If fuck-ups could be measured, if records were kept on a fuck-up’s size and weight and the number of people ruined or lost, this was the mother load.
Lena and Rhodes legged it around the corner onto the bureau floor at Parker Center. It was a Friday night in mid-December and no one was here. She spotted Barrera’s jacket on his desk chair. Rhodes pointed to the captain’s office, the overhead lights still burning. When they reached the door, they found Barrera at the conference table with an open three-ring binder and a can of Diet Pepsi. He looked up as they entered. Lena could see the worry in his eyes.
“That background check was good,” he said. “It may have been total bullshit, but everything about it was good.”
He turned around the binder and pushed it across the table, then got up from his chair like he had just been served rotten food. Lena didn’t say anything, her eyes zeroing in on the binder. It was a murder book. They had made the call to their lieutenant as they sped back into town. Barrera had been able to pull the files on the bank robbery in North Hollywood-the case so grisly that it had been bumped up to RHD a long time ago. She scanned through the case summary, but already knew the details because Pamela McBride had shown them press clippings from her scrapbook. Her daughter had been twenty-three when the robbery went down. Making a deposit while on a lunch break from her job at a local ad agency. She had been shot in the back as she tried to run away. Even though the three men wore ski masks and couldn’t be identified, the bank manager and two tellers were led into the vault and murdered as well. One shot each with a.38 revolver to the back of the head.
“Where’s Tito?” Rhodes said.
Barrera loosened his tie and opened his shirt collar. “Upstairs working with SID. We have a decision to make. If we release the video the witness sent us in the next thirty minutes, the stations have agreed to run the story on the eleven o’clock news.”
Lena glanced at her watch. It was 9:00 p.m.
“How are they making out?”
“I checked an hour ago,” Barrera said. “I don’t think it’s going very well.”
“Are they trying to enhance the entire video or a single frame?”
“They’ve pulled a frame, but it’s still blurry. I wouldn’t be able to ID the son of a bitch if he was my brother.”
“What about the driver’s license,” Rhodes said.
“It went to Questioned Documents after it was dusted for prints. Irving Sample says it’s legit.”
Irving Sample began his career as a document analyst for the Secret Service. When he took a job teaching at U.C. Berkeley, the department actively recruited him to move to Los Angeles and run the unit. Sample had played a key role in Lena’s last case. If he called the driver’s license legit, then there had to be some other explanation.
“I’ve got some calls to make,” she said. “Can I take the murder book?”
Barrera nodded and they broke up, Lena and Rhodes heading for their desks on the floor. Any closer look at Joseph Fontaine would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight was about favors. Cashing in on past relationships because it was a Friday night. Rhodes knew someone at the DMV. Lena had only worked out of Bunco Forgery for six months while in Hollywood, but managed to make some friends.
She opened her computer and switched it on. While she waited for the machine to boot up, she dug into her briefcase and pulled out the credit report and rental application the victim’s landlord had given them. The documents were one year old, but even at a glance Lena could tell that Jones had made a thorough sweep of his tenant in apartment 2B. All three credit agencies had issued reports. Jane Doe No. 99, aka Jennifer McBride, had a checking account and credit card over at Wells Fargo. A little less than ten thousand in cash. A little more than five hundred on the card.
Lena flipped over the credit report. When she picked up the rental application, she noticed a blemish on the paper and tilted it into the light. The victim’s rent was two grand a month. She paid first-month, last-month when she signed a one-year lease. But it looked like she had also paid a one-month security deposit. While Lena and Rhodes were upstairs searching the victim’s apartment, her landlord had been working overtime with a bottle of Wite-Out making the security deposit disappear.
Lena felt a tinge of anger flicker in her belly. She had seen it before and knew that she would see it again. Life sinking to its lowest mark. Life finding the drain. Jones wiped out the security deposit, hoping that no one would notice. The little man with the damaged eyes was two grand richer and feeding off the dead.
Two grand richer for a while.
She took a breath and exhaled. Rhodes sat at his desk on the other side of the room, taking notes while speaking with someone on the phone. Pushing the papers aside, Lena checked her Internet connection and logged on to AutoTrackXP. She typed Jennifer McBride’s name into the search window, along with the address on Navy Street that appeared on her driver’s license. When she hit ENTER and the information rendered on the screen, she confirmed that Barrera’s background check had been righteous. But also, she could see what Jones missed with just a credit check-no matter how complete.
Jane Doe hadn’t just borrowed Jennifer McBride’s name. She’d ripped her entire identity out of the record books and glued it on her back.
Lena grabbed the murder book and opened it to Section 11, combing through the real Jennifer McBride’s background information. Then she checked it against the rental application and compared both with the search made on the Internet.
The real Jennifer McBride opened her first and only checking account at a small independent bank in the Valley. The same bank she died in two years ago. She rented an apartment in Burbank. As Lena looked at the address she figured it was about a ten-minute drive to her mother’s home in Van Nuys. But after her death, everything went dark. Anyone looking at the data would have assumed that she moved back home. Then, one year later, another Jennifer McBride surfaced. A new account was opened at Wells Fargo. A new apartment rented in Venice. A new phone number and a new driver’s license issued for a new life that wouldn’t last very long.
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.”