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 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