Shades of Passion. Virna DePaul

volunteered anyway.

      Still, something about seeing the fundraising flyer here—in a homeless shelter, for God’s sake—bothered him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Hell, the residents who stayed here could probably live a year on the cost of one night’s admission to the gala. Even worse, most of the money raised wouldn’t go directly to places like this shelter, but toward providing a bunch of rich people a gourmet meal and a night’s entertainment.

      It just seemed wrong somehow. But, he reminded himself, it was a good cause and the homeless would benefit to some degree. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the grand scheme of things, of course, but—

      The door next to the bulletin board opened and a pretty Asian woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties stepped out. Wearing a skirt and an ivory blazer, she looked as overdressed in these surroundings as Simon did in his slacks, button-down shirt and suit jacket. She smiled, nodded at Simon, then walked away.

      The receptionist he’d spoken to earlier poked her head out of the office. “She’s ready to see you, Detective.” She beckoned him in and Simon put thoughts of the fundraising gala out of his mind. He walked into the receptionist’s office, which served as an intake room for those wishing to stay at the shelter. In the corner, a silver-haired man in a pale blue polo shirt watched as a younger man, dressed more casually in jeans and a graphic T-shirt, spoke to a stooped-over woman of indeterminate age and swimming in a tattered, faded sweater. The man in the polo shirt looked familiar, but Simon couldn’t place him before the receptionist drew him to another closed door, knocked, opened it for Simon and waved him inside.

      Despite the shabby walls and chipped trim, the space seemed homey, softly lit. He’d noticed earlier, while sitting in the foyer, that the scarred vinyl floor appeared well kept, and no cobwebs or dust bunnies were in sight. Indoor plants covered most surfaces. To those without one, this place must feel like a home, even if it was just a temporary one. But to Cann, this would never be home again.

      Seated at a cluttered desk sat a woman, probably early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses. Pictures of kids sat haphazardly with files on the desk and a diploma from Harvard hung on the wall. The shelter director. Probably some trust-fund baby do-gooder, he thought, then mentally winced.

      It was exactly what he’d thought about Lana when he’d first met her.

      Only the do-gooder part had been accurate.

      After a moment, the woman looked up and gave him a tired smile.

      “Ms. Scott?” he confirmed.

      “Please call me Elaina. What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked.

      “I’m Special Agent Simon Granger, but the title of Detective works, too. I’m with the Department of Justice, and I’m here about Mr. Louis Cann. I understand he stayed here this past month?” At her silent invitation, he sat in the chair next to her desk.

      “Yes, but I already gave the local police a statement, and the officers interviewed the residents who were staying here at the time. They all had alibis at the time of the murder, as did my entire staff. Furthermore, none of us had seen Mr. Cann that day or had information about who might have attacked him. Given that, I’m curious why you’re here. And why DOJ is involved in the murder of a homeless man.”

      “I’m afraid I can’t talk details, but rest assured I’m trying to find the person or persons responsible. As you indicated, the residents that happened to be here for questioning have been cleared. There’s no evidence that any of them had a vendetta against Louis Cann. But a lot of people come in and out of this shelter. I’m wondering how often Cann stayed here in the past year. If he had run-ins with past residents. A grudge can last quite a long time. Maybe you’d be willing to give me your roster from the past few months along with the registration documents of those occupants? It’ll increase the scope of our investigation. Give us more to look into.”

      Scott picked up a pen and tapped it against the surface of her desk. “You mean it’ll give you more water to cast your net into. Sounds like a fishing expedition, Detective.”

      That may be, Simon thought, but at least he was willing to fish. The news was plastered with accusations that the police didn’t care about the homeless or, more specifically, the mentally ill, yet here he was, doing his best to find Cann’s killer.

      But he was also inferring that another homeless person might be the murderer, he realized. Suspecting she might take offense to that—as unwarranted as that offense might be—he said, “Look, the roster would help. But I’m not limiting my investigation to past residents. I also plan to talk to park employees and past employees of this shelter who might have associated with Cann.”

      Jesus, he thought. That probably sounded even worse to her. Like he was accusing her previous coworkers of murder. But so what? Investigative work was about following every lead, regardless of whose feelings might get hurt in the process. Basic civility was one thing, but he couldn’t worry that his questions would be taken the wrong way. That kind of political tiptoeing would be more important when he was back in management, but right now, he had to keep his mind focused on what was best for the investigation. “Listen,” he began, but Scott shook her head.

      “I’m sorry, but unless you have a subpoena, I’m afraid I can’t give you a roster or documentation on the shelter’s residents. Unless the resident signs a release, those records are confidential. And as I’m sure you can guess, no one signs a release.”

      Right, Simon thought, then tried again. “I apologize if my requests seem clumsy, but I’m trying to find a killer and that means potentially keeping your past and future residents out of harm’s way. Doesn’t that count for something?”

      “Of course it does, but—”

      “Besides,” Simon continued, “we both know that under the law, confidentiality is waived in certain circumstances.”

      “Yes, I do know that. But this isn’t a situation where a client is threatening suicide, has threatened to harm a third party or where child abuse has been disclosed. Now, I’m sorry, but I really can’t see how I can be of more help. And before you go hunting down that subpoena, I will say any information I’d have on Mr. Cann would be minimal. Dare I say even useless to you? But do what you feel you need to. Most of the residents the police talked to have already moved on, but I believe there are one or two left who knew Mr. Cann. You’re obviously free to inquire whether any of them is willing to talk with you.”

      Simon’s mind automatically rebelled at that suggestion. “Given the statements I’ve already reviewed, and unless they’ve suddenly stopped drinking, taking drugs or hallucinating, the chances of me getting anything useful from them isn’t exactly high, now is it?”

      Elaina Scott’s brow furrowed but she said nothing.

      “I don’t mean to be insulting, but I’m trying to call things the way I see them. You know as well as I do that your...residents...often don’t make the most reliable of witnesses. Most of them are...” He hesitated, trying to be polite, but Scott tsked anyway.

      “Crazy? Pathetic?” she guessed.

      Simon shrugged. “Mentally challenged,” he said.

      “That’s correct. But mental challenges don’t make them pariahs or murderers, Detective.”

      “But it does make them extremely inaccurate reporters,” Simon said. He stood. “And the truth is, I can’t solve Mr. Cann’s murder without more than I have now. If I’m fishing in the dark, it’s because I have to. In a murder investigation, we often rely on people who were close, either emotionally or physically, to the victim, and that includes people the murder victims lived with.”

      “Does it also include cops who should have been protecting the murder victim rather than killing him? Or are they subject to some kind of immunity?”

      Her loaded comment surprised him, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. He simply stared at the woman and she eventually smiled, but it was a smile hardened by