his wife. He helped get rid of her body. He hardly needed to engage the services of a psychic to find her.”
“It makes about as much sense to call me as to call a press conference,” Keisha shot back.
Wedmore smiled. “Yes, but that was a performance. A public demonstration to make us think he and his daughter were in the dark about what happened to Ellie Garfield. But one of your cards, tucked into his shirt? Who was he trying to impress with that?”
Keisha said nothing.
“You know what I think?” Wedmore said. “I think you came here and tried the same scam you tried with the Archers. Asked Garfield for money in exchange for information you really didn’t have. It’s your thing. It’s what you do. And then something went wrong. I don’t know what, exactly. But he ended up dead, and you got away.”
“That’s insane,” Keisha said, feeling as though her insides would let loose. “I can’t take any more of this. I’m leaving.”
She was turning for the door when Wedmore reached out and held her arm. “I’ve a card of my own I’d like to give you.” She placed it in Keisha’s palm. “You find yourself changing your mind, wanting to talk, you call me any time.”
“I think that’s unlikely,” Keisha said, pulling her arm away and heading outside, but tucking the card into her coat pocket.
She was a few steps down the walk when Wedmore called to her. “That high collar you’re wearing, it’s the perfect thing when it’s cold like this, isn’t it?”
Twenty-seven
Kirk figured it made more sense to take his pickup this time. Those two guys from the pizza place would recogni
ze Keisha’s car, not that he was planning to drive right up to the Dumpster this time anyway.
He wasn’t an idiot.
He remembered there was another small strip of stores just past the one with the pizza place, to the north. He figured on parking there and then backtracking, grabbing the right bag, then getting the hell home.
It didn’t take him more than fifteen minutes to return. He wheeled the pickup into the next business lot, a place that made and sold metal fasteners, pulling in between a couple of other trucks. The lot was nearly full, which was good. Kirk didn’t believe anyone was going to notice if he left his pickup here for a few minutes.
He got out and walked down the alley—wide enough for a good-sized truck—between the two buildings. At the rear, the properties weren’t separated by a formal fence, but there was a thicket of bushes and rubbish that kept Kirk from strolling directly to the Dumpster behind the pizza place.
He’d considered waiting until it was dark to do this, but there was no one around, so he used his arms to part a way through the bushes toward the neighboring property. He was about forty feet from the Dumpster. The bag he’d left behind wasn’t on the pavement, so unless those two clowns had decided to take it inside and open it up, odds were they’d just tossed it into the bin after he’d sped off. What else where they going to do with it? Would they really be pissed off enough to go through the contents of the bag, looking for discarded bills or receipts, hoping to find an address? Did working at a pizza place pay enough to make you have to do that kind of shit?
Kirk doubted it.
But even if they’d tossed the bag into the Dumpster and forgotten about it, Kirk supposed he could see why Keisha had her panties in a knot about getting it out of there and dumping it someplace else. If there ever was a news story about someone trying to dispose of evidence in the Garfield killing, these guys might remember his visit, put it together, put in a call to the cops.
And if the trash hadn’t been collected by then . . .
So maybe, sometimes, Keisha was right. But not always. If it hadn’t been for him speaking up, she’d have turned down a chance to make an easy five grand. If that Beaudry woman wanted to throw money at Keisha, she should take it. Okay, he could see why the whole thing would make her a little squeamish, but for that kind of money she needed to suck it up. All she had to do was what she always did. Spin out enough bullshit to get the client engaged, make them think they were getting their money’s worth.
Piece of cake.
The way Kirk figured it, if there was anyone putting himself at risk in this operation, it was him. Out here in the freezing cold, huddling in the bushes, waiting for a chance to do a Dumpster dive.
Kirk emerged from the bushes and was almost to the car-sized rectangular bin when he saw the back door to the pizza place swing open. He hunched down and scurried in behind the Dumpster, out of sight.
He heard the door close, but didn’t know if that meant someone had stepped out, or gone back inside. He crept to the edge of the bin and dared to peek around.
It was the second man he’d encountered, the big white guy. He was standing there, a couple of feet beyond the door, the cold misting his breath. No, wait, he was on a smoke break.
The man hadn’t slipped on a jacket, so Kirk didn’t think he’d stand out there all that long. Frostbite trumped nicotine addiction, right? He’d get enough of a fix, then head back in.
But the guy kept standing there. Then he turned, looking in Kirk’s direction.
Shit.
Kirk, on his hands and knees, edged back from the corner of the Dumpster. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and the thin layer of nearly melted snow was cold on his bare palms and soaking through the knees of his jeans. He stayed crouched down like that, and tried to hold his frosty breath as long as he could.
He heard whistling. The pizza guy was having a smoke and a whistle. Kirk was trying to place the tune, but the man was a weak, off-key whistler, so it took a few seconds before Kirk realized he was attempting “The Long and Winding Road”. Yeah, Kirk thought. That’s what I feel like I’m on. This is one motherfucking crazy day and it can’t come to an end soon enough.
