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Jennifer McBride was murdered on Wednesday night.

Rhodes followed her out of the kitchen. They worked methodically, scouring the small apartment without talking. Lifting seat cushions, searching the foyer closet, sifting through the mail and finding a utility bill and three credit-card offers from a bank that advertised on television and got people hooked on high interest rates. Reaching the bathroom, Lena noted the shower curtain fastened to the wall and scanned the tile for blood spatter. When she knelt down to examine the tub, she found a thin film of soap residue and took a swipe with her gloved fingers. The fragrance matched the bar of soap set on the wall tray, not a detergent that might be used to clean up after dismembering a body.

Rhodes closed the medicine cabinet and they stepped into the bedroom. There was a window on the right, the curtains open. This time the view didn’t face a brick wall or some lowlife trying to sneak a peek. This time Lena could actually see the Pacific Ocean. Although much of the view was blocked by a condo in the distance, the bed appeared to be set at just the right angle so that McBride could wake up in the morning and see the beach.

As Rhodes started rifling through the chest of drawers, Lena stepped back and took in the rest of the room. She noted the iPod docking station on the bedside table. Another paperback was beside the clock radio and cordless telephone. When she went through the closet, she didn’t find anything but clothes.

Jennifer McBride had been abducted in a parking lot and taken somewhere before she was murdered and dumped in Hollywood. But this wasn’t the place. This wasn’t the crime scene.

Lena watched Rhodes search through the bottom drawer as she thought it over and tried to quiet her disappointment. They hadn’t found much. Jennifer McBride may have only been twenty-five-years old, but all she owned was a single set of sheets. A single set of towels. Her kitchen was stocked with minimal accessories, just enough to get by. She didn’t have a CD player and speakers. Instead, she relied on an iPod. She didn’t read hardcover books, but went through paperbacks at about one per week.

Money may have been an issue in her life, but there was something more here. Something trying to break through the surface. After a moment, it dawned on her.

Everything in the entire apartment was portable.

With the exception of the furniture that came from secondhand thrift shops and probably cost less than a couple hundred dollars, everything else could have fit into the trunk of a compact car.

But there was something else. Something more difficult to pin down.

Her eyes made another sweep through the room and stopped on the bedside table. There was a snow globe sitting beside the lamp and telephone. She hadn’t noticed it before.

“Is something wrong?” Rhodes asked.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to lose the thought. Instead, she moved around the bed and picked up the snow globe. Inside the heavy glass sphere was a detailed model of Las Vegas. When she shook the globe, a thick cloud of snow whirled around the Bellagio Hotel and Caesar’s Palace, then settled down to the bottom where the streets were painted a bright gold.

She looked over at Rhodes as that stray thought finally jelled.

Everything was portable. But even more important, there was nothing personal here. They had made a first pass through the entire apartment and found nothing personal at all.

Not a single photograph. Not a letter or postcard from a friend. Nothing that would point to the victim’s life. What she cared about or who she loved. Just the books she had read since moving in a year ago and this snow globe.

The phone began to ring from the bedside table. Lena glanced at it and realized that the message light was blinking. After two rings, the machine clicked and went silent. Thirty seconds later, the speaker lit up and the caller’s voice filled the room. It was a man’s voice, and he sounded old and more than a little nervous.

“This is Jim, uh, Dolson,” the man was saying. “I’m trying to reach Jennifer. I’m in town from Cincinnati and, uh, saw your ad in the LA. Weekly. I’m definitely interested in some of that massage therapy-if you know what I mean. I’ll be here for a couple more days. If you’re available on short notice, please call me back. I’m staying in Century City at the Plaza.”

The phone clicked. Then the room filled with dial tone, and all the innocence was gone.

9

Rhodes pulled the telephone closer, examining the keypad.

“It’s digital,” he said. “Looks like six messages.”

Lena moved within earshot as Rhodes found the right button and hit PLAY. Except for the voices, the first five messages were pretty much the same as the last. There was Jim Dolson from Cincinnati. But there were three more men from out of town staying at various hotels on the Westside. The fourth was from some guy claiming to be on vacation with his wife and asking if McBride did three-ways. And then the fifth, this time from a woman, wondering if McBride was bisexual.

All six messages referred to the victim’s ad in the current edition of the LA. Weekly. According to the time stamp, all six calls were placed after McBride’s body had been discovered in Hollywood.

Lena grabbed the LA. Weekly off the foyer table and quickly returned to the bedroom. Paging through the back of the paper, she sat down beside Rhodes and began sifting through what appeared to be several hundred classified ads for escort services, phone sex, and massage parlors. McBride’s ad was in the middle of the pack on the second page.

Massage Therapy. Hot young blonde with magic hands and knockout body seeks men who want to relax under my spell. For pure joy call Jennifer at. .

Lena reread the ad, then opened her cell phone and entered the number printed in the newspaper. When McBride’s phone rang on the bedside table, she didn’t close her cell even though she had confirmed the match. Instead, she let the machine pick up and listened to the outgoing message. It wasn’t the default message that came with the phone. It was Jennifer McBride’s voice. She wanted to hear it. Absorb it. The voice of the victim before she was murdered.

Lena could feel the hairs behind her neck standing on end. An ice-cold chill fluttered up her spine. It was a simple message. Direct and to the point. McBride greeted the caller using her phone number rather than her name, then promised a callback to anyone leaving their contact information. The message ended with an easy Thanks.

Lena paused a moment before closing her cell-McBride’s voice now seared into her memory and a part of her being.

“Jones told us that he never saw her with anybody,” she said. “And I’ll bet he spends a lot of time by that window.”

“She didn’t bring them here,” Rhodes said. “She went to them. Somewhere around here she’s got a bag of tricks.”

“I didn’t see it when we went through the place.”

“We weren’t looking for it,” he said. “If she didn’t take the bag with her, then it’s here.”

They checked underneath the bed and behind the hamper in the bedroom closet. It took them ten minutes to find it. A small black duffel bag in the foyer closet right beside the front door. Rhodes carried it over to the coffee table in the living room. Ripping the zipper open, he turned the bag over and shook the contents out.

Lena knelt down on the floor, picking through the lingerie and thinking about the small heart-shaped tattoo she had seen between McBride’s shaved vagina and her bikini line. She counted three transparent baby-doll negligees with matching G-strings, a variety of push-up bras, a sheer robe, and a pair of black panties. But there was something else here: a white skirt and matching top. Lena held the blouse up for a better look, eyeing the low neckline and the red cross that had been embroidered over the left breast pocket.