LITMIR.BIZ

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worked here.”

      “Because I’m looking to find the truth. No matter what that truth is. You can bet I take accusations of a cop’s involvement in Louis Cann’s murder very seriously. And yes, despite what I said about inaccurate reporters, I’d like to speak to your current residents about Mr. Cann if they’re willing to speak with me, whether they were interviewed by SFPD before or not. Before I do that, however, do you know anything that can help me?”

      She appeared startled by the way he’d turned the tables on her. “Like what?”

      “I don’t know. Something. Anything that will give me more insight into who Mr. Cann was. Whom he associated with.”

      “He was a loner, Detective. He kept to himself. That’s how he preferred it.”

      “Right.” Simon swiped his hands over his face, then sighed. “Too bad. It’s a little difficult to find out who murdered a man who apparently never associated with anyone else.” Simon remembered Cann’s Semper Fi tattoo and again wondered what had brought the man to the point where he’d been living on the streets. “Funny how Mr. Cann managed to spend four years in the military surrounded by people only to get out and, by everyone’s account, never talk to another living soul again.”

      “That’s not uncommon for a man who served in battle, Detective.”

      “What do you mean? How did a former marine come to be in a homeless shelter, Ms. Scott?”

      She visibly hesitated. But after assessing Simon for a minute, she seemed to come to a decision. She sat forward. “I’m not a medical doctor. I’m afraid you just missed her. She left my office before you came in. But my best guess? You’ve heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” When he tipped his head, she continued. “We have many former military personnel come through here, Detective. The local clinics can’t recruit volunteers to provide counseling fast enough. PTSD is a severe illness and is cropping up more and more among our returning military. It affects some of these young men and women so severely they can no longer function in society. I suspect if you go through Mr. Cann’s military records, you’ll find a diagnosis of PTSD.”

      “I’ve asked for those records, but getting that kind of thing isn’t easy, especially when that person is already dead. Next of kin tends to fight us on exposing skeletons they’d rather keep buried. Too bad Cann’s family didn’t do more to help him while he was alive.”

      Scott just smiled sadly and shook her head. “It’s not that simple, Detective. I wish it were. Truth is, many homeless people have loving families who’ve tried to make a difference and simply can’t.”

      Maybe, Simon thought. He’d certainly heard that line before. But he couldn’t help thinking that if someone he cared about suddenly became homeless, he would make damn sure he didn’t stay that way. “The doctor who was here before me. She’s a psychiatrist?”

      Scott shook her head. “A family practitioner that minored in psychology. But she just started pro bono volunteer work at a mental health crisis clinic. She stopped by to introduce herself to me and put up a flyer.”

      “Right. Another flyer,” Simon murmured. “Any chance Cann saw her? Or any other counselor that you know of?”

      “No. Like I said, this is the first time I’ve seen her. And Mr. Cann never mentioned seeing a counselor or dropping in at a clinic.” Scott sighed. “The truth is, I know almost next to nothing about Mr. Cann, Detective, and he didn’t keep me appraised of his comings and goings. We provide food and shelter here when we can. In order to meet our requirements, our residents have to provide basic information and follow some rules designed to keep everyone safe. Other than that...” Scott shrugged.

      Right. Other than that, he had exactly what he’d had before—a big fat zero. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Cann?”

      “Just that he didn’t deserve to die.”

      “I agree with you.” When she just continued to look at him, he asked, “You don’t believe me?”

      “I believe you’re a dedicated cop. You want to do your job and do it well. But you have obvious biases against the mentally ill. I sensed you withdraw even as I used the word PTSD. But it doesn’t matter. I want the person who killed Mr. Cann found as much as you do. Probably even more so. I promise that if anyone does turn up with new information, we will contact you right away. Now, are you ready to see if any of our current residents will talk with you?”

      He sighed.

      Strike one.

      More and more, he thought, this was a ball game he hated playing. But for now, at least, he was playing.

      “Yes, Ms. Scott. I’d appreciate your assistance with that.”

      * * *

      THE NEXT DAY, BACK AT SIG headquarters, Simon glowered at the man in front of him.

      Liam “Mac” McKenzie, SIG’s lead detective, stared back without flinching. “I see you’re not thrilled with the idea, but my hands are tied. Elaina Scott was crystal clear in her opinion that you shouldn’t be handling the Cann murder. She said your obvious dislike for the homeless, and in particular, the ‘mentally challenged,’ was quite apparent.”

      Damn her, Simon thought. When he’d interviewed the few Welcome Home residents who’d been willing to talk to him yesterday, the interactions had gone smoothly. They hadn’t provided anything useful, but he’d been respectful and professional, just as he always tried to be. Scott must have still been pissed by the conversation they’d had in her office. Or maybe she just hadn’t believed him when he’d said he took accusations of a cop’s involvement in Cann’s murder seriously. “Come on, Mac. Since when does a bullshit complaint like this warrant pulling me off of a case?”

      “I never said you were off the case. I said I want you to get some help. With the case and...off of it. DeMarco will assist. You’ve both been handling some tough cases lately with no time off to speak of. Consider the partnership a chance for a well-earned break.”

      “And while DeMarco’s assisting, my well-earned break is going to consist of spilling my guts to some stranger?”

      Mac sighed. “It’s called grief counseling. You need it.”

      “That’s your opinion.”

      “As well as Commander Stevens’s. Why do you think it was so obvious to Ms. Scott that you’re uncomfortable with mental health issues? Anyone who has them and anyone who talks about them?”

      “Not everything is about Lana, damn it.”

      “In this particular case, it is. It’s about Lana. It’s about you. Are you really surprised? We’ve been at you to get some help. There’s a reason we’re all worried about you.”

      “Like?”

      “Like it’s been over six months, yet you still leave the room if someone even mentions Lana’s name.”

      Of course he did, Simon thought. Despite managing to visit her grave site the other day, hearing Lana’s name immediately caused a flood of memories to swirl through his mind. The last time they’d made love. The last time they’d laughed together. And the last time they’d argued just before she’d died. Yeah, they had been broken up before she’d been killed, but it wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d still cared. Lana had still mattered. His insides felt like they were being squeezed in a vise, but he carefully kept his expression clear and his voice neutral.

      “What’s there to talk about, Mac? Lana and I dated for a while, and dealing with her death’s been tough.” He shrugged. “Life goes on.”

      “Who do you think you’re talking to, man? Lana didn’t just die. She was murdered. Violently. Yet you can’t seem to acknowledge that, can you?”

      He glanced away, shoving the ache rising from his chest back down where it belonged, to the deep, dark place behind his ribs. He narrowed

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