<div style="text-align: justify;">His heart sank to the bottom of his stomach, fell down on the floor and proceeded to pass through the ceiling to the apartment downstairs. She was right. They - whoever <span style="font-style: italic">they</span> were - needed the appointment book to see where certain people would be at which time, and the Who's Who to see where these certain people were likely to be the rest of the time. Jonathan licked his suddenly very dry lips.<br/><br/>"Yeah, calling in sick might be a good idea," he answered, deliberately ignoring her question of whether or not he thought there would be more bodies to find. He was certain she could guess his thoughts from his expression, anyway. "But don't tell your boss about why you're suddenly feeling unwell. Keep the jacket," he said with a quick glance at her. <span style="font-style: italic">Even in her own home, she looks out of place,</span> he thought as he went back into her bedroom and grabbed the first the best pair of shoes he found. He was reluctant to tell her to get some clean clothes. After all, someone was bound to make some sort of connection at some point, and it would be suspicious if too much was missing. Maybe Anna could lend her something. Jonathan was fairly certain she would not mind.<br/><br/>He returned to the living room and handed her the shoes without a word. He could hear nothing outside the front door, but he still only opened it just enough to peek outside. Still no one. Even if he was completely innocent, he did not want to be seen coming and going at a crime scene where he really had no authority to be. Sticking his head out and triple-checking that the hallway was devoid of people, he waved Joanna with him and left the grim building, only stopping once on their way home to get a copy of today's paper.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: silver;background:silver;"/></div><br/><span style="font-family: Courier New;"><span style="text-decoration: underline">Los Angeles, California, October 10, 1933 - 11:34 AM</span></span><br/><br/>The familiar door with the familiar sign, 'J. Anderson, Private Detective' separated the noisy L.A. street from the dim interior of Jonathan's office. The two were momentarily joined as the door opened and let in the mismatched couple.<br/><br/>"Home, sweet home," the detective muttered as he shut the door behind them, and threw the newspaper on his desk to join the others already there on his way through the room. He stopped at the bottom of the worn stairway and glanced upwards. It was very quiet.<br/><br/>"Anna must be out," he muttered to himself. "My aunt," he explained upon noticing Joanna's expression. "She's my landlord. Only reason I can afford to live here is because she's so nice and her late husband was loaded."<br/><br/>Jonathan had barely finished his sentence before the door opened again and a small woman burst into the room, carrying a basket that looked much too heavy for her.<br/><br/>"Hello, honey," she sang, somehow managing to practically throw the basket to Jonathan and whip off her coat in one fluid motion. She cast a sideways glance at Joanna.<br/><br/>"Good Lord, boy. You always manage to pick up the interesting ones," she commented while casually hanging up her coat and matching green hat. A faint blush crept into Jonathan's scruffy cheeks.<br/><br/>"She's a client, Anna."<br/><br/>The older woman nodded, but a smile was still playing around the corners of her mouth. She cast another critical look at the girl as she reclaimed the basket from her nephew, just as effortlessly as she had thrown it.<br/><br/>"You gonna keep wearin' those rags?" she prompted bluntly. "If you come with me up top, I might have something your size," she continued, already on her way up the creaking stairs. "D'you want a cup of tea?" She clearly did not care for the answer, as Jonathan could hear her beginning to clatter about in the tiny kitchen upstairs before he had had a chance to reply.<br/><br/>"Pretty little thing, ain't she?" she continued loudly to the empty air. Jonathan, still downstairs, winced, and mentally crossed his fingers in the hope that Joanna had not heard. His aunt was good people, but it was as if she sometimes deliberately chose to embarrass Jonathan, as if he was still seven years old and had just been caught kissing the girl next door on the cheek.<br/><br/>A whistling kettle shrilly interrupted his trip down Memory Lane. He could hear his aunt rattling about upstairs, going back and forth from her kitchen and to the dim living room. With a sigh, Jonathan picked up the newspaper he still had not given more than a brief look. Two murders, and he still had nothing to go on. The unwelcome suspicion that Joanna Allen was somehow deceiving him crept back into his head. It was slammed down along with the crumpled third page of the paper where a photo of a dead man stared him mockingly in the face. Carelessly tearing the article out, he ran up the stairs two steps at a time. She had to know who he was. She <span style="font-style: italic">had</span> to.<br/><br/>Pacing as best as he could in the cramped living room, running his hands through his hair, clutching the article, Jonathan waited for his client to finish changing and reappear from his aunt's bedroom next to the kitchen.</div>