Rocky’s face moved through her mind. She remembered the first time she met him, thinking his eyes were filled with a dark intensity, although he had a slight smile. “My name’s Richard, Ma’am. Richard Stallone.” His lips curved a little more and he added, “But everybody calls me Rocky.”
Many of the veterans that the shelter served had taught her that their military nicknames meant more to them than their birth names. It seemed to give them an identity and a sense of pride.
Oh, Rocky, what were you doing? Were you just looking to ease your pain? She thought of Erin and wondered how she had eased her obvious pain when she was first discharged. Glad that her sister had a support system in place with family, she thought of Rocky’s lack of resources. What secrets did you have hidden? And if so, who gave you those pills? How did I miss all the signs?
She remembered the times he did not show up for their group sessions. That was not uncommon with anyone but especially with a person who was homeless. When she first met him, he did not have a job, but that did not mean his time was his own. When someone’s life is spent looking for the next place to sleep or the next meal to eat, where to find a toilet or shower, something as mundane as going to the doctor or coming for a group counseling session was not high on their priority list. She knew that. She accepted that. But now, her heart ached. What more could I have done?
Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, knowing no answers were coming in the dark of the night.
11
Carter parked several blocks away from Ever Hope. As he approached the back door where deliveries were made and the bag lunches were distributed, it was easy to see he was in the right place. A long line had already formed, snaking down the sidewalk. His gaze searched the area to both identify the volunteer workers and to see if Tara was around. Not seeing her, he approached the long tables set up where several men and women were placing paper sacks.
It felt strange to be walking past the men and women standing in the line to get what might be their only meal of the day. The breakfast he had eaten at the coffee shop near his condo sat like a rock in his stomach. As a detective, it was not unusual to see people down on their luck. In fact, he dealt with it almost every day. But usually with individuals or families. Not in massive quantities all at once.
He passed by single men and women, couples, some with young children. Some appeared healthy, their clothes clean. Others were clothed in cast-offs, worn and dirty. Some sniffled, wiped their noses, coughed deep and hard. Many carried bags or knapsacks, and a few pushed small carts loaded with their possessions. Some looked eager, standing on their toes to peer over the crowd to see how close they were to the food. Others had eyes that were vacant or perhaps darting around nervously.
Several male volunteers with walkie talkies walked up and down the line, chatting in welcoming tones, encouraging everyone to wait their turn.
He moved to one of the men that was standing to the side, his gaze moving up and down the sidewalk. “Excuse me, sir. I’m Detective Fiske with the HCPD. I’d like to show you three pictures and see if you have ever seen any of these men here. I’ve spoken with the shelter and understand that these lunches are for anyone, not just residents.”
“Sure, Detective. Let me take a look.”
Carter handed the pictures of Carl, Jonathan, and Rocky to the man who perused them carefully before handing them back.
“Yep, I’ve seen all three. I haven’t seen the first two in weeks, but that last boy was here about a week ago. All three of them used to come through the line regularly.” His smile dropped as his brow scrunched. “They’re not in trouble with the law, are they? They all seemed real nice.”
“It’s just a routine check,” he lied. “Thank you for your help.” He started to step back when he noticed Polly was standing near the tables, talking to the first group of people in line. She smiled warmly, pulling small packs of tissues from her bag and handing them to those who looked like they needed them. She chatted with the young mothers, offering a light tickle to the small children. And she wore bright blue rubber gloves. “Looks like this is a good program,” he said, hoping to keep the conversation going.
“Oh, yes, my wife and I’ve been helping for the past several years ever since we retired. She spends hours making sandwiches. A lot of peanut butter, but sometimes we get a special deal on ham or turkey and we make those as well.”
Smiling, he nodded. “That’s nice of you.”
“That’s my Ruthie over there at the table,” he said, nodding toward the front of the line.
“Oh, the one handing out tissues?”
“No, no. That’s Polly, one of the nurses at the clinic here. That woman’s a saint. I tell you, she’s here for every lunch. Goes up and down the line and sees who’s sick. Tries to make sure they come into the clinic, especially the ones who got little kids. Yep, a real saint. My Ruthie is the one behind the table, in the pink sweater.”
Smiling, he shook the volunteer’s hand. “Well, I thank you for what you’re doing here and appreciate you confirming that these men had been here.”
He stepped back and headed past the group again. He caught a glimpse of Evan appearing rough and ill. As he walked to his car, he was not sure if he hoped Polly took the bait and offered Evan prescription drugs. Knowing how upset Tara would be, he
