Shades of Passion Read Free

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 on a monkey suit and rubbing elbows with a bunch of socialites, even if it was for a good cause. But because Simon wanted Stevens and the mayor on his side come hiring time, because he wanted that captain position, he’d 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