“And then you went where?”
“Big Six Market on Sixth and Rampart.”
Dobbs said, “You walked?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s when your neighbor called?”
“Mrs. Dowell said there was some kind of water leak, so I dropped everything and came straight back. That’s when I found her.”
“And you called 911.”
“Correct.”
“After you spoke to your sister.”
“Yeah, I called her first.”
He had grilled me on that earlier, unsure why I would call her before calling the police. Now he said, “I want you to think long and hard before you answer me this one last time. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
He looked me directly in the eye. “Are you sure you don’t know Ms. Tepper?”
I returned his gaze; I didn’t hesitate. “I’m certain.”
Dobbs shook his head, turned back to his phone, and scrolled through his notes again. After nearly a minute of silence, he stood. “Get up. We’re going to take a ride.”
Chapter Five
Michael
Detective Garrett Dobbs placed me in the back seat of a white Ford sedan parked between two Los Angeles PD vans in the yellow zone in front of my building.
Although it was nearly one in the morning, a surprising number of my neighbors had been up and about, their apartment doors open, as we walked past. Harvey Wilfong from two doors down had set up a lawn chair in the hallway and sat there with a six-pack of beer. I smiled awkwardly at all of them. Most turned away. Mrs. Dowell met my gaze, but her face was so full of disappointment, I found myself looking down at my hands.
The Ford was unmarked, but the floodlight on the driver’s side gave it away as a police car. There was no barrier between the front and back. An ancient Panasonic laptop was bolted to the dashboard. Fast-food bags littered the floor. The back seat was upholstered in some kind of black vinyl. Two metal eyebolts protruded from between the cushions, no doubt for fastening handcuffs. Detective Dobbs had not handcuffed me. He had not read me my rights. When we left my apartment, I’d expected him to do both.
“Who is Megan?” Wilkins said, climbing into the front passenger seat. He held my phone, sealed inside a plastic bag.
“My sister.”
“She’s called about a dozen times.”
“Can I call her back? Let her know what’s going on?”
Wilkins tossed the bag aside and fastened his seat belt. “Nope.”
“Am I under arrest?”
Before Wilkins could respond, Dobbs got in and started the car. He got us out from between the vans and onto Rampart. We turned on Sixth and drove past the park.
“Where are we going?”
Dobbs glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You tell me. You don’t recognize the route?”
I shrugged. “I know MacArthur Park.”
We got on the 110 for about twenty minutes. There was a surprising amount of traffic for the late hour. He took an exit just after the 101 flyover. “Chinatown?”
“Lookie there, it’s all coming back to him now,” Wilkins said.
“What’s in Chinatown?”
Neither man answered.
Dobbs took several more turns—a right here, a left, two more rights. He knew where he was going—he didn’t use a map or GPS. On Cleveland, I spotted two LAPD patrol cars and another van, similar to the ones parked in front of my building.
Dobbs pulled up behind them, shifted the Ford into park, and looked up at me again in the mirror. “Where are we, Mr. Kepler?”
I frowned. I had no idea. I hadn’t been to Chinatown in at least a year.
Someone dressed in white CSI overalls exited the van nearest us and went through the open door of the building to our right. Beyond the door was a narrow staircase. On one side of the door there was a laundromat; on the other, a pizzeria. A sign on the open door said STUDIOS AND ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENTS FOR RENT! and gave a phone number.
“Michael?”
Dobbs again.
I said, “I…I’ve never been here.”
Wilkins pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took out a dollar bill, and handed it to Dobbs. “Double or nothing inside?”
Dobbs pocketed the money. “You’re on.”
I leaned forward. “What’s going on here?”
Both men got out of the car.
Dobbs opened my door. “Want to lead the way?”
I just stared at him, puzzled.
He rolled his eyes. “Christ. Okay, come on, we’re going inside.”
Chapter Six
Michael
Dobbs went first.
I followed him through the door and up the narrow staircase, Wilkins right behind me. An ancient floral-print wallpaper covered the wall, peeling in some places, torn away in others. The wood steps and railing were covered in so many layers of paint, I could barely make out the intricate carving on the banister. The heavy-gloss white paint on the steps was marred with scuffs and grime. The stagnant air stank of old cheese and chemicals from the businesses below.
The top of the stairs opened into a hallway with six doors. The one at the end on the left stood open with an overweight uniformed officer perched on a wooden chair next to the door, a half-eaten burrito in his hand. He gave Dobbs and Wilkins a nod and gestured toward the open door. “In there,” he mumbled, bits of beef tumbling from his full mouth.
“You’re a pig, Horton,” Dobbs said, walking past him and into the apartment.
I had stopped in the hall.
Wilkins gave my back a push, forced me inside.
A man in a white dress shirt, khakis, and a loosened dark blue tie came over when he spotted Dobbs. His gray hair was cropped short on the sides; he was bald on top. He was probably in his fifties. He held a clipboard in his hands, used it to point at the room behind him. “We left everything as is, just like you asked. I can’t keep my team standing around, though—we need to process this place. I’ve got another one downtown after we finish up here.”
“We won’t be long,” Dobbs said. “Ian, this is the man I told you about, Michael Kepler.”
Reflexively, I offered my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
The man only stared.
Dobbs looked at me. “Ian Dantzler here heads three of LA’s crime scene investigative teams. Been with LAPD for twenty-two years now.”
“Twenty-three,” Dantzler corrected him.
Wilkins dropped a heavy hand onto my shoulder, looked at Dantzler. “Mr. Kepler says he found the vic in his bathtub after going out for a movie. Says he has no idea who she is. Says he’s never seen her before in his entire life. Figured we’d bring him down here, see how that goes.”
I absorbed about half of what he said.
My eyes were fixed on a framed photograph sitting on a small table near the door beside a bowl holding several loose keys and some change. A wood frame, stained a deep cherry. It was the image within that frame that had caught my eye, though, the image that held me. A photo of me with a very much alive Alyssa Tepper standing outside gate 4 of Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. My hair was a little longer; I hadn’t worn it that way in some time. We both smiled at the camera, our hands entwined.