face—warm, and quiet, and bittersweet. Turning back to the road, he took the Lincoln Boulevard exit, made a right on Ocean Park and a left on Main. They
were driving through Venice now, two blocks from the beach. When they finally reached Navy, Rhodes killed the strobes and idled slowly down the narrow street. Jennifer McBride’s apartment was
in the middle of the second block on the right—a three-story brick building that had the look and feel of a halfway house.
He pulled in front of the entrance. As they got out, Lena gazed at the place and suddenly felt uneasy. She looked at the other apartment buildings pressing against the sidewalk. She could see
the ocean at the end of the street. A single palm tree swaying in the cold and breezy air.
“You sure you really want to park there?”
She heard the voice but didn’t see anyone on the sidewalk. It had been a man’s voice—abrupt, verging on rude—the direction camouflaged by the wind. As Rhodes moved in
beside her, he pointed to a window on the first floor. It was open but remained blank, everything inside concealed by a rusty screen.
“Is there a problem?” Rhodes said.
“You can read the signs better than I can,” the man said. “That’s a no parking zone.”
“We’re cops.”
“Yeah, right. Driving a piece of shit car like that. Gives new meaning to the phrase L.A.’s Finest.”
They moved closer to the window. Although the man remained hidden behind the screen, Lena could see the light from a large TV in the living room. The man was watching cartoons.
Rhodes grit his teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Lovely Rita, the meter maid.”
“The one on your driver’s license, I mean.”
“Ted Jones. What’s yours, champ?”
“Come closer so we can see you, Mr. Jones.”
Rhodes opened his ID and held it up. After a moment, the man moved into the window light and that feeling inside Lena’s gut began to glow a little. Jones was a burnout and anything but
lovely. A small, troll-like man, about forty years old, who hadn’t bothered to get dressed today. All he had on were a pair of boxer shorts and an old tank top. By all appearances he
hadn’t showered or shaved in a week. Although he was balding, thick waves of greasy black hair hung over his ears. His arms and back were carpeted with body hair as well. But it was his eyes
that gave Lena pause. There was something wrong with them. His irises looked as if they were fading, like a rogue wave that washes up on the beach and dissolves into dry sand. She couldn’t
get a read on the color because it was slipping away.
She traded looks with Rhodes, then cleared her throat.
“You the manager?” she asked.
“No, I’m not the manager. I own the place.”
“You spend a lot of time by this window?”
“What’s with the fifty questions, lady?”
“We want to take a look inside Jennifer McBride’s apartment,” she said.
“Why don’t you try ringing the bell? If she’s home, I’ll bet she’ll answer.”
Lena moved closer to the window. “We’re from Robbery-Homicide,” she said. “Jennifer McBride’s not home. Now get some clothes on and open the door.”
Jones remained quiet, staring at her with those eyes. She watched them flick down to her waist and spot the gun. After a moment, the reason why they were here finally seemed to register on his
face and he let out a gasp.
“She’s dead.”
“Open the door,” Lena said.
“Give me a second.”
Jones vanished into the room. When the door buzzed, Lena pushed it open and they entered a small lobby. The carpet was threadbare. The place, cheap and rundown. As she eyed the staircase, the
door to apartment 1A opened and Jones walked out in a pair of tattered jeans. He was wearing eyeglasses now and jiggling a set of keys.
“Follow me,” he said.
They climbed up to the second floor, the steps creaking below their feet. When they reached the landing, Jones led them across the hall to apartment 2B and inserted the
were driving through Venice now, two blocks from the beach. When they finally reached Navy, Rhodes killed the strobes and idled slowly down the narrow street. Jennifer McBride’s apartment was
in the middle of the second block on the right—a three-story brick building that had the look and feel of a halfway house.
He pulled in front of the entrance. As they got out, Lena gazed at the place and suddenly felt uneasy. She looked at the other apartment buildings pressing against the sidewalk. She could see
the ocean at the end of the street. A single palm tree swaying in the cold and breezy air.
“You sure you really want to park there?”
She heard the voice but didn’t see anyone on the sidewalk. It had been a man’s voice—abrupt, verging on rude—the direction camouflaged by the wind. As Rhodes moved in
beside her, he pointed to a window on the first floor. It was open but remained blank, everything inside concealed by a rusty screen.
“Is there a problem?” Rhodes said.
“You can read the signs better than I can,” the man said. “That’s a no parking zone.”
“We’re cops.”
“Yeah, right. Driving a piece of shit car like that. Gives new meaning to the phrase L.A.’s Finest.”
They moved closer to the window. Although the man remained hidden behind the screen, Lena could see the light from a large TV in the living room. The man was watching cartoons.
Rhodes grit his teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Lovely Rita, the meter maid.”
“The one on your driver’s license, I mean.”
“Ted Jones. What’s yours, champ?”
“Come closer so we can see you, Mr. Jones.”
Rhodes opened his ID and held it up. After a moment, the man moved into the window light and that feeling inside Lena’s gut began to glow a little. Jones was a burnout and anything but
lovely. A small, troll-like man, about forty years old, who hadn’t bothered to get dressed today. All he had on were a pair of boxer shorts and an old tank top. By all appearances he
hadn’t showered or shaved in a week. Although he was balding, thick waves of greasy black hair hung over his ears. His arms and back were carpeted with body hair as well. But it was his eyes
that gave Lena pause. There was something wrong with them. His irises looked as if they were fading, like a rogue wave that washes up on the beach and dissolves into dry sand. She couldn’t
get a read on the color because it was slipping away.
She traded looks with Rhodes, then cleared her throat.
“You the manager?” she asked.
“No, I’m not the manager. I own the place.”
“You spend a lot of time by this window?”
“What’s with the fifty questions, lady?”
“We want to take a look inside Jennifer McBride’s apartment,” she said.
“Why don’t you try ringing the bell? If she’s home, I’ll bet she’ll answer.”
Lena moved closer to the window. “We’re from Robbery-Homicide,” she said. “Jennifer McBride’s not home. Now get some clothes on and open the door.”
Jones remained quiet, staring at her with those eyes. She watched them flick down to her waist and spot the gun. After a moment, the reason why they were here finally seemed to register on his
face and he let out a gasp.
“She’s dead.”
“Open the door,” Lena said.
“Give me a second.”
Jones vanished into the room. When the door buzzed, Lena pushed it open and they entered a small lobby. The carpet was threadbare. The place, cheap and rundown. As she eyed the staircase, the
door to apartment 1A opened and Jones walked out in a pair of tattered jeans. He was wearing eyeglasses now and jiggling a set of keys.
“Follow me,” he said.
They climbed up to the second floor, the steps creaking below their feet. When they reached the landing, Jones led them across the hall to apartment 2B and inserted the
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