‘Who… who are you?’ Her tone was desperate and full of fear.
‘You don’t recognize me?’ Russell asked.
Jennifer squinted and frowned at a face that triggered no memories at all.
Russell smiled, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of human sympathy in it.
All of a sudden, Jennifer paused, her neck slowly craning forward. Not only had her pupils gone back to normal, but she was also getting used to the dim lighting in the room.
A new smile from Russell. He knew exactly what Jennifer was looking at… and it wasn’t at him.
‘Watch this,’ he said, the smile never fading.
‘Oh my God!’ Jennifer felt fear envelop her like a suffocating blanket. Something pirouetted inside her stomach before rushing up through her throat and into her mouth.
This time, it wasn’t just bile.
Twenty-Nine
For Hunter and Garcia, the next day began with a trip to Terry Wilford’s apartment in East LA.
Late last night, Research had finally managed to get hold of Mr. Aldridge, Terry’s landlord. Hunter and Garcia had been lucky. Mr. Aldridge had been away for thirteen days, dealing with tenants and a couple of properties just outside LA, which meant that Terry’s apartment hadn’t actually been touched. If Mr. Aldridge hadn’t been away, upon hearing the news of Terry Wilford’s death by suicide, he would’ve immediately boxed all of his personal belongings. Anything of value that he could’ve sold, he would’ve done it already, trying to recover some of the costs of at least two weeks’ unpaid rent. Whatever was left, Mr. Aldridge would’ve stored, but not for long. The apartment itself would’ve been cleaned and with a property market that moved as fast as the one in Los Angeles, there was a great chance that a new tenant would’ve moved in already.
But none of that had happened yet. Mr. Aldridge hadn’t been back to Terry’s apartment since he had unlocked it almost three weeks ago, so that the Missing Persons detectives could have a look inside. He told the UVC Research team that he could meet the two homicide detectives at the property at 9:00 a.m., with the keys.
The building was a small, rectangular structure right onthe corner of Michigan Avenue and North Hicks Avenue, in Wellington Heights. It was only two stories high with a single, glass-door entrance lobby at its center. Long hot summers and tropical downpours had long ago caused the building’s light-yellow coat of paint to crack and chip, and yellow wasn’t yellow anymore. Due to everyday traffic pollution, the building’s façade had acquired a bong-water brown hue to it. Clearly not the most attractive building on the street.
At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Mr. Aldridge opened the door to Terry Wilford’s apartment for Hunter and Garcia and simply left them to it.
The front door led straight into a very male and restrained living room, which had been sparsely decorated with two black replica-leather armchairs, a black coffee table that was low to the ground, a TV set stuck at the center of a tall black wood module, and neutral art on the walls. One of the corners of the living room had been altered to create a small, open-plan kitchen, which contained a small stove, an old-looking fridge, a microwave and nothing else.
‘I don’t think we’ll take long in here,’ Garcia said, as he walked into the kitchen and checked the four cupboards in there – two under the sink and two on the wall. ‘There isn’t very much for us to check, is there?’ In the cupboards he found a few pans, plates, cups, glasses and cleaning products.
Hunter didn’t reply. Instead, he crossed the room in the direction of the door on the other side. It led directly into the bedroom – no hallway. The bedroom wasn’t very spacious.
Garcia checked the fridge. ‘He either didn’t spend much time at home,’ he called out, ‘or he didn’t really eat much. There’s almost nothing in this fridge.’
Inside the bedroom, Hunter found a double bed with a single bedside table, a two-door wardrobe, a four-drawer compact chest and a fold-up chair resting against the side of the wardrobe. Just like in the living room, all the furniture was dark in color.
‘Yeah,’ Hunter finally called back. ‘There isn’t much in here either.’
‘At least he was tidy,’ Garcia commented.
Across the bedroom, on the other side of the bed, there was another door that Hunter knew would take him into the apartment’s only bathroom. He went to check it.
In the living room, Garcia had walked over to the TV module, the only piece of furniture in there that offered any kind of storage – three cupboard-like doors directly underneath the TV set. Inside the first one, he found a couple of large folders filled with what looked to be bills and invoices. He tried the second door – more paperwork and documents. Terry Wilford wasn’t only tidy with his apartment, he seemed to have been a very organized individual as well. Every document type had its own separate, color-coded folder.
Third and last door – pencils, pens, envelopes and a lidless box with some photographs. Garcia reached for it and flipped through the photos for an instant. There weren’t that many – ten… twelve, maximum. The first few were of Terry behind the bar, posing with two different people. All three of them were in bartending uniforms. The lit neon sign high on the wall behind them read ‘Winning Score Sports Bar’ – one of the places that Terry had worked at back in Arizona. The next five or six photos showed Terry with a cocktail shaker in his hand, mid-mixing, or pouring colorful cocktails into nicely garnished glasses. In all of those photos, he sported a bright and friendly smile. The final two photos were of Terry’s late wife, Joana, and their son, Joseph. In both photos, Joseph looked to be about ten or eleven years old.
Garcia put the box down and checked some of the document folders – bills, invoices, payment slips, receipts, etc. They would have to go over every slip of paper just in case, but there were too many for him to be able to check them right there and then. He placed everything on the coffee table and walked over to thebedroom. Hunter was standing by the wardrobe, which was wide open, his back to his partner. He looked to be holding something in his hands.
‘Found anything?’ Garcia asked, stepping into the room.
Hunter turned to face him. He was leafing through a large book. ‘A family photo album.’
Garcia nodded. ‘Yeah, I also found a few photographs in the living room. Nothing special, though, just Terry Wilford working as a bartender and a couple of his wife and kid, that’s all. I also found his document folders – mostly bills and pay slips. We’ll take everything with us.’
‘No bartending photos in here,’ Hunter said back, flipping another page on the album. ‘Just him and his family, really.’
