Page 16 of The Broken Places

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? Weonly 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 withGilbert Housewritten 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?”

Lennon felt the first zing of hope that they’d pulled a thread that might unravel more leads. “He was wearing a pair of jeans that had the Gilbert House on the tag.”

Ms. Watts gave Lennon a small, sad smile. “Ah, I see. Yes, we give all the men a clean outfit and a bag of toiletries when they get accepted here.”

“Are there conditions to staying here?” Ambrose asked.

Ms. Watts nodded. “They must commit to staying for ninety days, during which time they’re clean and sober.” She gestured toward the large room to their right, where a couple of tired-looking men sat staring at computer screens and two more sat near the bookshelves, one snoozing and the other reading a magazine. “We help them create a résumé and then job hunt. We have a room full of professional attire upstairs that they’re free to borrow from for interviews.”

“You said Mr. Cruz stayed here a few times. Did he complete his ninety days?”

“Mr. Cruz never even completedninedays.” She sighed again. “We really shouldn’t have kept taking him back, but ... that man had a gentle soul. And honestly? It seemed like hewantedto get clean, it really did. He never could quite find the strength to follow through.” She frowned. “I do remember him talking about a miracle treatment the last time I saw him.” She gave a wistful smile. “I’d heard talk like that before in reference to addiction. There’s always some new pill that’s going to fix them, you know? Take away all their cravings. If a fix like that existed, I’d put it in the water myself.”

Miracle treatment.Unfortunately, she’d heard people talk like that too. And the pharmaceutical industry was all too happy to go along with that false idea. A substance to fix an addiction to a substance and then another one after that. And on and on.

“Do you have any idea where he tended to hang out?” Ambrose asked.

Ms. Watts puckered her lips to the side as she thought. “I’m not sure. But if anyone would know, it’s Darius Finchem. His father usedto run the youth outreach program over on Golden Gate, but Darius took over about five years ago.”

Ambrose looked up. “Youth outreach?”

“Mm-hmm. I know it’s surprising, but Cruz was only twenty, even though he looked quite a bit older. Drugs and lack of medical care will do that to you. Anyway, maybe twenty isn’t even a youth by definition, and Cruz was too old for the center. But Darius has his father’s heart, and the man can’t turn anyone away. And he knows everything that goes on in the Tenderloin, and most everyone who lives on the streets has taken advantage of one of the programs there. He used to deliver meals, but that stopped because of some permit issue or another.”

Lennon was tempted to roll her eyes. “Figures,” she muttered. Ofcoursebureaucrats had deemed it necessary that folks pay a fee and fill out a stack of paperwork before feeding hungry people.

Lennon quickly scrolled through the other victim photos she had in her phone, asking Ms. Watts if she recognized them too. But the woman shook her head sadly. “I wish I could help with those ones as well.”

“We appreciate what you have given us,” Lennon said. It was more than they’d arrived with. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Tell Darius that Myrna said hi when you see him. There are only so many of us who still live and work here and haven’t given up on the TL yet.”

Lennon made the executive decision that they’d drive over to the youth center rather than walk, especially since she wasn’t sure it would be open. They went the opposite way around the block to her car this time, to avoid the worst section of Hyde Street. Agent Mars might call her a coward, but she could only handle so much squalor and suffering in one day. She had to hand it to the people who worked in neighborhoods like this one, trying to make things better, day after day—andlikely seeing little, if any, improvement, whether that be in individuals or the area itself.

The youth center was a small square building sandwiched between two other small square buildings. They found a parking space just across the street and jaywalked when the light down the block turned red and traffic stopped. The door stood wide open, and Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto could be heard from inside. The classical music seemed out of place, and Lennon glanced over at Ambrose and was surprised to see a smile on his lips, as though he’d expected to hear Beethoven pouring forth from a youth center in a drug- and crime-infested neighborhood.

Inside, young men and women were sitting on sofas and easy chairs, feet kicked up as they chatted, one man dramatically playing “air piano” as two people near him laughed. One of the women spotted them, and the others, obviously noting their friend’s expression, turned to see whom she was staring at suspiciously.

A man who’d been sitting on the couch with his back to them stood and turned the music down. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“Are you Darius Finchem?” she asked.

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