Read Eleventh Hour for Free Online Page A

with just a nip in the air, actually a typical winter day in San Francisco, as she’d been told many times. Yes, the air was so clear and sharp you couldn’t breathe in deep enough.
    She’d only been here about two weeks, and there had been other days like this. But this morning, this incredibly crisp, clear morning, she felt little pleasure. She walked slowly to the top step, people streaming around her, most of them moving fast, focused on where they were going. No one paid her any attention.
    She was scared, really scared. She didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t have a choice. She’d tried for a solid two minutes to convince herself that Father Michael Joseph’s death had nothing to do with her, but of course that was not going to work.
    It was time to step up.
    She went through the metal detector, made her way through the crowded lobby, and took the elevator to the fourth floor.
    She’d been to the police station once before, when she’d first arrived in San Francisco. She’d had a weak moment, thought she would just waltz in and tell someone what had happened, see if someone would help her. But she realized soon enough that she was dreaming. She’d snuck away. That first time she hadn’t noticed the series of black-and-white photos that lined the walls, many of them taken before the earthquake. She walked through the door to Homicide, into the small reception area. There was no one behind the high counter. She paused a moment, then walked through the door. She’d seen a lot of homicide rooms on TV and this one looked much the same except it was smaller, about a dozen big, scarred light oak desks shoved together in pairs, heavy old side chairs beside each one. There was a computer on top of each desk, stacks of loose paper, folders, books, a phone, and what looked like mounds of just plain trash. What struck her was that there wasn’t much noise, no cursing, no yelling, no chaos. Just the steady low hum of a dozen simultaneous conversations. On one side of the main room were two small interview rooms, with no windows, that looked like soundproofed coffins. Finally, from one of those rooms, she heard some raised voices.
    There were eight or so men in suits standing or seated at their desks, speaking on phones, working on computers. She didn’t see any women.
    Half a dozen other people stood around the room, some of them thumbing through the ancient metal file cabinets that lined every wall, some just studying their fingernails, some looking really worried. She wondered if they were criminals or lawyers, or maybe some of each. One young guy with purple hair and pants so low she could see that his navel was an outie, sauntered out of one of the interview rooms, winked at her, and smacked his lips. He must be really desperate, she thought, ducking her head down, to come on to her.
    Other than the kid with the purple hair, no one paid her a bit of attention. She wondered if anyone would be willing to take the time even to listen to her. Everyone looked harassed, too busy—
    “Can I help you, miss?”
    It was a uniformed patrol officer. There wasn’t a smile on her face. On the other hand, she didn’t look like she was ready to chew nails either.
    “I need to speak to the detective who’s investigating Father Michael Joseph’s murder.”
    The woman lifted a dark brow a good inch. “They’re not detectives here in San Francisco. They’re inspectors.”
    “I didn’t know that. Thank you. May I please see the inspector? Really, I’m not here to waste anyone’s time.”
    The officer looked her over, and she knew what the officer was seeing. It wasn’t good. Finally, the officer said, “All right. I see that Inspector Delion is at his desk. I’ll take you to him.”
    There was a man seated in the chair beside Inspector Delion’s desk, his back to her. The set of his shoulders, the color of his hair were somehow familiar to her. A criminal being interviewed?
    The officer said, “Hey, Vince,