Barclay, Linwood Novel 08 - Never saw it coming

Kirk said.
    “No. You’re not.”
    “It’s just one bag. Chill out, man.”
    “What, you think our bin’s here for your convenience? You got garbage, put it out front of your own yard.”
    “Hey, pal, why don’t—”
    “Don’t fucking ‘pal’ me, asshole. We pay to get this trash hauled away. You want to put that bag in? Ten bucks.” He stepped forward, allowing the metal door to swing shut behind him. “People like you doing this all the time. Thinking this is a public dump. You got ten bucks?”
    “Yeah, I do. And you know where you can put it?” Kirk asked.
    The pizza guy laughed. “Oh, that’s good. And I got an idea where you can put that bag of trash.”
    He’d closed the distance between them. Kirk still had one hand on the bag, the other on the metal lid, but he hadn’t raised it far enough to toss the bag in. The other man slapped his hand on top of it and it slammed shut with a resounding clang. If Kirk hadn’t yanked his hand away quickly enough, he’d be minus a thumb.
    “What’s your problem?” Kirk asked. He thought of a good
Family Feud
question: “Name a place where dickheads are most likely to work?” He’d shout: “Takeout pizza joint!”
    But what he said was, “You got a pepperoni stick up your ass or something?” He really wanted to have a go at this guy. Kick his ass good.
    “This what you want?” the man asked. “You want to get into it over this? Because if that’s what you want, then that’s okay by me.”
    The bag concealing the bloody clothes and bloody purse and bloody cleaning clothes dropped from Kirk’s hand to the asphalt so he’d have both fists ready.
    The back door to the pizza place opened again, and a second man came out. White guy, about twice the size of the black guy.
    Kirk thought,
Shit.
    “Hey, Mick, help me out with this asshole!” the black guy said.
    If it mattered to Mick that he had no idea what this dispute was about, he showed no sign. He was too busy looking, immediately, for something to use to hit Kirk, and he found it up against the wall. A discarded two-foot length of lead pipe. He raised it like a club, looked at Kirk, and smiled.
    Kirk bolted.
    He jumped back into the car, slammed the door, did a fast three-point turn, narrowly missing Mick as the front end swung past him in reverse, then floored it, racing back up the side of the building and onto the street.
    He was two blocks away before he realized he’d left the bag sitting there next to the Dumpster.

Twenty-one
    The crime scene people had arrived at the Garfield house. Rona Wedmore stepped back so they could do their job. Eight uniformed officers had also shown up, and Wedmore had them fanned out across the neighborhood, knocking on doors, trying to find anyone who might have seen anything. The last thing she did before leaving was ask Joy Bennings, the lead crime scene investigator, to let her know what was on the card she’d noticed tucked into Wendell Garfield’s shirt. Wedmore had been able to make out a couple of digits—the beginning of a phone number—in one corner, but that was it. She’d left it in the shirt. Smeared with blood that might not be the victim’s own, she didn’t want to interfere with it. She asked Joy to call her the moment she was able to make out what the card said.
    Then she got in her car and drove back to the station so that she could have a further conversation with Melissa.
    But on her way to see Melissa, she was told a Mrs. Beaudry was waiting to see her. She’d identified herself at the front desk as Melissa’s aunt, said that she had come to the station looking for Melissa or her father.
    Wedmore found the woman pacing in the station lobby. Mid-forties, not much more than five feet, with a tiny frame and a long, hooked nose. She looked, Wedmore thought, bird-like. If you squeezed her too tight, she’d break in your arms.
    “Excuse me,” Wedmore said. “You’re Mrs. Beaudry? Are you Melissa Garfield’s aunt?”
    The woman’s eyes went wide with expectation. “Yes! I’ve been waiting to talk to someone about—”
    “You’re Ellie Garfield’s sister?”
    “No, I’m Wendell’s sister. I’m Gail. I tried to reach Wendell at the house and when there was no answer—he doesn’t own a cell phone—I figured they were both down here. And all they’ll tell me is that Melissa is here but not her father and they won’t let me talk to her. What’s going on?”
    “Would you like to sit down, Mrs.