Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“My man,” Ambrose said, holding up his hand. “You’re cool.” He reached in his pocket and took out some bills and handed them to the man. “Go get yourself something to eat, okay?”
The man’s eyes lit up before he grabbed the bills from Ambrose’s hand. “Bless you. Thank you, my brother.” Then he turned and veered away, off to spend those few dollars on whatever vice was calling out his name. As long as it wasn’t her, she didn’t care what it was.
She let out a breath and continued walking. “Lieutenant Byrd said you have a way with people. Is doling out cash your secret?”
“Not always, but it’s generally the quickest method.”
“I’m sure.” She stopped in front of what was obviously once a single-family home but now served as a shelter for men affected by homelessness. The sign that told them they were at the right place was obviously hand painted and featured a rainbow and a peace sign and a number of bluebirds, wings spread. There was something sad about it, and Lennon looked away.
A heavy metal security gate covered the front door, and Lennon pressed the bell, glancing over her shoulder as though the man who’d looked like a zombie might be hot on her trail. And though she saw a few obvious junkies shuffling along the sidewalk, none of them seemed interested in Ambrose and her. None of them seemed interested in much of anything other than putting one shaky step in front of the other.
“Hello?” a voice came over the intercom next to the gate.
Lennon leaned in. “Inspector Lennon Gray and Agent Ambrose Mars here. I called yesterday and spoke with Ellen? She said someone would be available to answer a few questions.”
There was a pause, and then the woman who’d greeted them said, “Hold on, please. I’ll be right out.” Less than ten seconds later, the inner door swung open, and an older woman with short black curls stepped onto the porch. Both Ambrose and Lennon held up their respective badges, and the woman unlocked the gate, granting them entry.
They closed the security gate behind them and followed the woman inside the house. It smelled wonderful: literally a breath of fresh air. Lennon assumed that wherever the kitchen was, it was bustling with people cooking up a feast for the men who lived here. They stepped into a large foyer with a set of steps in front of them. A man was just disappearing around the bend in the stairs, and a few other men sat in a room to the right, where there were tables holding older-looking computers, and bookshelves on the far wall.
“Ellen left a note,” the woman told them. “I’m Myrna Watts. I’m the director of the house. Is this something that requires privacy? We only have one office here, and staff are currently using it, but I can ask them to step outside.”
“This is fine,” Lennon said. “We won’t take much of your time.”
Ms. Watts nodded. She didn’t look alarmed or concerned by their visit, and Lennon wondered if perhaps the police came by somewhat often to inquire about one of their boarders.
She opened her phone and quickly located the photo of the man who’d been wearing the pants with Gilbert House written on the tag. It was a close-up taken at the morgue, and the deceased now appeared to be sleeping. Lennon turned it toward Ms. Watts. “Do you recognize this man?”
Ms. Watts lifted the glasses hung on a chain around her neck and took Lennon’s phone to better see the photo. As the woman studied the image, Lennon’s eyes moved to a bulletin board near the door. There were flyers and notices and one brightly colored invitation to the Heroes for Homelessness Annual Rays of Hope Award Dinner, featuring DJ Fair Play. Was there anyone who didn’t fundraise off the homeless population? Where did the money go? And who exactly deserved an award when the problem was so out of control? Where were the heroes they spoke of? “Oh, dear,” Myrna said, pulling Lennon’s attention back to her. “That’s Cruz. He’s stayed here off and on for the last couple of years. He preferred the streets, unfortunately.” She sighed, her shoulders lifting and falling. “He’s dead, right? I’m not surprised, but . . .” She looked back and forth between them. “If you’re here, his death must have been connected to a crime.”
“Yes, Ms. Watts. We believe he was murdered.”
Ms. Watts shook her head. “I’m not surprised. I’m actually shocked he lasted as long as he did. He’d been brought back from the dead so many times, he was sometimes called Tony Narcan.”
“Tony?”
“That’s his first name. Sorry, most of us around here referred to him as Cruz. But that was actually his last name. Anthony Cruz. How did you connect him to this place?”