“That’s what you said. What’s so bizarre is that the chief knows it, too. After we talked Saturday night, I called and gave him a complete briefing. It’s a disgrace, simple as that. He’s fucked up. The whole thing’s fucked up, so don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it get inside you. Don’t let it fuck you up, too.”
“So, what comes next?”
“Fuck him, Lena. That’s what comes next. You’re a cop. Do what you gotta do.”
She pulled the phone away from her ear-Barrera shouting. Switching over to speaker, she turned the volume down. She had never heard him so upset before. It occurred to her that the meeting must have been just as tough on him. Maybe even worse because he couldn’t say anything, and had to stay after she left. Barrera was a fair-minded man who began his career in a patrol car just like every other cop. He had risen through the ranks on his own and worked the homicide table long before his promotion to lieutenant. Long before Chief Logan ever dreamed of moving to Los Angeles and starting at the top. Barrera had the support and respect of every investigator he supervised. And everyone on the floor knew how much he despised department politics. But what the chief was doing amounted to more than that. He and the DA were breaking a cardinal rule.
“Follow the evidence,” Barrera said in a firm voice. “And I don’t care where it leads or who it fucks up. You know what the Groucho is, right, Lena?”
He was referring to the way SWAT teams entered a hostile location. The way they bent their knees and kept their backs straight so that they could aim their shotguns and rifles, and fire on the move. Because the posture mimicked the way Groucho Marx often walked in his films, the tactical move was often called the Groucho.
“I’ve heard of it,” she said.
“Then keep it in mind. Stay low and push forward. After what just happened, if you want to take the day off and get drunk, I’ll say okay to that, too. I’ll buy the first and last round. But I’m hoping you won’t. I’m hoping none of this bullshit really matters to you. Either way, Lena, be careful and keep me in the fucking loop.”
He hung up. Lena stubbed her cigarette out, lighting another and thinking it over. What the chief had done was already inside her. Already fucking her up. She couldn’t help that. But Barrera didn’t need to buy her a drink, either.
Something clicked and she became aware of the radio. A story on the news.
A dead body had been found in an apartment on Willoughby Avenue early this morning. An old man who once ran a hotdog stand in West Hollywood had been discovered by a maintenance worker. According to the investigator from the coroner’s office, the old man was found sitting in a chair in his living room. He had been dead for more than a year, his body mummified by the dry air. When authorities entered the apartment, the TV was still on.
It was another L.A. story. A sad and horrific story. But what resonated for Lena was the fact that the old man had died alone. That no one had checked on him or seemed to care. That he didn’t have a lifeline-some connection between himself and the outside world.
Chewing it over, she wondered if she had a lifeline. Someone who checked on her and seemed to care.
She pulled out of the garage, the story following her into the bright daylight-that feeling of loneliness lingering in the smoky air as she stubbed out that second cigarette. Winding her way around Parker Center and through the city, she reached the 10 Freeway and decided to head west. She wanted another look at Jennifer McBride’s apartment on Navy Street. A quiet look on her own. But she needed to get away, too. She needed a time-out to regroup and put things in perspective.
The freeway was moving, the drive across town taking no more than half an hour. As she found a place to park two doors down from the building and got out, she spotted the patrol car at the end of the street. Pacific Division was keeping a loose eye on the place just in case the witness showed up. No one thought that he would. Even though the kid had retrieved the victim’s purse and everything inside it at the Cock-a-doodle-do, the risk of breaking into a murder victim’s apartment seemed over the top. She had forgotten to mention it to the chief. But things had been so bad, she didn’t think that it would have made a difference if she had.
She let the thought go, fishing through her briefcase for the keys. When she got the lobby door open, Jones was waiting for her.
“Why did you put that stupid lock on the door?” he shouted.
She looked up and saw him glaring at her. The small, troll-like man with the damaged eyes hadn’t bothered to dress. He was standing by his door in his boxer shorts and that old tank top. Even from a distance, Lena could tell that he still needed a bath.
“It’s a crime scene, Jones. Go back inside.”
“When can I get rid of her shit and rent the place out? She’s dead, isn’t she? What the fuck’s the difference now?”
“Go back inside.”
“But I want my money,” he said. “I need it.”
She started up the steps, then turned back when she remembered what Jones had done to Jennifer McBride’s rental application. That bottle of "Wite-Out he used to erase her security deposit and pocket the cash.
“You already got the money,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you really think that we wouldn’t notice?”
“Notice what?”
“Her rental application, Jones. You altered it. You stole her security deposit. Two thousand bucks.”
His face reddened. He didn’t say anything.
“There’s a cop down the street,” she said. “Do you want me to call him? Do you want to spend the next two years in jail? Or, are you gonna go back inside, get your copy of her application out, and fix what you did?”
“But she’s dead.”
“Your choice, Jones.”
He didn’t spend much time thinking it over. When the door slammed, Lena took a deep breath and trudged up the steps to Jennifer McBride’s apartment. The door had been sealed with crime scene tape. And Kline had added a hasp and padlock. Just enough to set Jones off.
Lena got inside and closed the door behind her. As she stood in the dark foyer, she took another deep breath and wondered if she had made a mistake by coming here. The place was too quiet. Too black. And the day had started off with an overdose of the abhorrent. Two experiences with two people so foul that she could taste it in her mouth.
But there was something else here. Something more. As she first entered the apartment, she became aware of the victim’s scent. It only lasted for a split second, dissipating in the air just as she noticed-but it had been there. And it wasn’t the soap the woman had used, or even the perfume that Lena had smelled twice before. It was her person, lingering behind. Her body. Her physical being, six days gone.
Lena didn’t know whether she could handle this right now. Like maybe the timing was off and five or six shots of tequila with salt and lime would do her good.
She switched on the lamp and gazed through the French doors into the living room. She had forgotten how barren the place was. Not a single photograph. Not a letter from a friend. Just the basics. One set of sheets and a pair of bath towels. Enough clothing to pack a suitcase. Enough lingerie to fill a duffel bag so that Jennifer McBride could make a buck.
Lena glanced inside the bedroom, deciding to enter when she spotted the snow globe on the bedside table. She picked it up and gazed at the snow falling over Las Vegas. The Bellagio Hotel and Caesar’s Palace. All the streets painted a bright gold. Although Barrera had managed to get the story on five stations in Nevada, the response from viewers matched the response here in Los Angeles.
Lena rubbed her thumb over the glass, thinking that its meaning for whoever Jane Doe really was didn’t point to where she came from. It would have been too easy if it had. Instead, the object was probably nothing more than a souvenir from a weekend visit. Or, maybe only a gift from a client or a friend.