“The credit cards went nowhere,” D’Angelo says. “All routine stuff. But it’s the cash withdrawals that caught my eye. Husband and wife kept separate checking accounts, and the missus’s withdrawal pattern was to take out two or three hundred bucks on Monday, you know, cash for the week. Occasionally she’d take another two hundred in a month, but that was pretty rare. That pattern goes back more than a year. But then, about five months ago, in addition to these Monday withdrawals, she started withdrawing three hundred bucks every Tuesday. On rare occasion, on a Wednesday. But it’s like clockwork.” He waits a beat, then gives the big reveal. “Gotta be an affair, right?”

Before either of us can answer, another man is at the threshold of Gabriel’s office. He’s heavyset, with a smoker’s yellow teeth.

“Lou,” he says, “the uniforms just brought in a homeless guy. Claims he saw the Wright murder. He’s in Two.”

“It seems that our cup runneth over,” Gabriel says.

Two uniformed cops are waiting outside Interrogation Room Two. They’re big men, made to seem even bigger because they’re wearing bulletproof vests.

Gabriel introduces himself, extending his hand to the older of the two cops, although both must be less than thirty years old.

“Al Mitchell,” the cop says as he shakes Gabriel’s hand.

The other one, the younger guy, reaches over to me with an outstretched hand. “Joe Roman,” he says.

“So what’s the story?” Gabriel asks.

Mitchell does the honors. “No ID on him. Says his name is Franklin. Homeless guy. We know him from the area. Sleeps a lot of nights in the shelter provided by a church over on Lexington. Anyway, he says that on the night the DA lady got killed he was in the park loading his sack full of empty soda cans, and he heard the shots.”

“Did he see the shooter?” I ask.

“He’s a little fuzzy on that,” Mitchell says. “He saw someone, but he can’t say for certain that it was the shooter. But the guy he did see was the only person in the vicinity, and he was in a hurry to get the fuck out of Dodge.”

“Described the guy as wearing dark clothes,” Roman adds.

“White or black?” Gabriel asks.

Roman answers. “Claims he didn’t see the face. Saw the guy from behind.”

“This is good work, officers,” Gabriel says. “Anything else we should know?”

Roman shakes his head to indicate we’ve been told everything, but Mitchell adds, “Only that the guy smells something awful.”

Mitchell wasn’t kidding about the stench. Worse than the puke smell from my last visit to Interrogation Room Two.