Muller, Marcia - [09] There's Something In A Sunday [v 1.0] (htm)

on the kitchen counter; funny, I didn't remember leaving it there. I grabbed it without looking at Rudy Goldring's body and started toward the living room to make my call.
    But halfway to the door something caught my eye: a worn, fringed, tooled leather pouch of the sort that I'd last seen Bob, the derelict doorman, carrying. It was lying on the floor in front of the sink, not more than two yards from the body.

    The senior member of the Homicide team that caught the call was named Gallagher, Ben Gallagher. I'd known him for a long time. When I'd met him he'd been an owlish, somewhat awkward young man who admired me extravagantly— although silently. In the years since then, he'd worked Vice and Burglary, then been reassigned to Homicide; he still looked owlish, mainly because of the round glasses frames he favored, but the awkwardness was gone. He probably still admired me, because his eyes shone when they first saw me, but his silence was now enforced by a wide gold wedding band.
    I waited in the living room while Gallagher examined the death scene and dealt with the medical examiner and lab technicians. When he'd finished, I told him what had happened since I'd arrived at the building, including my encounter with the frightened woman and the make and license plate number of her car. Ben took notes, then held up the fringed leather pouch, now encased in a plastic evidence bag.
    "This belong to her?"
    "No, to the derelict who sits on the steps downstairs, I think. At least he was carrying one like it last Friday."
    "Considering its contents, that makes more sense. Eighty-three cents, a switchblade knife, and no credit cards don't really go with a lady who drives a BMW. Now tell me about this derelict."
    "Rudy Goldring called him Bob. The man acts as a sort of doorman for him, in exchange for beer. He's medium height, has grayish hair and a beard, was wearing old army fatigues when I saw him."
    "Standard derelict description."
    "Well, yes. I didn't pay that much attention to him, to tell you the truth; he looked pretty much like all the other derelicts you see in this area." That, I thought, from someone who'd recently been scornful toward a radio talk show reducing the homeless to statistics! I concentrated on Bob, trying to remember something that would distinguish him. Gallagher waited.
    After a moment I added, "He seemed fairly well-spoken. Polite. When he opened the door for me, he acted like a butler. Oh—and he eats dinner at St. Anthony's. I know that because Goldring reminded him it was time for him to get in line, and he went off in that direction. Maybe the people there, or the woman downstairs in Goldring's offices, can tell you more about him."
    "Maybe." Gallagher finished making his notes and looked up at me. "Now tell me what you're doing here."
    Because Rudy Goldring had hired me through his lawyer, my implied contract with him provided for confidentiality. But Goldring was dead, and from Gallagher's questions I gathered the police would treat his death as a homicide, at least initially. That invalidated the presumption of confidentiality, so I told Ben about the job.
    When I finished he said, "We'll trace this Frank Wilkonson, see what he has to say about Goldring. Most likely it'll be irrelevant to what happened here."
    "You think Goldring was murdered, then?"
    "It's highly possible. The M.E. says there are signs he was involved in a struggle—bruises, the condition of his clothing, that sort of thing. The way it looks now, I'd guess it was manslaughter—a quarrel that got out of hand. Maybe he cut off the derelict's beer supply, or something like that."
    "That about what the woman who was here said to me—that she was 'afraid it would come to this'?"
    "She could have been speaking about the derelict. It's not the wisest thing, you know, taking one of those people under your wing. Anyway, we'll locate her, ask her what she meant." Gallagher closed his notebook and stood. "We'll need a formal statement;