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Authors: Robert Ellis
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key.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Lena said.
“A couple of days ago, I guess.”
“Wednesday?”
Jones nodded. “She walked out, heading for the beach. Must have been around three in the afternoon.”
“How well did you know her?”
“She paid her rent on time.”
“Did she have a lot of friends?”
He turned and looked at her through his glasses. The lenses were scratched and dulled by fingerprints, yet still magnified his damaged eyes.
“I never saw her with anyone,” he said, pushing the door open. “Now what am I supposed to do? Rent’s due in a couple weeks. Who’s gonna pay for this?”
Lena suddenly became aware of the man’s body odor.
“We’ll let you know,” she said. “And we’ll need that key.”
“I’ve got half an idea to pack her shit up and move it down to the basement. I could have the place rented in an hour. This close to the beach, there’s a waiting
list.”
Rhodes turned sharply. “You wouldn’t want to do that, Jones. You wouldn’t even want to walk inside this place until we say so.”
“But I own the building. I want my fucking money.”
“Forget about your fucking money,” Rhodes said.
He took a step toward Jones. Lena could see him sizing up the vile little man, trying to bridle his emotions. She was struck by the differences between the two. Rhodes towered over Jones by at
least a foot and was dressed in a light brown suit, a crisp white shirt, and a patterned tie. His presence was raw and powerful, his voice, dark and quiet.
“How long has she lived here?” Rhodes was saying.
Jones paused a moment, his eyes shifting back and forth. “About a year,” he said.
“You run a credit check?”
“Nobody moves in without one.”
“Then give us the key and get McBride’s paperwork. Wait for us downstairs.”
Jones started to say something, but looked at Rhodes and stopped. He removed the key from the ring and handed it to Lena. When he was finally gone, they stepped into the apartment and closed the
door.
A moment passed. Rhodes shot her a look, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Jones was a bottom-feeder. A lot of bottom-feeders migrated to Venice. As the silence began to
settle in, Lena pocketed the key and tried to focus on the victim. Jennifer McBride’s presence.
They were standing in the foyer with a clear view of the entire apartment. She could see the living room and galley kitchen through a set of French doors. To her right, the bedroom and bath. She
turned and noted the table beside the front door. One or two days’ worth of unopened mail sat in a basket next to a lamp and a copy of the LA. Weekly that had been folded in half. She
turned back to the living room and calculated the floor plan: it couldn’t have added up to more than three hundred square feet. A small one-bedroom at the beach. But unlike the rundown
building, the apartment was clean, the paint was fresh, and there was a certain peace here. An innocence that seemed to match the innocence she had seen in the victim’s eyes.
She held on to that image as she slipped on a pair of gloves and followed Rhodes into the living room. She glanced at the hardwood floors, taking in the couch and chair. Although the TV appeared
new, everything else looked as if it had come from secondhand shops and yard sales.
“She lived modestly,” Rhodes said. “She didn’t have much money.”
Lena turned and noticed the shelves built into the near wall. While the top shelf remained empty, the bottom two shelves were stuffed with at least fifty paperbacks.
“And she was a reader,” Lena said.
She moved closer and scanned the titles, recognizing most of the authors. Every book on the shelf was a mystery published within the last year.
She glanced back at Rhodes and saw him moving toward the double set of windows on the other side of the couch. The curtains were drawn but were made of sheer lace and provided a soft, even light
that filled the room. When he
“When was the last time you saw her?” Lena said.
“A couple of days ago, I guess.”
“Wednesday?”
Jones nodded. “She walked out, heading for the beach. Must have been around three in the afternoon.”
“How well did you know her?”
“She paid her rent on time.”
“Did she have a lot of friends?”
He turned and looked at her through his glasses. The lenses were scratched and dulled by fingerprints, yet still magnified his damaged eyes.
“I never saw her with anyone,” he said, pushing the door open. “Now what am I supposed to do? Rent’s due in a couple weeks. Who’s gonna pay for this?”
Lena suddenly became aware of the man’s body odor.
“We’ll let you know,” she said. “And we’ll need that key.”
“I’ve got half an idea to pack her shit up and move it down to the basement. I could have the place rented in an hour. This close to the beach, there’s a waiting
list.”
Rhodes turned sharply. “You wouldn’t want to do that, Jones. You wouldn’t even want to walk inside this place until we say so.”
“But I own the building. I want my fucking money.”
“Forget about your fucking money,” Rhodes said.
He took a step toward Jones. Lena could see him sizing up the vile little man, trying to bridle his emotions. She was struck by the differences between the two. Rhodes towered over Jones by at
least a foot and was dressed in a light brown suit, a crisp white shirt, and a patterned tie. His presence was raw and powerful, his voice, dark and quiet.
“How long has she lived here?” Rhodes was saying.
Jones paused a moment, his eyes shifting back and forth. “About a year,” he said.
“You run a credit check?”
“Nobody moves in without one.”
“Then give us the key and get McBride’s paperwork. Wait for us downstairs.”
Jones started to say something, but looked at Rhodes and stopped. He removed the key from the ring and handed it to Lena. When he was finally gone, they stepped into the apartment and closed the
door.
A moment passed. Rhodes shot her a look, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Jones was a bottom-feeder. A lot of bottom-feeders migrated to Venice. As the silence began to
settle in, Lena pocketed the key and tried to focus on the victim. Jennifer McBride’s presence.
They were standing in the foyer with a clear view of the entire apartment. She could see the living room and galley kitchen through a set of French doors. To her right, the bedroom and bath. She
turned and noted the table beside the front door. One or two days’ worth of unopened mail sat in a basket next to a lamp and a copy of the LA. Weekly that had been folded in half. She
turned back to the living room and calculated the floor plan: it couldn’t have added up to more than three hundred square feet. A small one-bedroom at the beach. But unlike the rundown
building, the apartment was clean, the paint was fresh, and there was a certain peace here. An innocence that seemed to match the innocence she had seen in the victim’s eyes.
She held on to that image as she slipped on a pair of gloves and followed Rhodes into the living room. She glanced at the hardwood floors, taking in the couch and chair. Although the TV appeared
new, everything else looked as if it had come from secondhand shops and yard sales.
“She lived modestly,” Rhodes said. “She didn’t have much money.”
Lena turned and noticed the shelves built into the near wall. While the top shelf remained empty, the bottom two shelves were stuffed with at least fifty paperbacks.
“And she was a reader,” Lena said.
She moved closer and scanned the titles, recognizing most of the authors. Every book on the shelf was a mystery published within the last year.
She glanced back at Rhodes and saw him moving toward the double set of windows on the other side of the couch. The curtains were drawn but were made of sheer lace and provided a soft, even light
that filled the room. When he
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