Shades of Passion. Virna DePaul

that at the end of his tour he’d managed a fast-food restaurant. Within a year, he’d been living on the streets. He’d been doing so for over ten years and would probably have continued right on doing so if he hadn’t been killed.

      He didn’t have a record of significant problems with the police, and the few volunteers and street people that had known him had denied knowledge of anyone wanting to hurt him. In fact, every person that had been interviewed had said the same thing: Cann kept to himself. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t want them. He talked to no one. Who would want to kill someone like that, especially when that person had nothing worth stealing?

      In other words, everything in Simon’s file amounted to a major dead end.

      There was no reason to believe that interviewing the shelter director would result in anything new, but this was his case now and Simon wanted to make sure nothing important had been overlooked the first time around. After he was done here, he’d reinterview Rita Taylor, check with SFPD about patrol officers on duty near Golden Gate Park three days ago and then spend the next few days conducting even more interviews—of patrol officers, park vendors or other employees who might have been in a position to see anything, and anyone else he could think of. A whole lot of legwork for what was probably not going to be a lot of payoff.

      Didn’t matter. His job was to pursue every lead, weak as it may be, and that’s what he was going to do.

      He flipped through the crime scene photos, settling on the close-up shot of the Semper Fi tattoo on Cann’s left biceps. He couldn’t help thinking how pathetic it was that Cann, a man who’d once served his country, had ended up living on the streets. Dirty. Wizened.

      Dead.

      Bags of bones taking up space.

      It’s what Simon’s father would have said if he was here. And despite knowing it was wrong—or at the very least, politically incorrect—Simon would have had to agree with him. He wasn’t exactly proud of his thoughts, but he wasn’t a fraud and he wasn’t a liar, either. While it was true that justice should be blind, that didn’t mean it had to be ignorant, too. Even so, any personal feelings he might harbor about individual weakness didn’t affect the way Simon did his job.

      Simon sought justice for a lot of people and that included the ones he didn’t necessarily like, as well as the ones he’d privately characterize as weak. To Simon’s way of thinking, homelessness was the ultimate sign of weakness. Criminals were weak, too, but at least criminals still fought for something, even if it was something selfish or depraved. The homeless no longer fought for anything, even their own dignity.

      Or did they?

      Had Cann fought for his life in the end?

      If so, they’d found no evidence of it. No defensive wounds to indicate he’d resisted his attacker. Which meant he’d most likely been taken unawares. Even the expression on his face at the time his body had been found suggested it. He looked slightly surprised. As if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened to him. But in that startled gaze, Simon saw something else. An unspoken plea for justice. A haunted yearning for Simon to find his killer.

      That desperate, desolate expression was something Simon had long ago become familiar with. He’d seen the same expression on the faces of every murder victim he’d ever encountered. He’d even seen it on Lana’s face, too, he thought grimly, blinking rapidly to drive the disturbing memory away.

      And damn it, he didn’t want to see it anymore.

      Not like that. Not like this, he thought as he shut the file with a snap.

      Hopefully he wouldn’t have to. Not once he closed this case, anyway.

      Visiting Lana’s grave had helped him make the decision he’d been struggling with.

      He couldn’t do this much longer. One way or another, Simon’s days of working the streets were coming to an end. His choices were either early retirement or a move to management, and despite everything, he wasn’t ready to leave the job altogether. Then again, he could always do private security. A lot of former cops did, including Lana’s father, and they made an extremely good living doing it, too. Gil Archer had made it clear that Simon could work for him anytime he wanted, but Simon wanted balance. Off the streets but not completely off the streets. That left management, only this time—unlike eight months ago, when he’d walked away from a captain position because it hadn’t been exciting enough—he’d have to make it stick. If he could convince the brass to give him another shot, that is.

      Understandably, Commander Stevens was reluctant to stick his neck out for Simon again, especially when so many other qualified applicants were jonesing for a cushier gig with increased pay. Still, Simon figured if he solved this case, Stevens would owe him big-time. Hell, the mayor would probably be so grateful he’d speed the promotion along, cutting through all the civil service bureaucratic red tape Simon had had to navigate last time.

      Unfortunately, closing this case wasn’t exactly going to be a walk in the park. So far, they’d managed to keep Rita Taylor’s accusations locked down, but that wasn’t going to last long. While he was trying to win over Stevens and the mayor, Simon’s actions would be scrutinized like crazy—by a public wanting to make sure a guilty cop didn’t get away with murder, and by his fellow officers who’d be judging his loyalty and his ability to protect one of his own. And that wasn’t even counting the press. The minute Rita Taylor’s statement got leaked, the higher-ups would have a shitload of reporters riding their asses.

      And that meant they’d be riding Simon’s ass, too. Hard.

      A homeless man—a homeless ex-marine—dead. The only suspect a possible cop.

      Things weren’t looking good for a city that was already suffering negative publicity from recent police encounters with the homeless. Simon’s involvement would either make him a scapegoat or a hero. It was up to him to make sure the latter occurred.

      A minute later, a sound made him look up.

      A bewhiskered man wearing a filthy khaki jacket and equally dirty green-and-white-checkered golf pants made his way down the hall, coming toward him, placing each foot in front of the other equidistance, murmuring numbers to himself. After a moment, Simon realized the man was counting steps, making certain not to step on the black tiles and only stepping on the white ones. Even with twenty feet between them, the man stank—the perpetual stench of homelessness. Each city’s homeless had a particular odor. New York’s stank of the subway—engine grease and urine. In San Francisco, the pungent odor that surrounded the homeless had a different scent—urine and pine. Probably because so many hung out in Golden Gate Park, and despite what had happened to Cann, that wasn’t likely to change.

      The man drew closer and Simon wanted to pull back, away from the increasing wave of stench, but the slats of the bench kept him trapped. When the man reached Simon, he stopped walking. Stopped counting. As if waiting for something. But what?

      At first, Simon thought the guy had made him for a cop. That he was going to ask him a question. Maybe even share something about Cann. But then...

      Oh, hell.

      Simon lifted his foot from the white tile.

      “Forty-two,” the man murmured as he stepped on the tile, then continued walking and counting, reaching fifty before opening the outer door and leaving the building.

      After the man left, Simon stood to stretch his legs and scanned a large bulletin board on the wall. It was covered with flyers announcing everything from AA meetings to pleas for volunteers to an upcoming fundraising gala to benefit the mentally ill. The price of admission? Four hundred dollars a plate. It was being put on by the San Francisco Golf Club and Simon had seen the same flyer before—at work. The event would be attended by some of the city’s wealthiest philanthropists and politicians, and Commander Stevens had mentioned that with all the bad PR the police had been receiving lately, the mayor wanted a few officers to sit at his table. Free of charge, of course, but Simon still wondered how many volunteers Stevens had managed to line up. Most cops Simon knew, Simon included, would hate putting