She peeled his fingers from around her arm and turned to Stanley. “My husband is worried because someone stuffed the trunk of his car with empty ten-pound ice bags. A great mound of them. He thought I put them there.”

“But you didn’t,” Stanley said.

“Of course I didn’t.”

“Bags.” Stanley sat back. “You have them?”

“I handled them,” Frank said. “Emily handled them, too.”

And so did the killer. “Aren’t they in your car?” Emily asked Frank.

“They’re not,” Frank said. He swallowed. “I got rid of them on the way over here.”

“You . . .” Stanley shook his head. “Where?”

“In a dumpster behind 7-Eleven.”

“On South Main?”

Frank nodded.

Stanley faced the mirror and gestured to whoever was watching from the other side. “I’m sending an officer over there right now.” He turned to Frank. “And I’m hoping for your sake that they’re still there. Tampering with evidence in a murder investigation?” He eyed Frank. “I don’t have to tell you, that’s a felony. Up to twenty years in prison.”

He turned his attention to Emily. “So you’re suggesting that Walter Newell got back from the auction early.”

“Or wasn’t there at all. Someone using his ID and credit card could have registered as him.”

Stanley picked up the thread, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “But he was already dead, his body packed in ice. Someone else drove his car to the coffee shop, created a bit of a stir, hit your car, and then drove to the wharf and abandoned the car.”

“Rafe Bartok,” Emily said. “That’s the man who ran into me at the coffee shop.”

“And you know that . . . how?”

Emily knew better than to blame a pair of coffee-stained loafers. And she remembered the promise she’d made to Ana Perez. “You can check for yourself,” she said. “Look up the purchases he made on his personal credit card. I’ll bet he used it to pay for a venti. Hot. Black. At around nine-thirty at the Java Connection.”

Stanley nodded, thinking. “So, assuming Walter Newell died, let’s say a day earlier, where were you on Saturday?”

Before Emily could answer, Frank was on his feet. “Enough. My wife has been more than forthcoming. Emily?” He was out the door before Emily had gotten up out of her chair.

Emily glanced at Sergeant Stanley, catching an unguarded look of frustration on his face. “You have no idea who killed Walter Newell, do you?” she said.

“We . . .” Stanley seemed taken aback. “Let’s just say your information tonight has been extremely helpful. Right now I have no more questions for you. Just one piece of advice.” He gave her a long, hard look. “Watch yourself.”

39