The whistling grew more faint. It sounded as though the man was strolling back toward the building. Then Kirk heard the door open, and, half a second later, slam shut.
He crawled to the edge of the Dumpster and peered around. There was no one there.
He wondered whether the big man’s buddy smoked too, and if he did, whether they took their smoke breaks in shifts. Which would mean the other guy might walk out that door any second.
Kirk had to move quickly.
He got up on his feet and came around the front of the Dumpster. He worked the heel of his left hand under the lid and pushed up, then leaned his head over the edge. The first thing his eyes landed on was a garbage bag with a red drawstring tie. He reached in with his free hand, grabbed the top end of the bag, made a fist around it, and twisted it around his wrist.
He drew out the bag, let the lid down gently so it wouldn’t make a huge racket, slipped back through the bushes without catching the plastic bag on any of the sharp branches, and was back to his truck in under a minute.
The outside of the bag wasn’t as clean as it had been when he’d left Keisha’s house with it. Scraps of pizza, spilled pop, all kinds of sticky shit. He sure as hell wasn’t going to put it up front in the cab with him. He didn’t even like the idea of dropping it into the cargo bed, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.
Kirk got in the truck, keyed the ignition, and happened to look down at the dashboard clock. It was nearly half past three.
Son of a bitch. The li’l fucker could be home in ten minutes, if he didn’t stop off at a friend’s house or get beat up on the way home. Kirk didn’t think he needed to be there for him, but he supposed Keisha was right. If he came home and the police were there, and his mom wasn’t, he’d probably go off on a crying jag. But chances were, the cops wouldn’t be there. If they came by and no one was home, they’d take off and come back later. Kirk decided to grab the kid, offer to take him to the food court at the Post Mall, and pitch the bag in one of the garbage bins there.
He backed out of the spot, threw the truck into drive, and nearly cut off a woman in a Lexus SUV as he swerved back onto the road with a screech.
About a half-mile later, he glanced into the rear-view mirror, checking not only for traffic, but the bag.
Didn’t see it.
“Jesus!” he shouted. “No way! No fucking way!”
He wheeled the car onto the shoulder and slammed the brakes. He jumped out the door and looked into the cargo bed, his heart pounding.
The bag was there. It had worked its way up to the front, right under the cab window.
Kirk closed his eyes for a second, breathed a sigh of relief, got back into the truck and continued on.
Twenty-eight
Gail Beaudry got out of her Jaguar as Keisha approached.
“What did you see? Do you know who did it? What happened?”
Keisha waved at her to get back in the car. She came around the passenger side and got in herself.
She was shaking.
“What?” Gail asked. “You look terrible. Did you see something? I mean in your head, did you see what actually happened?”
“Please, Gail, I need a second,” Keisha said, holding up her hand.
“Of course, of course, I totally understand. I know these things you see, it’s not like you can turn them on and off like they’re a DVD or—”
“Shut up!” Keisha exploded. “Just shut up for a minute.”
The way Gail recoiled, if the driver’s door hadn’t been there, she’d have fallen out of her seat. Her mouth was agape. She burst into tears.
“Gail,” Keisha said, suddenly feeling sorry.
Gail had one hand over her eyes and the other, palm out, toward Keisha. She sobbed for a good half-minute before Keisha said, “Really, I’m sorry. It was just . .
. so horrible in there.”
Gail’s attitude did a one-eighty. “Oh, of course. I’m the one who should be sorry. I made you go in there. I shouldn’t have done it. It was too much to ask. I feel terrible.” She held Keisha’s arm.
“It’s okay,” Keisha said. She noticed Detective Wedmore walking down the Garfield driveway, pausing at the end, looking in their direction.
“I’ve probably traumatized you,” Gail said. “It was wrong of me.”
“It’s okay. I just . . . I guess I didn’t expect it to affect me the way it did.”
What Keisha hadn’t expected was how quickly Wedmore was putting it together. All because of that damn business card. But she had that covered, right?
“Did you . . . did you sense anything?”
Keisha looked down into her lap and shook her head a couple of times. “Not really.”
“Maybe it’ll come to you later?”
She looked at Gail, saw the wanting in her eyes, the hope.
“The police may be able to figure this one out before I can,” Keisha said.
“I don’t trust them,” Gail said. “I don’t trust the police at all.”
Keisha saw that Wedmore was walking toward them.
“There’s lots of people you shouldn’t trust,” Keisha said. “Not just the police.” She looked down at her purse, sitting on the floor between her feet. “I’ve been thinking, Gail, about this five thousand dollars you’ve given me. I don’t know that I deserve—”
“That detective’s coming this way,” Gail said. “What do you think she wants?”
Keisha hated to think. “I don’t know. But, Gail, about this money, I—”
“I don’t like her,” Gail said. “I don’t like her one bit. And it’s not because she’s black. I have nothing against black people. But don’t you think it’s possible that, at some level, she likes sticking it to white people, whether they’re guilty or not? A kind of way to get even?”
“I don’t think so,” Keisha said. She opened her purse and was about to reach in for the envelope stuffed with cash, but stopped when she heard tapping at Gail’s window.