Lena turned back to the rental application in Venice. Jane Doe had used the same social security number. The same date of birth. The same place of birth. Even the same occupation.
The stolen identity was so well executed that Lena wondered if Jane Doe might not be a phantom. Someone who borrows an identity for a few years, then drops it and moves on. But as the image of the victim’s face surfaced in her mind, it didn’t seem to fit.
She pulled the murder book closer, leafing through the section dividers until she reached the crime scene photographs of the real Jennifer McBride. She was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, her eyes glazed over and lost in the stars. Her delicate features had come from her mother. She had probably inherited her light brown hair from her as well. Obviously, there was no resemblance between her and the victim left in the Dumpster two nights ago in Hollywood.
Lena opened her address book, found Steve Avadar’s number over at Wells Fargo, and picked up the phone. Five rings went by before she heard the line click over to his service. But instead of hitting an outgoing message, Avadar actually picked up. Even more surprising, he recognized her voice. They had worked together on a forgery case that led to a conviction. But it was a small case, something she closed out more than three years ago.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re in your office,” she said.
“I’m forwarding everything to my cell. Hold it a second. It’s loud here.”
She could hear music in the background. People talking and laughing like they knew each other. Avadar was at a holiday party, but still taking business calls. After a moment, the noise began to fade and she heard a door close.
“That’s better,” he said. “How can I help, Lena?”
She gave him a summary of the case, along with Jane Doe’s financial history. Avadar understood what she wanted immediately.
“I can pull her account statements and get you everything by nine tomorrow morning. If she wrote checks online, you’ll have more than a name. You’ll have each account’s address and phone number. Would that be okay?”
“It would be great. What about her credit-card statements? Is that doable?”
“I’ll pull everything. Should I call this number when I’m ready?”
“Better use my cell.”
She gave him the number. When she spotted Tito Sanchez entering the bureau floor with a file under his arm, she thanked Avadar for the favor and hung up. Sanchez stopped at his desk. Then Rhodes got off the phone and pointed to the captain’s office, and all three headed back. Barrera was still sitting at the conference table. But now that can of Diet Pepsi was empty, the aluminum flattened into a makeshift ashtray for his half-smoked cigar.
“Let’s see them,” he said.
Sanchez opened the file and placed two photographs on the table. The first was a blowup of the victim from her driver’s license. The second, a single frame from the video recorded by the witness on the night of the abduction and murder. No one said anything-everyone’s eyes riveted to that second photograph. Lena moved closer, trying to cut through the blur as she thought about the doctor’s face.
“Does it look like Fontaine?” Barrera said. “Is he the one?”
The hair color was close, she thought. And so was the jawline. But the image remained lost in a hazy, midnight blur.
“I can’t tell.”
“I can’t, either,” Rhodes said. “But Fontaine knows the victim and lied about it. He even knew that she was dead. When Lena pushed him, he lawyered up so we know he’s involved. The man’s guilty of something.”
Barrera leaned forward. “Everybody’s guilty of something.”
“Fontaine’s guilty of more than that,” Lena said. “But I can’t tell from this image. It’s still out of focus.”
Sanchez cleared his throat. “Rollins says it’ll get better, but he needs more time. Another day or two. Monday at the latest.”
“We don’t have a day or two,” Barrera said. “We’ve got five minutes. Do we release the pictures tonight or not?”
Lena thought it over. There were a lot of reasons to release the photographs no matter what their condition. The case was running out of time. Fast-tracking its way to archives and the deep freeze of every other cold case in the open/unsolved drawer. The victim had been murdered two nights ago-not just murdered, but mutilated and thrown out with the trash. Two days and all they had was her body and a stolen ID. No crime scene and no real name. Releasing the photos would put the story out there. And even if no one could tell who the murderer was, someone might recognize the victim. Someone who knew her. Most people keep track of beautiful women. There was a good chance someone was keeping track of Jane Doe before she stole McBride’s identity. Before she became a prostitute.
“Okay,” Barrera said. “We’re releasing the photographs. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Anything else before I make the call?”
Lena thought about the snow globe they found in the victim’s apartment. “We should probably run these photos in Vegas as well.”
Barrera looked at her. “Why Vegas?”
“Because she may have been there. Because of the way she made a living.”
“It can’t hurt,” Rhodes said.
“Okay,” Barrera said. “I’ll make the calls. Anything else?”
Lena turned to Rhodes. “What happened with the DMV?”
“They’re sending over a certified copy of her photo and fingerprint,” he said. “We should have everything by Wednesday. She owns a car registered in California under Jennifer McBride’s name. A black Toyota Matrix. If it’s on the road, we’ll find it. But this woman’s off the charts. Her driver’s license looks legit because it is. She walked into the DMV and gave them her social security number. They snapped her picture and she took the test.”
13
Lena pulled into the drive, grabbed her briefcase and made her way through the darkness to her front door. It had been a long day. The kind of day that began with an early morning autopsy but was fueled with hope by a witness. The kind of day that ended with a next-of-kin notification that went so wrong she would never forget it as long as she lived. A day filled with ups and downs and packed so tight it didn’t include taking a break for food. But as she sifted through her keys and opened the front door, she wasn’t thinking about details or any of the people she had met along the way.
She was thinking about Jane Doe. The woman who stole a dead girl’s identity and placed sex ads in the LA. Weekly.
The woman who cast spells.
Lena switched on the lights and glanced at her telephone mounted over the counter between the living room and kitchen. When she saw the message light blinking, she hit play and listened to Rhodes’s voice. He was telling her what he’d already told her in the car this afternoon, that he would be driving up to Oxnard tomorrow night to spend time with his sister. She let the message play even though she knew how it ended. She liked the sound of his voice. Liked knowing that it was on her answering machine.
When the house finally quieted, she turned up the heat, checked the time and found the remote on the coffee table. As she sat down on the couch and peeled off her shoes, she switched on the TV, toggled up to Channel 4, and muted the sound. She had a few minutes before the news started. A few minutes to think.
There was something about Jane Doe she couldn’t shake. A feeling she couldn’t place. A certain curiosity and fascination. She had been wrestling with it ever since she walked into the woman’s apartment, ever since she went through her duffel bag and heard her voice on the telephone answering machine. The connection seemed inexplicable, yet it was there-dark and out of focus like that photograph of the man they were hunting. The one who killed her.