gravestone suited her. It was polished. An elegant marbleized cream. The epitaph, however, made him flinch. Underneath her birth and death dates, it read:
Lana Hudson
Beloved Daughter
Taken by a Soul in Pain but
One Better for Having Met Her
He wanted to wipe out any mention of the “soul” that had taken Lana from them. It seemed obscene that a tribute to Lana’s life would include any mention of the man who’d killed her. But the epitaph hadn’t been his call. As a man Lana had briefly dated, Simon had no right to override her parents’ wishes. That was especially true given he couldn’t dispute the epitaph’s overall message—that Lana had blessed every life she’d touched, no matter how dark that life had been.
“Hi, Lana. Sorry it’s taken me so long to visit. Things have been busy at work and...” He cringed, imagining how Lana would have called him out for his lameness if she’d still been alive. “Yeah. Well, you know why I haven’t come by. I was pissed as hell at you. I—I still am. But I loved you, babe. And I miss you. I couldn’t let another day go by without telling you that.”
A faint breeze encircled him and he closed his eyes, imagining her arms holding him close. They’d fought before she’d been killed. Fought because she’d taken risks to help a criminal and Simon hadn’t approved. Hadn’t understood. He still didn’t.
But that didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Lana was gone. She’d taken part of Simon’s heart with her. Without it, there was no joy in life. No hope for it.
Still, he’d do what he had to. He’d do his job.
Whether he did it from a desk or on the streets, he’d do his part to make sure that men like the one who killed Lana got what they deserved. A fast-track ticket to hell.
The breeze that had wound around him suddenly stopped, and he heard its absence as a sigh of disappointment. He imagined Lana’s voice chiding him. Urging him to be compassionate. To understand that not all killers were evil. That bad things sometimes happened due to pain, not hate.
As he always did, Simon tried to hear the truth behind her words. But he couldn’t. Like the soul immortalized in her epitaph, he was better for having met Lana. Yet even she hadn’t been able to work miracles.
Crouching, he placed the flowers he’d brought against her tombstone.
And as he walked away, he was bleakly aware that he hadn’t felt that gentle breeze again.
Two days later, Simon sat on a wooden bench in the foyer of the Welcome Home homeless shelter in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district, waiting for the director, Elaina Scott, to come out of a meeting. To pass the time, he opened the file he held, reviewing what he knew about the victim, a previous resident of the shelter.
It wasn’t much.
Three days ago, Louis Cann had been stabbed to death in Golden Gate Park. Normally, the homicide would have been handled by the San Francisco Police Department. In fact, SFPD had already conducted most of the preliminary investigation. Yesterday, however, things had changed. And that was putting it mildly, Simon thought with a mental snort. Now, a prostitute named Rita Taylor claimed she’d seen Cann’s killer walking away from the crime scene—wearing a patrol cop’s uniform.
Talk about a conflict of interest.
Which was why SIG had been assigned the case. SIG was the state equivalent of the FBI, with jurisdiction over every law enforcement agency in California. The team of five special agents assisted with some of the most complex investigations, but one of their primary duties was to handle cases that other agencies couldn’t due to some kind of conflict.
Unfortunately, even with the preliminary work conducted by SFPD, the meager contents of the file Simon held were just that. In addition to Rita Taylor’s statement, he knew the victim’s identity and that Cann had often stayed at Welcome Home. He also knew that Cann had once served in the military, that he’d fought in Desert Storm and 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