Free Battle Scars by Sheryl Nantus Page B

Street West to a handful of soup kitchens delivering breakfast to street youth. It was a far cry from cinnamon rolls and coffee, but the boxes of cold cereal, cartons of milk and juice boxes offered at least some attempt at a healthy start to the day. The workers shrugged when I showed them the pictures. They saw so many young men and women going through that the faces turned into a never-ending blur.
    I thought back to Stacy Hampton, the social worker over at Second Chance, Second Life a few blocks away. There was a chance Bran had already visited her but it wouldn’t hurt to check.
    I also didn’t discount the possibility that Bran intentionally omitted it due to his family’s connection.
    A short hop on a streetcar brought me back to the renovated storefront. No one was hanging around the door—they didn’t open until noon. A hand lettered sign on the front door announced reporters were not welcome and no statements would be made. A lawyer’s phone number completed the visual slapdown.
    I went around the back and rang the doorbell on the receiving dock. A thick-necked man opened the door and glared at me.
    “You ain’t no delivery girl.”
    “Thanks for the update. I’m here to see Stacy. Tell her Rebecca Desjardin is here.” I eyed the prison tattoos on his knuckles. “She’ll see me.”
    “She ain’t seeing no reporters,” the human wall rumbled. “Didn’t you see the note on the front door?”
    “I’m not a reporter. I’m a private investigator.”
    “A what?”
    “A P.I. Just like you see in the movies. Except I’m shorter.” I winked. “And cuter.”
    His lips curled up into something resembling a smile. “Stay here.” The door slammed shut in my face.
    I rocked back and forth on my heels, listening to the chatter inside. Felis hearing didn’t mean I could listen through walls but it did make it easier to eavesdrop.
    One man arguing about the quality of bread dropped off by a local bakery. Another complaining about his probation officer busting his balls for missing an appointment. A series of curses from my original greeter as he approached the door, most of them involving body parts I didn’t possess.
    It opened all the way this time.
    “Stacy says to take you to her office.” The large man smiled again. “Follow me, please.”
    I followed him past the two men working on the dock, busy loading boxes of fresh broccoli onto tables to be sorted.
    Stacy’s office hadn’t changed from the last time I’d been there, the motivational posters of penguins and kittens still extolling viewers to do their best and never give up.
    “Ms. Desjardin. Good to see you.” She waved me into the empty chair as she closed the door. “Thanks, John.”
    The ex-con left us alone.
    I sat down. “How are you doing?”
    It wasn’t an idle question. When the story behind the murder of Molly Callendar and the kidnapping of her newborn son had come out, the media had hammered on the charity’s door non-stop, looking for more lurid details about the life and death of Keith Shaw.
    Not many organizations could have taken the scrutiny and survived.
    I wasn’t sure this one had.
    She looked exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes poking through the make-up. Her shoulders slumped under the cream-colored blouse.
    “Better than can be expected.” The blonde nodded toward the docks. “Fellows are on their best behavior since the incident, afraid the place’ll shut down if there’s another problem and they’ll have to go find something else. They’ve been great.”
    The elephant in the room sat between us.
    “I wasn’t sure you’d see me.” I sat back, letting the brown envelope holding the photographs flop around. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for telling me to screw off.”
    “You’re not to blame for anything. You were looking for a killer and you found him.” Stacy let out a weary sigh. “It’s just too bad it was one of my boys. We try and we try but you can’t save everyone.”
    I