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 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 pulled them open, Lena looked past the fire escape at the close-up view of a brick wall and understood why the curtains had been closed.
She crossed the room, spotting the ashtray outside the window. The next building was so close it barely covered the width of the fire escape. She gazed at the rusty steps, following them down to the first floor and the narrow alley that ran between the buildings. As her eyes rose up the brick wall on the other side, they came to rest on a window. She hadn’t seen it until now because of the angle. There was a man in the window. Another deadbeat like Jones, only this one was wearing a wool cap and had a pair of binoculars. This one seemed to get off by peering into other people’s windows.
“Nice view,” Rhodes said.
“He’s staring at us. You think he’s waiting for Jennifer McBride to come back?”
“She’s not coming back,” he said. “And this is Venice. Let’s keep going.”
They moved into the kitchen. As Rhodes checked the cabinets and drawers, Lena examined the refrigerator and what was left in the coffeepot. When she didn’t find any mold beginning to collect on the coffee’s surface, her mind turned to Art Madina. The pathologist couldn’t give her an accurate time of death, but thought that the murder occurred the night before the body was found. Between this and what Jones had told them, Lena now had tangible evidence that the pathologist was right.