I showed Twain into the living room. I wasn’t sure whether I was to call him Mister, Officer, or Detective.
“Have a seat, uh… Is it Officer?”
“Arthur’s fine,” he said, sitting down. That struck me as pretty informal for a police detective.
“You want some coffee or something?” I was naive enough to think that being a good host might get me out of an assault charge.
“No, thanks. First of all, I’d just like to say, I’m very sorry about Mrs. Garber.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. I wasn’t expecting the detective to know, or ask, about Sheila. “Thank you.”
“When did she pass away?”
“Nearly three weeks ago.”
“A car accident.” Not a question. I supposed that if Rona Wedmore could know about it, I shouldn’t be surprised that Twain was up to speed.
“Yes. I guess the different forces all share information.”
“No, I’ve just done some checking.”
That seemed odd to me, but I let it go. “You’re here about the incident this afternoon.”
Arthur cocked his head slightly. “What incident would that be, Mr. Garber?”
I laughed. “I’m sorry, what? I mean, if you don’t know about it, I’m hardly going to tell you.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage here, Mr. Garber.”
“You did say you’re a detective, right?”
“That’s right.”
“With the Milford police.”
“No,” Arthur said. “I’m with Stapleton Investigations. I’m not a police detective, I’m a private detective.”
“What’s Stapleton? A private investigation company?”
“That’s right.”
“Why’s someone like that give a damn about my decking a Milford cop?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Twain said. “I’m here about your wife.”
“About Sheila? What do you want to know about Sheila?” Then I figured it out. “You’re with that law firm, the one that’s suing me, aren’t you? Well, you can get the hell out of here, you son of a bitch.”
“Mr. Garber, I’m not working for a law firm, and I’m not representing anyone who’s launched any sort of action against you.”
“Then, what are you here for?”
“I’m here to ask you about your wife’s possible connection to criminal activity. I’m here to ask about her involvement in selling counterfeit purses.”
“Get out,” I said, moving toward the door.
“Mr. Garber, please,” Arthur Twain said, rising reluctantly off the chair.
“I said get out. No one comes in here and says things like that about Sheila. I’ve listened to all the shit I want to about what my wife may or may not have done. I’m not listening to any more.” I opened the door.
When Twain didn’t move, I said, “I can pick you up and throw you out on your ass if that’s how you’d rather do it.”
Twain looked nervous, but he held his ground. “Mr. Garber, if you think you know everything there is to know about what your wife may have been involved in before she died, if you don’t have a single question left unanswered, then fine, I’ll go.”
I got ready to throw him out on his ass.
“But if you have any doubts, any questions at all, about your wife’s activities before she died, then maybe it would be worth your while to listen to what I have to say, maybe even answer a couple of my questions.”
I still had my hand on the door. I was aware of my own breathing, the coursing of blood through my temples.
I pushed the door closed. “Five minutes.”
We moved away from the door and went back to sitting in the living room.
“Let me start by telling you who, exactly, I work for,” Twain said. “I’m a licensed private detective with Stapleton Investigations. We’ve been engaged by an alliance of major fashion conglomerates to track down operations trading in counterfeit goods. Fake purses chief among them. You’re aware of the trade in knockoff merchandise, I assume.”
“I’ve heard about it.”
“Then let me get right to it.” Arthur Twain pulled an envelope from inside his jacket and withdrew from it a folded sheet of paper. He opened it up and held it out for me. It was a printout of a photo. “Do you recognize this person?”
Reluctantly, I took the photo from him and glanced at it. A tall man with black hair, lean and fit looking, with a scar above his right eye. The picture appeared to have been taken on a New York City street, although it could have been any major city.
“No,” I said, handing the photo back. “I’ve never seen him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Is there anything else?”
“Don’t you want to know who he is?”
“Not really.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“Your wife placed a call to him on the day of her accident.”
“Sheila phoned him?”
“That’s right.”
My mouth was dry. “Who is he?”
“We don’t know, exactly. He’s gone by Michael Sayer, Matthew Smith, Mark Salazar, and Madden Sommer. We think his name is Sommer. The people he works for refer to him as their solver.”
“Solver?”
“He solves problems.”
“My wife never knew anyone by any of those names.”
“She called Sommer’s cell in the early afternoon.” He reached into his jacket again. It was a small notebook, a Moleskine. He fingered through the pages until he found what he was looking for, then said, “That’s right, here we are. Just after one p.m. Let me read you a number here.”
