Out Cold by William G. Tapply Page B

or the last swallow in a wine jug, and they sincerely believe they’re justified.” Saundra Mendoza blew out a breath. “I apologize. I get wound up. Everybody would just as soon homeless people disappeared. Nobody wants to think about them, think about who’s responsible for them. It’s a terrible thing, a social tragedy, and I hate it.”
    â€œYou don’t need to apologize,” I said.
    She smiled without warmth. “It wasn’t a sincere apology.” She shrugged. “So anyway, what we’ve got here is most likely one of those random, senseless murders. Just some homeless person, murdered by some other homeless person.”
    â€œExcept,” I said, “I gave her that photo.”
    She nodded. “Maybe whoever killed her was reacting to the photo. Grabbed it from her. Killed her for it. It’s a possibility.”
    Hunter nodded, too.
    â€œMaybe not the photo per se,” I said.
    â€œOkay,” said Mendoza. “Maybe the dead girl herself. What happened to her. We’ll have to go back now, start all over again, see if Maureen Quinlan was showing the photograph around.” She looked up at me. “When was it you gave it to her?”
    â€œUm, three days ago. Tuesday. The same day I found the girl. That evening. I had supper at Skeeter’s. Sunshine worked there. Skeeter introduced me to her.”
    â€œYou were doing some work for her, Skeeter said.”
    I nodded. “I made some phone calls, got the ball rolling. DSS, the AG’s office. You know how that goes.”
    She smiled. “Bureaucracy. Hate it.”
    â€œSo you don’t have any suspects, huh?”
    â€œBesides you, you mean?” said Hunter.
    I gave him a quick smile, then looked at Mendoza.
    â€œNobody,” she said, “will admit to having seen or heard anything.” She shut her notebook, slid it into her briefcase, stood up, and reached her hand across my desk. “Thanks for your time.”
    I stood up and shook her hand, then shook Hunter’s, too. “I’d appreciate it if—”
    â€œIf we need you,” she said, “you’ll hear from us. That’s all I can promise.”
    â€œI’m feeling kind of responsible,” I said. “First the girl, now Sunshine….”
    â€œYou should,” said Hunter.
    Mendoza narrowed her eyes at him, then shrugged and turned to me. “Don’t you worry about it,” she said. “They’re just homeless people. Not your problem.”
    â€œThat’s not how I think about it,” I said.
    â€œYeah, I know,” she said. “Me, neither. But most people do.”
    â€œI can’t help feeling that what happened to Sunshine was connected to the girl in my backyard.”
    â€œThe photo,” she said.
    I nodded.
    â€œSo you are going to worry about it.”
    I shrugged. “Don’t see how I can help it.”
    â€œYou’re thinking it is your problem.”
    I nodded. “I guess I am.”
    â€œBlaming yourself,” she said.
    â€œYes.”
    Saundra Mendoza peered at me for a minute. Then she reached into her pocket and took out a business card. She handed it to me. “I’d rather you just kept your nose out of it,” she said. “But I don’t expect you’re going to do that. If you learn anything or come up with any brilliant ideas, your obligation is to let me know immediately, me being the cop and you just being some lawyer. My cell phone number’s there. I’m not inviting you to call me for idle conversation, you understand.”
    Sgt. Hunter, standing beside her, touched her elbow, as if he was in a hurry to get going.
    I tucked Saundra Mendoza’s card into the corner of the blotter on my desk. “If I call you,” I said, “I promise it’ll be because I have something to say.”
    Â 
    I actually tried to do what Detective Mendoza recommended. I tried not to