“Your sweater and bag are on the sofa,” she smiled. “Ben’ll get you a cab downstairs.”
Grabbing her things from the sofa, Elgin hurried over to her friend.
“What did I ever do without you?” she asked, grinning sheepishly.
“Damned if I know.”
They embraced warmly as Martha patted her lovingly on the back.
“Now get going.”
Catching an elevator, Elgin had just reached the lobby doors when the bulk of her doorman, Ben, appeared and pulled open the heavy glass door for her.
“Mornin’ Miz Collier,” he smiled, touching two fingertips to the brim of his cap. Elgin loved his soft, New Orleans drawl that seemed to flow out like molasses.
“Good morning, Ben,” she replied with a smile of her own.
Rumor around the building said that Ben, at six feet, six inches tall and at least three hundred pounds, had been hired as a large, scary deterrent for the front doors of this high security building.
But in his dove-gray uniform, matching hat and gold buttons, he always seemed to Elgin more Teddy Bear than Grizzly. His ready smile and unfailingly sunny disposition seemed to brighten even the dreariest day.
They moved to the curb as Ben blew a single shrill blast on his ref’s whistle and raised a long arm above his head, waving once into the on-coming traffic. Almost instantly, a taxi appeared about half a block away.
“Ben,” came a female voice behind them.
Turning, they recognized Mrs. North, a sweet elderly little tenant trying with one hand to hang onto a small, two-wheeled metal cart filled with packages and open the huge door with the other.
He glanced quickly up at the nearing cab, to Mrs. North and down at Elgin.
“That’s all right, Ben,” she assured him with a pat on the sleeve. “I can get the cab. You help Mrs. North to the elevator.”
That grin flashed again.
“I’ll be just a sec,” he promised and hurried back to the door.
The cab slid to a stop and Elgin took a step toward it, reaching for the rear door handle. As she did, a huge hand reached out and covered hers, trapping it on the door handle.
Startled and frightened, she looked up.
“Oh, pardon me.” A long heartbeat and the hand released hers. “I didn’t know you were waiting for this taxi. My apologies.”
Tall, dressed in a lightweight black trench coat, thick black hair, dark eyes behind dark rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t see you. If you were waiting for this cab, please, take it. I can always get another one.”
“A gentleman would never think of taking a taxi and leaving a woman standing,” he smiled down at her as he opened the door for her. “Especially a lady as lovely and charming as yourself. Please. I insist.”
“Well, thank you sir,” she smiled back, feeling a little sheepish. “That’s very gallant of you.”
His head lowered to her a bit. “I’m pleased that I could show you that while chivalry may be on life support, it isn’t completely dead. At least not yet.”
Taking her hand, he helped her into the taxi.
“Thank you again,” she told him through the partially open window.
“My pleasure, I assure you.”
As the cab pulled away, Elgin looked through the rear window for a last look at the stranger, but he’d already turned his back and disappeared into the crowd.
“Charlie,” Harm grinned, stretching out his hand to his friend. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too Camp,” the other man replied as they shook hands.
“How’s it going?”
“Eh,” he shrugged. “Sometimes I’m not even sure it’s a different day.”
Harm threw back his head and laughed. Charlie Simons had been his friend and mentor since his FBI days. The best natural detective in the business in Harm’s opinion, a sniper’s bullet in the back had creased the older man’s spine and ended his active career. When he’d decided to open Harm’s Way, Charlie’d been his first call.”
At fifty-seven, lean, tan, salt and pepper hair and sea blue eyes, Charlie hardly looked the part of the grizzled old detective. In fact, he prided himself on being able to blend in virtually anywhere, sometimes a life and death skill in their business.
When they’d settled in with their coffee and exchanged a few minutes of personal chat, Charlie got down to business. Opening his briefcase, he laid a thick file on Harm’s desk.
“Here’s all the official stuff,” he nodded to the file. “Interviews, forensics, the ME’s report, the whole nine yards. You can curl up tonight with a warm fire and a bottle of Scotch and wade through it, so I’ll just give you the highlights.”
“I’m all ears.”
Charlie took out a leather bound notebook from his breast pocket and adjusted his reading glasses.
“Late lamented was John Roy Richards, born forty-eight years ago in a little place upstate named Winslow. Parents are dead, one younger sister, married, two kids, still lives there. From what I could dig up, he had a pretty uneventful life until, at nineteen, he went away to college where he became acquainted with John Barleycorn.”
He grinned at Harm. “Apparently, it was love at first sight. Went almost overnight from virtual teetotaler to the life of every beer bust. From there, a quick slide to the hard stuff. By his sophomore year, his grades were in the toilet. Got expelled at the start of his junior year when he blew his tuition and living money on booze.”
“At thirty grand a year that must have been some thirst,” Harm commented.
“In those days, more like fifteen, but yeah, it musta been a snootful. Anyway, that was the beginning of the gutter, jail, rehab, gutter, jail, rehab, gutter cycle of his life for the past twenty-five years.”
“What about the sister?”
Charlie shook his head. “According to the cops and my interview, she hadn’t seen him in about six years. Last time she took him in to dry out, he repaid her by stealing a portable television, a VCR, some jewelry and the contents of her children’s piggy banks.”
“Charming fellow.”
“Pretty much his MO. Petty theft, a little car and home burglary, penny ante stuff mostly. Lately though he’s been panhandling in the Riverview Plaza area. Police have had some complaints but no one wanted to press charges for fear of retaliation. Looks like the first person to ever actually do something about him was your client.”
“Not my client,” Harm corrected acidly. “My client would have ripped off his balls and gulped ‘em down right there. Probably carries mustard and catsup in her purse just in case.”
The other man laughed. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll remember to start wearing my cast iron jock when I come in here.”
They both laughed and sipped their coffee.
“Where was I?” Charlie scanned down his notes.
“Oh. Anyway, by the time the cops got there, it was all over but the shouting. The combatants were gone as was most of the crowd. But the couple of people who’d called 9-1-1 both said the lady got into a cab and the guy staggered off down the street, his ego and various other parts dented but definitely alive.”
“Anybody get a look at where he went when he left?”
“Downtown. Towards the river. But no one actually saw him after he melted into the crowd. Pretty heavy at that time of day as people had just let out for lunch.”
“How far from Riverview was he murdered?”
“Eight blocks. In the alley behind a deli on the corner of Thorn and Fitzgerald. Real zoo at lunch. Things slack off about two o’clock so they start cleaning up. About three, a busboy named Jose Sanchez took some garbage bags out to the dumpster. Well, he comes running right back in, white as a sheet and starts screaming in Spanish. One of the waiters tried to calm him down but he just keeps screaming, “Muerta! Muerta!” Finally drags the guy out into the alley and there’s what’s left of Mr. Richards.”