The Lost Witness

by Robert Ellis

  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.

  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-year
s 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.

  “She wore a costume,” Rhodes said. “She played a nurse.”

  “Looks like it, huh.”

  Lena returned to the duffel bag, giving it a lift and measuring its weight. Spinning the bag around, she opened the first side pocket and fished out an array of scented oils, three different kinds of condoms, a vibrator, and an extra package of batteries.

  She looked over at Rhodes on the couch. He was reaching down for a cosmetic case that had fallen on the floor. As he unzipped the case and split it open, his eyes danced over the contents and widened some.

  It was a cache of pills.

  Rhodes cleared a spot on the table, shaking the plastic bottles and reading them off one by one before setting them down. The list was impressive and seemed to cover a client’s every want or need. Viagra and Cialis were here. But so were ample supplies of Xanax, Valium, Vicodin, and Oxycodone.

  “She knew somebody,” Rhodes said.

  Lena eyed the labels. Jennifer McBride’s name wasn’t listed, nor was the pharmacy. She played the victim’s ad back in her head.

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

  The words relax under my spell seemed to have a new meaning. A darker meaning. She looked back at the lingerie and costume, at the condoms scattered across the table. She remembered the belly ring Madina had removed from the corpse at the autopsy. Jennifer McBride had been more than a masseuse. As Lena mulled it over, it seemed clear that the young woman’s apparent innocence was an asset to her business—something she probably flaunted.

  Lena glanced over at Rhodes. His eyes were turned inward; his face, troubled. She wondered if he was thinking about his sister again.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I was just thinking about how this will play with the chief.”

  “You mean because of who McBride turned out to be?”

  “Yeah. The chief and Klinger. You know what I’m saying. When you’re so straight you’re bent, who gives a shit about a whore on dope?
”

  “You and me,” she said quietly.

  “You and me,” he repeated, still thinking it over. He got up and crossed the room to the window, rubbing his neck and gazing outside. “That guy’s still sitting by his window,” he said. “Still waiting for McBride to come home.”

  “Now we know why. She knew that he was out there and probably liked to tease him.”

  Rhodes turned toward her and leaned against the sill. “There was this case in Atlantic City,” he said. “Four prostitutes were raped and strangled to death a couple years ago. They were found in a drainage ditch. I remember it because the details were so bizarre. The bodies were laid out in a row fully clothed. But their heads were facing east and their shoes had been removed. I remember it because another murder case was making headlines. Not here in the States, but from a small town outside London. This time it was five prostitutes. Their bodies were found over a period of ten days.”

  Lena knew where Rhodes was going. She actually remembered reading about both cases after an article popped up during a Google search. The story appeared in The New York Times, which had recently opened their archives and made them free of charge. After her last investigation ended so violently, Lena began researching past cases in an attempt to better understand the man she had chased down and killed. It had been part of her recovery. Dealing with the aftermath of taking a human life. The article in The New York Times was a side-by-side comparison of the two cases Rhodes was talking about.

  “In the UK,” she said, “the detectives asked for help and the community came together.”

  “That’s right. They put up billboards at the soccer stadiums. They blanketed the streets with flyers. Even the prime minister offered his sympathy to the victims’ families. What these women did for a living was irrelevant. The community came together because the victims were from their neighborhood and needed help. That’s all that mattered to them.”

  “I read about it,” she said. “They closed the case. They caught the guy.”

  “He’s going on trial next month. In New Jersey, they don’t even have a suspect yet because no one at the top gives a shit. They didn’t process Missing Persons Reports. They wouldn’t even let vice detectives knock on doors. They wouldn’t let them do their jobs. The victims were whores, right? Streetwalkers who used drugs. Did you know that all four victims were mothers and left behind young children?”